THE WEIRWOLF: ^ irajgtdg. BY WILLIAM FORSTEK. WILIJAMS AND iS^ORGATE, 4, HENRIETTA STREET, COYENT GARDEN, LONDON A>D 20. SOUTH FREDERICK STREET, EDINBURGH. 1876. LOAN STACK LOKDON : G. NORMAN ANT> SON, PEINTER-S MAIDF.K LANI COVENT GARDEN. THE WEIEWOLF. A TRAGEDY. FJKOM A SXORY BY ISITIS. CRO^\^E. Persons. Maequis de Montmorexci. Clemence, daughter of Marqids de Ilontmorenci. Count de Vardois. Victor, son of Count de Vardois. Jacques Reynard. Michael Thilouze. Franqoise, daughter of Michael Thilouze. LuDOYiQUE Thierry. !Manox, daugMer of Ludovique Thierry. Pierre Bloui. Father Simon. Sylyanus. Ecclesiastical Commissioners. Priests. Monks. Lords, and Nobles. Judges. Gens d'armes, ExemjHs, and Police. Peasants, Male and Female. Scene — Neighbourhood of Chateau de Montmorenci. Time — Henry the Fourth. 556 THE WEIRWOLF, E E R A T A. Page 8, Line 5, for " shines" read " shine". 10, „ 17, e7i(Z of Zine,ayiter"overtakes,"/or "."read",". „ 13, „ 9, after "pictured", /or ''."read "?". ,. 36, ,, 6, ^Md o/ Ztne, /or " upon" read " on", „ 42, „ 19, end oj line, after '• heel", /or ■'." read ",". „ 45, ,, 2, end of line, after " brain", for "; " read " ?". „ 55, „ 2, for line, as it stands, read — " At random round some reckless conqueror," „ 56, ,, 17, end of line, after ' counsellor", read "?". „ 76, „ 2, end of line, after " must", for "." read ",". „ 196, „ 21, end of line, after " blood", for ";" read "I". „ 238, ., 24, a/«er "too", /or "." read "," a/ter "heard", read " !". ,, 265, „ 3, end of line, after " well", for '•." read "!". •jnougn victor is my son — my oniy son — Nor wordy art, nor sophistry of mine, Shall exculpate his conduct, or defend From your just censure. No. To put this slight THE WEIRWOLF. gl ©rajcirg. ACT I. Scene I. Chamber in the Chateau de Mont- worenci. Montmorenci. De Vardois following him, De Yard. I do not marvel^ Marquis ! at your wrath. ^Tis reasonable. 'Tis riglit. And not to feel Some indignation due to his offence. Would show you wanting in the self-respect. Your dignity demands. Speak out then. Speak. Give thought all freedom. Let your labouring soul Deliver itself in unrestricted speech. Trust me, I look for such. And you shall find Though Victor is my son — my only son — Nor wordy art, nor sophistry of mine. Shall exculpate his conduct, or defend From your just censure. No. To put this slight 1 ^ Z THE WEIRWOLF. Upon your daughter and your noble house — By sucli a public and disgraceful sbow Of bis incontinence — with audacious front To flout tbe reprobation of tbe world — To make tbe honour of both our families, A theme of vulgar gossip, and a mark For sorry knaves to spit on and defile — It is an error that Mont. An error ! Humph ! — De Vaed. Yes. Yes. Bo sure I reprobate th thing As much as you do. Marquis ! Mont. By the Lord ! then 'Tis in mine eyes worse — worse — than any crime- Such base — such black — unmitigated wrong — As never is pardoned — is unpardonable. It shows a faithless — false — corrupted heart — 'Tis quite beyond endurance — that it is. De Yaed. I own — I own — I beg you not t spare him — Mont. Next to the doer of a deed of shame By Heaven I hold that man abominable. Who strives to cheat us of our moral sense, Diluting drivel with mock humanity. I hate your palterer with plain naked facts. Whose fine drawn glosses — silken palliatives. Trim, cautious phrases cunningly devised — Would smooth the bristling indignation down. A TRAGEDY. 6 And set a screen of hollow sympathy Between our wrongs and our resentment — De Vaed. Nay — But hear me my good Marquis ! Mont. Hear thee ! Psha ! Pm sick of hearing. What I know's enough. De Vard. Come. Come. Be gentle. Give me all thy mind. Mont. What I shall I draw de Yardois to the life? De Vard. Pve bid thee set no limit to thy speech. Mont. ' Tis not in words to satisfy my wrongs. De Vard. Be not unreasonable. I would confer — I would take counsel with thee. Mont. Counsel ! Oh ! Best call in Victor to the conference then. Being deepest in, he should advise us best. De Vard. This is too bitter, not to be unjust. Mont. I know thee, Count de Vardois ! De Vard. Well. Mont. I know How much this whole affair lies at thy heart. If heart thou hast. De Vard. You wrong me, on my soul ! Since for no other purpose came I here. Than to profess my grief and sympathy. 1 * 4 THE WEIRWOLF. Mont. Profess tliem ! Excellent. De Vard. Put me to tlie proof. Mont. This is but mockery. How can right be done ? De Yard. How can I offer more, than bind myself To your own estimate of whatever's just ? Mont. Shall then the peerless Victor stand condemned ? Am I to pass the sentence — fix the penalty ? De Yard. That Yictor^s guilty freely I confess — What Yictor's done I dare not justify. Quite inexcusable has his conduct been — Indecent — reckless — mad — disreputable. I might have argued thus on his behalf — To sin with women in this wanton kind Is natural — nay ^tis common. ^Tis^ we know, By custom sanctioned to his rank and years. And in itself, apart from circumstances, Our lenient judgment claims, since once it was The manner of us all. Young blood^s so hot. And passion's spring's flushed with licentiousness. As is the genial opening of the year Profuse in flowery sweets. Between ourselves The bare seduction of a village girl Were no such mighty matter, were it fenced With that judicious care and secresy A TRAGEDY. O Which his condition and your pride require. But public — public as the homeless winds — He's made his folly — blazoned it abroad To noisome promulgation — spread it out Like carrion in the sun, a common feast For censure's venomous swarms to settle on And blotch and fester — till by notoriety. Which fools for ever covet, 'tis enflamed And swelled to grave extremities of wrong. Thus Victor's reputation blows and rots — Thus to his fame an ugly taint adheres. Like poison-blooms that fasten upon flowers — Grow from their substance, and in growing spend The precious life whereon their Hves depend. Therein's his guilt. This loose extravagance — This braggadocio of indiSerence, — This rampant recklessness shows him depraved. And rank and gross in spirit. And worst of all. With his own damning and deserved disgrace. He links an innocent and a noble name. I cannot, Montmorenci ! — cannot say How much I'm vexed — ^how mightily I'm annoyed. There's no denying he's done you grievous wrong. He owes you reparation and amends. And therefore on his part I tender now Whatever with his name and honour squares. And with your own consists. Speak up, my friend ! O THE WEIKWOLF. Wliat dost thou ask ? What hast thou to propose ? Maet. De Vardois seems in earnest by his talk. De Vaed. Forbid it Heaven I should presume to jest On such a subject ! Mont. To insult me then Hast thou a mind ? De Yard. Now is it necessary I should deny this ? Mont. Nevertheless, I say — I say, De Vardois ! trifle not with me — Mock me no more with questions of amends And reparations. Nothing I've required. And nothing I expect — at least from thee. Good Lord ! what reparation's possible ? How can a bleeding heart be made amends — The heart of a young girl — innocent of the world. And inexperienced in the ways of men— That wells its life out in unnoticed wounds. By nineteen summers made immedicable ? Can wounds like these — the wounds of slighted love — Of shipwrecked faith and violated trust — Be stanched, or plastered over, or assuaged With woven words — their pretty pain appeased AVith prim peccavis, put in properest form, A TKAGEDY. 7 Or apt apologieSj unctuously expressed. And smoothly rounded oflF ? Shall barren breath Of fulsome protestations fill the void "Which disappointment hollows in the core Of the unloved bosom ? The profound despair — The unfledged forlornness of a fresh young soul Unused to misery — the life -blighting sense Of infinite desolation that it feels In its first sorrow of affection scorned — Shall all this be repaired and set to rights By curious calculation — its amount Noted in figures — or its cruel cost Solved satisfactorily by the rule of three ? My daughter's happiness — is that a thing Which you can measure with a clothier's wand. Or estimate in pounds avoirdupois ? These are not matters of arithmetic. Would money or lands — would kingdoms com- pensate The sacrifice of all her maiden state — The sweet home life where once she simply stood. In pride of unsurrendered womanhood ? De Yardois smiles. Yes. Men are apt to smile At these soft sorrows, fancying they look down. From heights sublime of superficial scorn. And masculine right reason, and strong sense. On what their purblind optics fail to seize In right perspective — their irreverent senses 8 THE WEIRWOLF. Clearly to apprehend — incapable To reach beyond material aims — or sound The depths of a diviner consciousness — - Or pierce that purest empyrean air Where shines a thousand heavenly lights unseen Of many human eyes — De Vaed. What talk is this ? Are things so desperate ? What, must all our plans Then be abandoned ? Nay — is Victor lost Beyond all hope, and irreclaimable ? I trust not, Montmorenci ! Mont. Well. At least ^Tis somewhat ominous on the suitor's side On the very eve of marriage v^ith a maid Who wants no heritage of noble parts To parallel his own — it indicates Or gross indifference, or degraded tastes. To soil with foul and foreign kisses, lips Plighted to pure affection, and made warm And hallowed by my daughter's living breath. This bodes no happy union, but instead Foreshadows peril to the peace of both. My girl was born for brighter auguries. And to be heroine of a fairer fate. Than in a Sultan's harem to sit first. Or lead the animal herd of mistresses. For some fine gentleman of modern views. A TRAGEDY. 9 For neither Sultans^ nor for Kings, I swear, Shall she descend to this, and by the man Who dares to many her, she must needs be loved. For ^tis, by Heaven, no more than she deserves. De Yard. There's nought in all the blessed categories. Above the Lady Clemence high deserts. My boy's been too much honoured in her choice. If quiet grace — if modest excellence — If beauty that on observation grows. That wins by daily custom, and at last Is in familiar fondness most endeared — If all the gentler gifts and influences — Those obscure virtues, rather felt than seen — The homely charms — the household charities — That like invisible angels float about. Or breathe like violet odours from the depths And holy shade, and privacy of home. And are its chief est joy — if these it be A maiden's merit to possess, by Heaven ! Her equal treads not the fair soil of France. Mont. Yet she, forsooth ! must sit at home and sigh. Must mourn, in worse than widowed solitude — In sohtude, more solitary made By hopes encouraged only to be crushed — By contumely contrived and aggravated With unexpectedness, and undeserved 10 THE WEIRWOLP. IndiiFerence, and unmerited neglect — Her scorned affections waiting to be wooed. Deserted, yet affianced — ^less betrotted Than offered for refusal — in tlie bloom Of girlislL fresbness coarsely cast away. Like fruit that from a glutton^s sated lips Untasted falls — in courtship^s sunless dawn Made premature partaker of a fate Which wives, whoVe ripened through the nuptial noon Too often meet — nay sometimes merit too — "What dare she hope for — what can she expect — Shall sadly settle on her matron days. But scored up scorn, and wrongs accumulated ? Else doomed for life — a cramped alternative — To the unjust obloquy, that in this world. The wronged, but not the wronger, overtakes. Drain out her dismal fortunes bitter dregs. In barren brooding o^er departed dreams. And cold constraint, and blank celibacy ? De Yard. Oh ! noble Montmorenci ! let us hope, "When marriage adds its joys and privileges. To the soft witchery of those wondrous charms. That Victor^ s constant and unvarying love. Shall banquet on her beauty, and derive From that delicious feast such dainty food. That soul and sense voluptuously enthralled And lost in fond delirium may not know A TRAGEDY. 11 A dream beyond, but ever be content To wear lovers i*osy chains. Mont. Experience points To no such happy issue. Know you not How the old adage runs, that woman's love Transplanted to possession, grows apace Through infinite dim developments, but man's No increment of bulk or stature gains In that new phase, but as it was removed From the warm soil and atmosphere of hope — Or changes not, or changes to decay. De Yard. Come. Come. I know the sex, and dare maintain They've all a secret preference for a rake. And as a lover best appreciate him Not quite a novice in the field of love. Mont. You talk Hke an advanced philosopher. And soar to transcendentalism above The common ways of thinking. I perceive Your son's a perfect model in his kind. And ^twas a sort of special providence Threw Clemence in his way. De Yard. You take me up Too sharply, Montmorenci ! 'Tis not fair To put this forced interpretation on My plain unfettered speech. Do I deny The wrong he's done you. Have I not confessed His conduct vile, indecent, infamous ? 12 THK WEIRWOLP. And tliiiik you, I'm so careless for myself Tliat I enjoy tlie scandal and the talk, Wliicli mix our names in common disrespect. And touch my honour too, no less than yours ? Mont. Mix how we may, we differ as the poles. With you, the scandal seems the only wrong. With me His part and parcel of the offence — A grievous aggravation — and no more. The substance I regard, the surface you. Great Heavens ! to hear you, one might almost deem, Whatever insults an affianced youth May offer his betrothed, are soldered up And made of no account, if only done With dexterous courtesy and observance due, Or from the curious quest of prying eyes Sententiously concealed. But in my mind. My daughter's peace — my daughter's happiness — These are the questions — these the chief concern, What care I for the babble of men's tongues If she be desolate ? That ! — for all their talk And scandal — ^if she suffer what I fear ! What's fame, or public rumour, or the like. To be the scapepoat of offences done. Or bear the weight of individual wrongs ? What's fame more than a glimmering consequence 0£ certain actions — various in degree And quality and kind — the shadowy effluence A TEAGEDY. 13 From things more real and substantial cast — A rude delineation — a rough draft — Transcribed by careless or unequal hands. And neither wholly true — nor wholly false — Loose measure and similitude of our lives — Its form made up of fleeting images And flickering lights and vague resemblances — Its colour of the surface of the time Whereon 'tis pictured. WeVe our chroniclers Little and big, and as we live and act We're more or less renowned. Opinion seems To write our histories on a wavering page, That dances up and down, and hits us off In cramped, or broken, or distorted forms. But always like. Above — behind — around — These life-like phantasms flaunt and follow us. The dusty whirlwind parodies our track. We scan familiar features in the clouds. Not much has fame this matter aggravated. And fall upon whose back the burden may — Rightly or wrongly — whosoe'er is bound To bear the scandal and the obloquy — Even these are but reflected consequences From his perversity who did the wrong. But now we talk of scandal, what say you To enjoy this hussy for a daughter-in-law ? For such, 'tis rumoured, your enamoured son One day will make her. 14 THE WEIRWOLF. De Yard. Eumoured is it^ thou say est ? Mont. Even so. De Yard. Why then ^tis nothing more or les: Than rumour merely. Mont. Yet unlikelier things Have often come to pass. De Yard. Impossible ! You think to frighten me, but spare j^our pains. I'm not so readily scared. Mont. Young men, we know Love blindly — madly. De Yard. Well. The hottest fires Burn out the soonest. Mont. And the girl, I hear. Is passing beautiful ! De Yard. And how many such Fulfil the same ephemeral destiny ! Poor moths ! they flutter for a day before The fiery fascination of a dream. Then headlong rush upon its flaming jaws. And burn, and are forgotten. Mont. Who shall say What Yictor means ? He's an original. And may for change, or very wilfulness. Take up with constancy for once. Who knows ? De Yard. I trust he knows me better. Mont. My report I have from my own steward, Jaques Dubois. A TRAGEDY. 15 He^s well acquainted witli the damsePs sire^ And teaciies me to deem it probable. This touches you, De Yardois ? De Yaed. Not a jot. The vulgar surmise ever oversteps The tardy pace of facts. And even say, That Victor could so far forget himself As stoop to such a bride, there's time enough To nip his naughty purpose in the bud. Be well assured the mischief we deplore Is capable of remedy, unless You rashly go about to extirpate What must be slowly cured. Leave all to me. Our earliest care must be to separate These lawless lovers. I'll about it straight, Having some matters luckily on hand. Whereon I presently will send away My son to Paris. Therefore now adieu ! Commend me to the Lady Clemence, who Lives much in my affection. For her sake I pray you put a drag upon the wheels Of your impatience, lest it hurry you To your own loss, and her deep injury. [Exit. Mont. There might in such a loss be lastino- gain. But still he's right. To break the marriage off — • Fling this white-livered caution to the winds, — And dream of vengeance only, were to meet 16 THE WEIRWOLF. The occasion rather haughtily than wisely. For I'm infirm and aged, have no son To stead me in the lists, and dare not owe To distant kinsman or presuming friend, So large an obligation as the care Of seeing Clemence righted. She poor child ! The quarry stricken by this swooping wrong, I fear would fare no better for the strife. Whose angry whirlwind and impetuous surge Must shake and dislocate her future fortune. And drive it all aground. .Too much even now Hath the malicious notice of mankind Trenched on her pure and virgin privacy. Making its delicate and modest ways A spectacle for fools. Let woman dread The eye of observation, and avoid The damning brightness of celebrity. Respect, that's yielded by the generous soul, A frank, spontaneous, tribute proudly paid By strength to sovereign weakness, is denied By vulgar pride to virtue's very self. When of her majesty disrobed, she bares Her naked graces to men's wanton eyes. And makes her charms familiar. There are flower The proper pets and darlings of the dark. Which wither in the scorching glare of day. What then is best to do, or not to do ? Let me resolve on nothing, but to bide A TRAGEDY. 17 The teacliing of events. Still — still — metliinks. To bring this truant back to Clemence^s feet. Were better for her peace. She must — must love him. Trained as she was to it from her infancy — Her heart by my suggestive wishes swayed — Schooled by a sense of duty — and inspired By every motive which could blindly stir The slumbering instincts of her girlish nature — Her very soul with his assimilated. By natural growth and due development — And her main sustenance from his strength de- rived. And ever as they grew her young desires Have twined themselves around him, and her hopes Rested on him. And face it as I may. My heart must do him justice — it must still With secret voice the general suffrage swell. How can I reasonably deny him praise ? Is he not noble, valiant, wise, and fair ? So made up of so many excellencies. That but for this one slip, this single flaw, "WTiich runs athwart his merit, and impairs The lustre of his bright and shining parts, I^d been too proud to see my daughter his ? And thou too ! thou ! that dost so often gild Mere inward hollowness — Thou yellow dust ! 18 THE WEIRWOLF. That blazonest folly with thy specious charm, And varnishest with thy cold phosphoric glare. Corruption, meanness, fraud, hypocrisy ! Thou^st somewhat rightly placed thy warrant here. And set intrinsic value in a zone Of goodly expectations. To be meek And Christianly forgiving does not seem So hard a matter, when a golden prize Beckons our dull and backward charities. But here comes Clemence. I must talk with her. Clemence, my child ! Enter Clemence de Montmorenci. Clem. Is my dear father sad ? Mont. My only trouble, Clemence ! is in thee. And were I less than sad, I were a wretch To look upon that fair and gentle face. And know thy sorrows. Clem. Sorrows ! Nay. Fve none. Mont. Dissembler ! None ! Clem. None worthy of the name. Some crosses IVe experienced — petty cares — Trivial vexations, that like little winds Eippled the shining surface of my days — Which might have swelled to tempests, and at- tained Sublimest sorrow's sensitive excess, A TRAGEDY. 19 Had I the soft extravagance indulged. Or nursed tlie treacherous weakness of my heart. But I was taught to discipline myself For freedom — and endurance — Mont. Ah ! too much — Too much, my darling child ! Thou hast endured. Clem. Earth's trials are but as stepping-stones to Heaven. Mont. By none, or fewer, might one not ascend ? Clem. 'Tis not our privilege to prescribe the path. Mont. Of paths prescribed we may prefer the best. Clem. Dear father ! Think me not unhappy. Nay, I'm not unhappy — surely. Have I not High station — ample fortune — health — and friends ? Bur most of all, in thine affection blest, What need I ? Loving and beloved by thee. What more can maiden hope for, or desii'e — Indulged mine every Tvdsh — mine every whim ? UngTateful were I not to be content. And I do strive to be so, and forget WTiat else, remembered, were a dubious good. Mont. How to forget, or by forgetting cure ? Clem. To dwell on petty troubles is not wise. 2 * 20 THE WEIRWOLF. Mont. Psha ! tell me cliild, when Victor last was here ? Clem. -'TIS just about a montli since lie was here. Mont. And then_, no doubt, he stayed for half an hour. Clem. I took but little note how long he stayed. Mont. Nay. Answer me. Was it more than half an hour ? Clem. About that time. Not much, nor less, nor more. Mont. For half an hour ! Eh ! Half an hour a month ! Clem. Often the shorter is the better time. Mont. And this is how your modern lovers woo ! Clem. I know not, and I care not, how they woo. Mont. ''Twixt you and Victor then is ended all? Clem. There's nothing ended that was well begun. Mont. Good Heaven ! Are your positions no way changed ? Does Victor love you, girl ! or does he not ? Or is his love, affection, or regard. Or whatsoever he may condescend A TRAGEDY. 21 To call it — in some inexplicable way — In some grand transcendental manner gone In smoke or vapour — spirited all away — Transmuted, or translated, or sublimed — No link of habit or observance left To bind you to each other ? Is it so ? Clem. My duty binds me as it ever bound — Mont. Thy duty ! girl ! — Clem. And nothing have I lost In Victor's love, affection, or regard. Nor, as I think, are our positions changed. Mont. Meek simpleton ! that canst not see thy wrongs ! Clem. Therein 'tis better not be eagle-eyed. Mont. It shall not rest here. By the Lord ! it shall not. One day or other shall this lozel learn How little of his insolence I forget — My curses on him ! Clem. Father ! curse him not. Mont. Has he not wronged thee ? Clem. No. Indeed he has not. Mont. Has he not broken in upon thy life— Thy peaceful home destroyed and desolated — Thy term of maiden quiet dispossessed — Filched from thine innocent and unwary heart 22 THE WElIiWOLF. Its treasure of content — the priceless cliarm Of earliest love — tlie irrevocable bloom Of virgin passion lias lie not forestalled, And rifled and betrayed ? — With cool deceit — Industrious cozenage — deliberate guile — Has lie not won tbem only, as it seems. To fling away again in wanton scorn. As if tbey were a bauble he'd grown tired of. Contempt and shame has lie not heaped upon Thy maiden estimation — blotted out Thy page of youthful promise — and consigned To cruellest contumely thy blooming years ? What noble suitor now will waste a thought On Montmorenci^s daughter — who will sigh For his forsaken heiress — who so bold Through sleety blasts of cutting ridicule, And scandals blistering air will force his way, To bow before thy beauty, and adore The silent shrine of thy neglected charms ? Clem. If such must be my fortune, let me learn Betimes, contentment with my home and thee. The stings of insult and the darts of scorn Affect thy Clemence little, while she feels Thy love suffice, and screen her from the world. Mont. I cannot screen thee from its censure, child ! I cannot screen thee from its ridicule. A TEAGEDY. 23 Clem. And from its censure wliat have I to fear? Or from its ridicule ? — 'Naj, let scandal come — Come with her prying, cold_, malignant eyes — Come with her thousand venomous tongues, and dart Their forked sharpness on my maiden name — What can she find to feed on — what old sore To rankle with her viperous calumnies. The mirror that we breathe upon contracts No lasting soil, but clears itself again By its own brightness. Sinner though I be, ■'TIS in Almighty mercy that I trust. And not from man desire impunity Or fear reproach. And if neglected, why — Why must I blush for it ? Why, why believe it A shame in me thus to be left alone^ A flower too simple to be plucked and worn In proud men^s bosoms, who too often wear Their flowers for freshness and for beauty's sake. Which when to the outward sense they fade, as must All lovely things on earth, are flung away As nothing worth ? But I was never plucked — And still upon my stem in freedom bloom To God, if not to man, like other flowers As fair or fairer. Say that it is true That Victor came to woo me, and in wooing 24 THE WEIRWOLF. Found me not worth the pains, was I to blame ? Not to be gifted with, attractive parts. By mere defect of nature — surely this To her that knows herself unworthy, brings Nor shame nor censure. Forward pushing pride And stilted ostentation can alone Inflame deformity to sin, or make A fault of imperfection. Let me bear The dearth of lovers, as a maiden must. If such be God's will, shall I dare repine ? Mont. But touching Victor, girl ! You loved him not ? Clem. Must I tell all, my father ! Would you learn Your daughter's folly ? Mont. Speak — that I may know Whether to pity most, or most condemn. Clem. How much I might have loved him who can tell ? , 'Twas happily not proved. But this I own, I loved him well — I loved him passionately. For I was not forbidden to be fond And my vain eyes were dazzled from the first. With the full splendour of his manly charms. He flashed upon me like a sudden noon — No morning preluded that blinding day — And I was lighted up before I knew. My heart took fire at once. I had once believed A TRAGEDY. 2 That love might slowly ripen, but mine seemed To waken out of slumber, and resume A thread of former being. I did not choose To feign myself a prude, nor thought it strange How easily duty with affection chimed. Alas ! my fondness into folly grew, Love held the great monopoly of my life. All joys and interests towards one fancy turned- All nobler aims and motives and resolves Absorbed in feeling like imperfect tones That run to indiscriminate harmony In choral music. Thus was I subdued. The creature had usurped the place of God. And soon, I fear, had my degenerate soul Surrendered more than life — than love itself — Faith — spiritual freedom — strength of will To that enslaving and predominant sense — That dear — bewildering — wild idolatry — That soft delicious languor creeping o^er My yielding limbs and melting me away In dreamy bliss. A fascinated thing I fluttered on the fearful brink of doom. And only by a miracle I was saved. Once in the solemn season of my prayers — When, as my wont from infancy has been. For thus my mother taught me how to pray — Alone, beneath night's sacred curtam screened. Amid the silence of all things without. 26 • THE WEIRWOLF. The privacy within, upon my bare And bended knees, I poured my spirit forth In penitence and bumble praise to Him — The Universal Father — and invoked The precious interceding blood of Obrist — Calling his Yirgin-Motber to my aid — And summoning to help me many a saint And angel from the blessed Calendar. Sweet orisons I numbered on my beads — Our precious faith^s beloved symbol kissed — When, at the moment it just touched my lips, I felt exalted by the consciousness Of spiritual presence — manifest Nor voice, nor outward vision — but my soul A rapturous and ineffable joy possessed — As if the encumbering shadow of this life Were rolled away — the burden and the doubt Of sense and conscious being blotted out — And space and distance and the wall of flesh No longer stood ^twixt Heaven and God and me. Then first I knew my danger — then beheld With clear, unclouded eyes, this human love — How poor — ^how mean — how perilous to the soul — How adverse to salvation ! But before The tumult and the ecstasy were passed — My heart with the unfamiliar awful sense Of divine presence fluttering — I besought Of God, to make me know my duty, and A TRAGEDY. 27 ToucLsafe me strength to do. My prayer was heard. Nor many days in blissful meetings passed Ere looking fondly into Victor's eyes To read his heart, and yearning to believe 'Twas charged with passionate tenderness like mine. His coldness by insensible degrees Became revealed, and now the unsavory truth Was forced on me in all its bitterness That I was not beloved. Again, be sure, I prayed and wept before the throne of grace — I wept for shame and very feebleness To think myself despised — I prayed for strength To fight the tjTant passion in my breast And conquer in the strife. The strength was given. Long — long indeed I struggled — long suppressed The throbs of pride and anguish, till at last By grace divine victorious, I subdued The idolatrous affection, and in time Could gaze upon my idol with indifference — Nay with a sense of pity for the wrong Done to a noble nature, in the part He seemed compelled to act, deceiving me. And soon, in short, we came to understand Each other, as it were, without a word Of explanation. No deceit to him 28 THE WEIEWOLF. Was necessary then, for we conversed Like actors perfect in our several parts, And calmly travelled tlirougli tlie ceremony Of being wooed and wooing. No mistrust — No hate our kindly intercourse impaired ; He grew to love me as a brother loves, And feelings sprang between us, filling up The void of passion, by caprice unchilled, By jealousy unshaken. We were friends And friends we still remain. Mont. A pretty tale — But scarce, I own, to me intelligible. For wherefore, if thou dost not love him, girl ! Did^st thou consent to wed him ? — why keep up This miserable farce before the world ? Clem. It was my duty to bestow myself - By thy directions, being well assured Thou would'st not lead me off the ways of honour. Mont. You take these matters easily, my child ! Clem. Indeed! Was my obedience criminal then ? Mont. ^Twas merely cold, my Clemence ! Clem. Tm not cold. I love my father. Warmly too, I am sure. Mont. My child ! My child ! This is not natural — this Unmurmuring faith — this bloodless blind obedi- ence. A TRAGEDY. 29 When did I force thee ? How did I constrain Mj foolish girl to fling herself away In loveless wedlock ? There's some mystery here ; Oh ! what a riddle is a woman^s heart ! Some feeling surely — or some show thereof — In matters of this nature is required. Clem. Ah ! dearest father ! Not the less they feel Who merge their feelings in the solemn sense And high supremacy of duty. Some Natures there are by discipline sublimed. Who calmly conscious of their own desires, Still hold them at arm's length, and look upon The manifold shapes that fair temptation takes As we regard the pictures of dead friends, Hung upon walls, to be remembered still. But never more enjoyed. ■'Tis not for me To dream of soaring to those heights serene Where sit the saints, like planetary gods, Placid and cold, smiling upon the storms And struggles they've passed through — I dare not hope To assimilate their high self-sacrifice Or emtilate their glory. But if any There be, however feebly or far off. Who tread Renunciation's stony track. And strive by stedfast effort to escape 30 THE WEIRWOLP. The tyrannous yoke and bondage of the flesh, Oh ! give them all your pity — all your prayers — They need them soipewhat, oh! be always kind To their shortcomings — by no counter charm No hasty — rash — irrevocable word Evoke the potent spirits they keep constrained In bare subjection — Never — never think — Those quick, imprisoned, volcanic elements Of passion pent and stifled in the soul, Are conquered so by habit, but at times They boil and bubble wildly in the deep Abysses of the bosom, and upheave Against the pressure of our self-command. Mont. Thou shalt have vengeance for thy wrongs, my child ! Clem. I want not vengeance. Far from me the ttought. My part is resignation — my desire To live in peace — my duty to endure Mont. By Heaven ! It angers me to hear thee talk. Such tameness ! Such lukewarmness ! Why my cbild ! There have been maidens in heroic days. Who would themselves have donned the knightly sword. And in a traitor's blood condignly quenched The indignant sense of far less cruel wrongs. A TRAGEDY. Bl Clem. Such maids belied tlieir sex. Oli ! not for me Be rapiers drawn, or leaden bullets sped. Sir ! I beseecb you — I beseecb my friends — To let tbis matter rest, before it grow To further miscbief . I was never born The theme of foolish jousts and tournaments, Or cause of bloody quarrel. Let it rest My dearest father ! So ^twill turn out best. For Fm not sorrowful as you suppose. [E^vit. MoxT. By all the saints ! Her patience moves me more To do her right, as it were against her will. Than on their own behalf, a thousand tongues And thunders of her sex, had ever moved. Invoking vengeance. Ah ! Her mother lives Again in those dove's eyes — that liquid voice — That sweet forgiving spirit. To find her thus So little mindful of her cruel wrongs — To hear what pretty reasons she assigns, Why Victor, whom she loves with all her soul. Should not be crossed, or questioned to his hurt — This melts the heart more — more than eloquence — Stirs more than sorrow — touches more than tears. And must I, Clemence ! let the matter rest ? Why yes — for now what other course remains ? The heart that starves and hungers for revenge. 32 THE WEIRWOLT'. Must stay its appetite on meagre fare_j Till tlie full banquet is by Providence, Or Fortune, spread. Enough. I bide my time, To seize the first occasion of revenge. We Catholics are taught to trust in God — And wisely so, where human cunning fails. But when God sends an opportunity — Shall we not use it — shall we not avail Ourselves of Heaven's interposition ? Why ! Not to do so were rank ingratitude. And stubbornness, and wilful contumacy. Who calmly waits and watches long, shall find Tools to his hand, and matter to his mind. And who for fitting hour has sense to stay. His stroke shall fall the surer for delay. Scene 2. A jpuhlic road passing tlirongli a forest > FRAN901SE Thilouze hearing a bundle of herbs. Jacques Reynard meeting her. Jacques. Frangoise ! Sweet Frangoise ! Stay and talk awhile. Fran. Nay let me pass. Good Jacques ! Now Jaques ! I say. Be not so free and so unmannerly. I cannot stay to talk, for I'm in haste. Jacques. Ah! times are changed indeed, since this is freedom. A TRAGEDY. 33 Once, when I met you on this very spot, 'Twas— "Well! what news?' —and ''Stop a little, Jacques \" You would be talking then, and if I chanced To press your hand a little — you may look — To press it, Fran^oise ! There was no complaint Of want of manners. Times indeed are changed. Too well I wot the reason — Ah ! too well. Fran. You're so unreasonable. I am in haste. Jacques. In haste ! Alack ! But now 'tis always so. And business on the pretty Fran^oise grows. Fean. Consider. 'Tis not seemly — 'tis not decorous For a poor girl — a poor and honest girl — To chat and loiter on a public way. Jacques. Decorum ! oh ! I see — 'Twas haste before, But now, forsooth ! it is decorum. Well. Too many reasons for a thing, they say. Are worse than none, as proving all are nought. I mind when once 'twas not indecorous. Fran. Nay, there's a difference. Once or twice in a way Were not particular. Then who'd dare to say But 'twas mere chance, or some design of yours In which I'd had no part ? But often thus 3 34 THE WBIRWOLP. To stop and trifle — that were indiscreet. We should be heard of soon where gossips meet. Jacques. And who, that^s honest, cares what gossips say ? Fran. True courage never runs in danger's way. I neither fear opinion, nor despise. But tongues will wag, and rumours might arise. Jacques. A fig for rumours ! What have we to fear ? Fran. Not thouj but I might sufier, Jacques Reynard ! Jacques. And what hast thou to suffer, or to fear ? Fran. By slander women suffer more than men. Jacques. How thou should'st suffer still I cannot see. Fran. I care not that my name should mix with thine. Jacques. Oh ! that's the danger you so deeply fear? Fran. ^Tis not the danger but the talk I fear. Jacques. And common talk might dub us lovers — eh ? Fran. I would not be the theme of talk at all. Jacques. But why not lovers ? Why not this be said ? Surely to lovers not quite so criminal, is it. A TRAGEDY. 35 That thou should^st shrink thus from its very name ? Fran. But not being true, I would not have it said. Jacques. Then make it true. Yes, Fran9oise ! Pity me. Long — long — thou knowest I've loved thee pass- ing well. Why spurn and shun me ever ? Ah, thou knowest I^m not one that would harm thee — not the sort To do thee wrong — not one of those whose touch Is fatal — fatal as the breath of plague — Who for gross ends — for brutal purposes — Would soil the freshness and the purity Of our sweet village flower Fran. Away ! Thy heart Is black and base, the while thy glozing tongue Overflows with hollow nonsense. Jacques. Often thus "VVben truth and sense grate on our peevish ears We call tbem nonsense. Fran. I can stay no more To find thy riddles out, for go I must. Jacques. Yet why not lovers — dearest Fran- 9oise ! why not ? Girl ! girl ! At least my love is honourable. 'T would bless — exalt — ennoble — save thee from Dishonour — 3 * 36 THE WEIRWOLF. Fran. Go ! — What insolence is this ! Let me have room to pass. Jacques. First give me up That load of thine. 1^11 wait upon thee home. Fean. Thou wilt not_, Jacques ! I want no waiting upon — And least of all from thee. Jacques. Then hear me — hear me — If for the last time only. Sweet Fran9oise ! I love thee — Fran. Jacques ! on my reluctant lips Why force a subject I would fain have shunned ? I would not wound thee with a heartless word. Or call up painful memories, but indeed 'Tis thrust upon me in my own defence. Thou knowest that I was honest with thee ever — - By no vain trifling tampered with thy love, Nor made thy passionate hopes my cruel jest. I told thee from the first I could not love. And would not wed thee. No. Thou can'st not, Jacques ! But own that I was ever honest with thee. Jacques. Perhaps too honest. Ah ! the uncertainty That hath a smack of hope in it — the sharp But intermitting agonies of doubt — The see-saw of opposing expectations — May be a life of hell — but still they^re life. A TRAGEDY. 37 How preferable to this lugubrious void — This cataleptic torpor of the soul — This deadly — cold — stagnation of despair ! Oh ! pity me, dear Fran9oise ! Pity me. ^Tis your unkindness takes my life away — Unless I live in hope, I cannot live. ^Tis the last punishment of damned souls, When hope is taken from them — then does fate Around them wind its everlasting coil. Make not my doom more terrible than theirs. But by a gentler judgment give me back My hopes — my doubts — with all their agonies. Fran. Once you thought differently — once you prayed. By all the saints and angels ever heard of. That Vd be candid — that I'd speak the truth. And free you from suspense — suspense you said Was hell — was torture harder to be borne Than even to know the worst. Said you not so ? Jacques. Ah ! that was madness — those were utterances As of a prisoner on the rack, who raves What incoherencies come first, to soothe The immediate anguish, be they false or true Indifferent — Fran. Nevertheless, I wronged thee not By my refusal. Thine own groundless hopes Alone betrayed thee. 38 THE WEIRWOLF. Jacques. Come. Let no one boast Too tigbly of his honesty, my girl ! No doubt the answer I too hotly pressed. Was freely given, and I was fairly told You could not love me — would not marry me. No doubt. No doubt. Yet there are many ways — You know it, Frangoise — there are many ways Whereby, without a word^s encouragement, A cunning damsel, conscious of her beauty. May draw a willing lover to her feet. To spurn him at the last — ways only known To her own heart and him. Such things have been. For lovers not wholly blind. There's method in That seeming madness, and however slight The hopes it feeds on, still it never hopes What's quite impsssible. Fean. How ! You dare not, Jacques ! You dare not — dare not tell it to my face. That ever by a wanton look or word I fed your fancies. Jacques. Once I asked no more Than to be near thee. 'Twas enough to gaze Upon that face in silence and to breathe Its atmosphere of beauty, unaware That I was happy. But with consciousness Was born suspicion. Like unquiet twins. That to their sire both joy and trouble bring, A TRAGEDY. 39 The J broke upon my rest^ and my sweet dreams With tones of doubtful melody disturbed. I felt methougbt a fatal shadow steal 'Twixt Heaven and me, as shutting out the stars — A something in yourself that signified A coming change,, before the change began. Oh ! wonderful are Nature^ s instincts — right Foreseeing is the heart that truly loves ! The shadow was a rivaPs Fran. Let me pass. Jacques. What ! scared already ! Fran. Must I stay to listen To thine impertinence ? Jacques. Why should I be nice When all the world is talking of it ? See. You blush your condemnation. I can read The truth of all the stories I have heard Written upon those red and guilty cheeks. Well may'st thou look ashamed ! For better far To be a poor^ but honesty peasant^s bride^ Than mistress^ leman — call it what you will — Wer^t to the noblest noble of them all. Yes. Those were moments^ till this loving lord, Showed his sleek visage at thy father's door — Accursed be the day he lighted there ! Fran. Go— thou art a false, malicious^ slan- derer, Jacques ! 40 THE WEIEWOLF. No mistress am I, but an honest maid. And lords and nobles — wbat are they to me ? Jacques. Thou would'st deny it ! Never be so base. Fran9oise ! Fran^oise ! Add not hypocrisy And glaring falsehood to thine other sins. Are these his courtly teaching ? But indeed It should be so. Who knows not that he must. To compass his abominable ends. Corrupt thy nature first — must practice on Its pure simphcity and openness ? Fean. What ends soever thou, and such as thou, Out of the abounding malice of your hearts. Conceive of one, who thought of honours you, Be well assured of this, by his high soul, No thought — no purpose ever was conceived. Save what was fair, and just, and honourable. Of all impure designs he's innocent As thou art foul, and filthy, and depraved — Nor is his blood more noble than his heart. He would not wrong me — even in thought would not For all the wealth of worlds Jacques. Enough. Fra.n. How now ? Jacques. I see too plainly how the matter stands. Fran^oise ! thou lovest him ! A TRAGEDY. 41 Fran. Nay. And if 1 did What matter^ s tliat to tliee ? Wliy trouble me ? Thou hast had thine answer. Ai-t thou not con- tent ? I do not love thee^ and I never will. Jacques. Ah ! trust not^ rran9oise, to his gentle looks. 'Tis but the art your courtly gallants use. I know the soft^ smooth, manner of them all. He will beguile, thee, girl ! to infamy. If honest now thou art — not long — not long — Wilt thou remain so. Ah ! be warned. Be warned ! Fran. From thee I want nor warning, nor advice. Jacques. Insulting beauty ! I shall see thee yet A flaunting wretch, bedraggled and debased — A common toy — a mercenary thing — A creature fed with marketable shame — Fat with dishonour, pampered on disgrace, Swoln out and bloated with degrading sins — This will I see, and seeing will rejoice. Because my friendly warning was despised. . Fean. I doubt not ^tis thy hearths malignant wish — No tongue over a hapless maiden^s fall Would wag so fast as thine. 42 THE WEIEWOLF. Jacques. IVe heard it said He's bent to marry tiiee — so runs tlie tale. And doubtless lie's not slack in promising. For ^tis tlie wont of all in sucli a case Yet if tliou heedest ]iim_, all ! tbou art undone. Alas ! how many a. promise of tlie kind, Tliat never — never — to performance grew Is ckronicled in our village Mstories. Fean. I^U bear no more of tbis. Too lon^ I've beard. Tby warning springs from rage and jealousy. ^Tis maHce sbapes — 'tis disappointment barbs — Tby sballow sneers and vulgar calumnies. Witb my fair fame tbou may'st at pleasure play. Because I'm but a weak and belpless maid. But take tbis warning in exchange for tbine — Keep well tby distance — meddle not witb one Tbat sball be nameless, lest be cbance to set Upon tby serpent tbroat bis iron beel. And trample tbee to atoms. [Exit Jacques. Heaven and eartb ! Is tbis Fran9oise Tlnlouze — tbe soft — tbe sad — Tbe tender- voiced — wbose sweet and timid tones Would creep into tbe beart, and nestle tbere. And coil themselves in memory — wbose meek ey( To humbleness abashed the fervid glance Of manly passion with its majesty ? Why — here's a transformation ! Now she's growi A TRAGEDY. 43 Into a very Pytlioness — her voice With largest utterance volumed — her fierce looks Glare like a she-wolf's, when she stands at bay Beside the den, wherein her sightless young Complain in chorus of their absent dam, And whine for her return. How heavenly-bright Is anger shining in those starry eyes. Quick flaming up from her indignant soul ! Though Adam fell, was Eden no less fair — And she's still beautiful, though lost to me. 'Twas rank presumption, Jacques ! in thee to love. Which is the luxury of nobles, for Like other blessings in this partial world. To wealth and titles female favour clings By an unjust necessity, and thus The spite that fortune does us at om* bii'ths. Throughout our after-life repeats itself In manifold reaction, and begets A progeny of wrongs. To him that's born 'Mid riches and distinction, is ensured A patent-right-monopoly of all else That's enviable below. The lucky few By vantage of possession, are empowered To clutch and keep for their own special use. In the world-scramble whatso'er they will. Of aU the goods the powers above fling down — But him that in obscurity begins This fever-dream of life, the baleful shade 44 THE WEIRWOLF. Witli cumulative darkness closing round. Shuts out at last tlie common light and air. And skrouds in cold, impenetrable gloom — Thus proving true that saying we have often heard — " To him that hath shall more be always given, But he that hath not, what he hath shall lose.^' To suffer is the peasant^ s heritage — To suffer, and be silent. Ah ! to whom Should he complain — to what compassionate power On earth — in Heaven — shall his appeal be poured ? Time was, when God himself rejoiced to hear The supplications of the lowly -born. But now the skies are deaf — the heavenly hosts Take part against the poor — religion leans For vested rights — her sacred oracles Support the prestige of authority. And God, they say, ordains and sanctifies The rights and privileges of the strong. Tor this the churches ring with joyful praise. And lips of priests with gladness overflow. Priests from their pulpits preach tranquillity. And meekness, and content, and thankfulness. For what — let crushed humanity reply — Let man^s long-outraged feelings answer them. Beligion cannot teach us not to feel. The heart asserts its rights, and knows its wrongs A TRAGEDY. 45 In spite of their monitions. Foolisli Jacques ! With idle questions why perplex thy brain ; " Thou hast had thine answer" — did not Fran^oise say? Then take it as she gave it. Go in peace. In peace ! How little they know Jacques who think He^ll bear these slights and never be avenged. [Exit Scene III. A forest glade, interspersed with thickets. In the distance, on one side, a cottage, whence FEAN901SE Thilouze looks out, so as to be occasionally and partly seen. On the other side, a servant on horseback, holding another saddle-horse. Yictoe de Yar- DOis, from the cottage, advancing. Count de Yardois. De Yard. With cii'cumspection I must him accost — Cautious, though firm — nor angry, nor yet weak. For in his bosom, like a sea that sleeps Beneath a tropic summer there^s a depth Of proud and passionate sensibility. Which at a breath of chiding surges up To swift rebellion — but ao-ain subsides o As quickly as it rose — his manly heart Being by persuasive gentleness subdued 46 THE WEIRWOLP. More easily than a woman^s. Here 1^11 sit And wait Ms coming. Faith ! the shrine is fair Wherein our goddess dwells. A lovely place — For dalliance apt — sweetly provocative Of tender thought s^ and rapturous images. A place to bill and coo in — ^by the Lord ! — Where turtle doves should nestle, and, methinki Young Love might find his looks reflected roun From every copse — from every shady bower. Here couched on mossy banks, o'er canopied By clustering boughs, that let the summer in Through greenwood glimpses, waited on as : were By fluttering nymph-like shadows, one might sil And muse until the soul's magnetic wish Should summon to our side some wandering fair- Some Dian of the forest, wreathed in hues Of mist and rainbow, from her open lips Exhaling sylvan balms, with earnest eyes And innocent boldness putting out of face The forward freedom of audacious love. Here might one dream was Nature's self beguiled- That, feebly flying, like a conscious maid. From daylight's burning glances, she betook Herself for shelter here, and hid her face — Her blushing face — behind the whispering leaves Whereat more amorous made, the baffled light Pursues her ever, creeping in disguised. A TRAGEDY. 47 With, base connivance of tlie treacherous boughs, To fondle her in secret, and enjoy Her stealthy kisses. Hark ! the prying winds Forbid to enter, when they would express Their angry disappointment, won to peace By the strange beauty of the spot, straightway Forget themselves in music. Ah ! my son ! It grieves me, Victor, to have found thee here. IVe been too chary and too delicate Of all intrusion on thy private hours. Hoping thine own discretion, reason, sense — Would better guide thee towards propriety. Than an old father^s tedious homilies. YiCTOR. Hard words, my father ! De Yard. Are they not deserved ? YiCTOR. What^s wrong ? De Yard. Good Lord ! And is there nothing wrong. That thus you play the truant, son of mine ? Has Clemence then no right to feel aggrieved ? Is this your sense of duty — this your love ? YiCTOR. When last I saw the Lady Clemence — De Yard. Last ! When was that " last ?" Oh Yictor ! Yictor ! when? Yictor. When last I saw the Lady Clemence^ she Made no complaint. 48 THE WEIRWOLF. De Vard. Oil ! casuist ! What a loss The Church has suffered of thy subtle wit ! What though she be too gentle to complain, Too wise to murmur, are there then no wrongs. Save those that we resent — no griefs we hide. From the gross ignorance, from the coarse coi tempt, And cold misjudging pity of the world ? Have Clemence's friends no feelings ? Are the blind ? Will they be silent ever — ever bear With patient smiles — with simpering courtesy- The coldness — the neglect — the scorn — you slio Their gentle, kins woman ? By the Lord ! it nee( No weather prophet to foretell the storm Which in that quarter gathers black and fast. And when it bursts upon our heads — 'tis I — 'Tis I must meet the shock — YiCTOE. No. No. My Lord ! If any captious kinsman of the blood Of Montmorenci throw the gauntlet down And make a quarrel of his cousin's wrongs — De Yard. Enough — pray pardon me ! — know the rest. That strain's familiar — fashionable too No doubt. 'Tis thus that many a blustering fo Quiets his heavy conscience, many a knave Would fain escape damnation. Twas indeed A TRAGEDY. 49 A rare invention for redressing wrong To prop up injury with murder ! But To thee, my Victor ! who wast never wont To learn from multitudes thy rule of life — Is it not palpable, though with frantic rage You drown the fretful chorus of complaint In seas of innocent blood, or sacrifice To the dark demon of unreasoning power A heaped up hecatomb of martyred rights. You merely multiply injustice, and Accumulate damning proofs against yourselves? What argument is there in your naked swords ? What reason in your cuts and thrusts ? What right Has your superior courage, strength, or skill. To more than justice ? May not this be matched With the opposites of those, and justice fail — By mere timidity, weakness, want of skiU ? Suppose then innocence suffers — say that right Is by the spite of fortune stricken down. And trampled in the dust — shall right thereby Be changed to wrong, or forfeit by defeat Its sacredness of nature, or exhaust Its infinite vitahty ? Still it lives — I tell you that it lives — and cries aloud. And finds a refuge in the heart of man. Impregnable — eternal— where appeals Are heard against the tyranny of might, 4 50 THE WEIRWOLF. And righteous judgment given. Success, be sure Can add no lustre to a righteous cause Save what^s external merely,, and injustice. By partial fortune favoured, only shows Like the black dews and rottenness of death, Betricked with tinsel, stuck about with gems. And mercenary gold. Reflect — reflect — Before thy sword is drawn — Be satisfied Thou'rt in the right — and never dare be brave Until thou'rt surely just. What wrong — wha wrong Has Clemence done thee ? Were it not a shami To stand against her, having on thy side So little right or reason ? Ah ! my son ! ^Tis thou that art the wronger — thou that hast Set hands too rudely on this tender flower — Hast soiled its shining leaves — its petals bruised— And left it drooping on a broken stem. Victor. You take the affair too seriously, m; Lord ! De Yard. And thou — dost thou make light o of it, my son? Is it a little matter to be loved By such as Clemence ? What shall make amend To her for all she loses, or has lost ? Her wealth of love she trusted in your hands — Embarked the treasure of her maiden dreams — Mortgaged to you her rich inheritance, A TRAGEDY. 51 The tilth and produce of prospective years — Her girlisli faith, affections, feelings, hopes — Which trivial though they seem, are all in all, To her who gives them, and come back disgraced. And tarnished, and abused in such a sort. They never pass again for what they were. The wounds your scorn has opened what shall heal? What charm restore to peace and holiness The sanctuary of her heart that first for you Unfolded dimly its primeval depths. And bared its virgin beauty ? Oh ! my son ! We never outrage with impunity, A trust reposed in us. On confidence Our lives are founded, and a general faith The fabric of society sustains — • Who breaks this holy universal bond, He is a treble traitor. He betrays No less the heart that trusts him, than he wrongs His country and his kind. Such wrongs, be sure. Must be atoned for heavily — they must In blood or tears their expiation find — Or on the wronger draw damnation down. YiCTOR. For this whatever be my share of blame — The burden of the wrong's not wholly mine. Let those who for us laid this fatal snare, 4 * 52 THE WEIRWOLF. Who wrought, and schemed, and plotted, till the had Pushed a precipitate and heedless nature Too far for safe or honourable retreat — Let them, I say, take somewhat of the curse Of this bad business ! De Yard. Bad ! Thou callest it ? Victor. Beyond all remedy, it seems. De Yard. But come — Recrimination's folly. We extend And aggravate the mischiefs we divide. We magnify the superficial sore By vain analysis. The wiser part Is from the nursing hand of Destiny To take whatever medicine she provides. And when she holds the chalice to our lips. Brimful with cold or bitter consequences — What matters of our own or others' acts ? — To swallow with a gulp the nauseous draught Which cannot be refused. Consider well What promises you've made — what pledge given — Bonds drawn on earth, and registered in heaven. Oaths drest in idioms borrowed fi-om above. Translating mortal to immortal love — High rites and customs sacred to the skies Foreshadowing still more sacred mysteries. Irrevocable thus your contract stands A TRAGEDY. 53 In faith and honour. What additional strength It has from mutual confidences drawn Thou best canst answer, for there 's many a vow That never yet was rounded into speech By the all-glozing tongue — there ^s many a word That never made its way to human ears, Has pierced the hearts of angels, and is writ In register against us Victor. To be true Needs neither oaths nor vows. Dishonour laughs At your fantastic bonds — your solemn laws — And makes short work of mysteries. As for me, I know my fate — I know to what I^m pledged. And what I must perform — and to that end Will strain my best endeavour. De Yard. Oh ! for shame ! Oh ! youth ! Oh ! Nature ! Where's thy man- hood ? Where ? Thou cold — insensible — thick-blooded boy ! Is Clemence nothing more than common flesh? Is she not lovely with the lovehness Whence the old-world painters took their types of heaven ? Boy ! hast thou never, gazing on her face. Felt steeped in holiness, like an atmosphere — Thy soul — thy senses vanquished by the power Of spiritual beauty ? Such a spring Foretells a heavenly summer. But who dare 54 THE WEIRWOLF. Presage its fulness, when the mystic years That wait like ministering angels on Her exquisite development, shall have touched With finishing fingers her consummate bloom, And into round and ripe luxuriance swelled Those slender charms ? How from her pensive eyej As from some sacred dream^s mysterious depths Looks out Infinity ! On her forehead smooth Like sleeping sisters, Thought and Innocence Lie folded — twined like flowers in bridal wreaths. Breathing a chaste and quiet harmony. Just so the peri in the picture looks, When, half-way up to heaven, the mingled rays Of Hope and Memory in her glances blend. With far-off glimmerings from the eternal doors. Is heaven^s bright arch more perfect than hei brows ? The spheral revolutions, do they roll In orbits rounder than her oval cheeks ? Her skints transparent paleness simulates The silken tissues of a folded flower Before it opens unto the artist sun Its virgin films and hueless purity. On her closed lips what summer sweetness sleeps — What lovely life — what boundless beauty stirs — In their voluptuous motion ! Her rich hair. That flings its wanton masses idly round That stately neck, caressing it with shows A TRAGEDY. 55 Of needless ornament, like loose treasures heaped Before the proud path of a conqueror. Or rests upon her cheek with modest braid — Its hght was borrowed of the shining clouds That drawn like curtains round the sleepy sun And, hovering near his pillow, are inflamed With lingering glances of his lurid eyes. And shot with filmy gold. No vulgar clay Was moulded in her flesh — all the elements That are her life — all the atoms that compose And nourish her sweet body — by that use Are consecrated to eternal trusts And set apart for ever. She sublimes Whatever she touches. Life has nought so poor — So cold — so barren — but her angel face Can clothe in forms of beauty, and endow With bright appearance, shedding a fresh charm On things unlovely, and infusing soul Into the trivial and the despicable. Till like neglected instruments newly tuned They start to renovated power, and answer With light and music. This prosaic world — This sphere of hard and common circumstance — Brighten before her into dreams divine And high poetic meanings — But it seems That I grow garrulous, Victor ! by your face. Are then my praises false, or undeserved ? 56 THE WEIRWOLF. ViCTOE. The Lady Clemence 'tis impossible To overpraise. I own lier beautiful — Even as a saint or angel beautiful — And no less mild and wise tban beautiful. De Yard. Is it tben a fate so terrible to call Tbis fair encbantress yours — tbis sainted sbape — This sweet embodiment of tbe angelic soul — To draw from ber sublime and skiey spbere By gentle invocation_, and entbrone Supreme among your bousebold deities ? Witb soft familiarity to melt Upon ber awful bosom — unprofaned By gods or angels — breatbe ber daily breath — Oppress and fondle ber witb nigbtly love — Feed on ber kisses — surfeit of ber smiles — Make ber your queen, companion, counsellor ^Fore Heaven ! to dream of sucb a blessed lot. So far from wakening in a young man's beart Tbis strange indifference, or unnatural bate, Migbt madden bim witb joy. ViCTOE. I bate ber not. In me nor joy, nor borror sbe inspires. Tbese feelings on no formal vows depend. We cannot love or bate as others wish — As duty bids, or policy requires. The heart is privileged, and our free desires Rebel against the tyranny of bonds A TRAGEDY. 57 TlieyVe not subscribed to. Tlie completest mould Of mind and form — tbe loveliest nature sbrined In fairest framing of consummate flesh — Draws no responsive passion from tlie soul, Against tbe light of its perfection sealed. The effect must still reciprocate the cause. Attraction on affinity depends. In mutual action fitness is presumed — Proportion — correspondence — wherefore else. Should yonder glorious sun^s creative rays Oui' valleys and our plains with genial warmth Impregnate, yet on the primeval snows And everlasting ice of Alpine hills Fall chill and feeble — why through iron ways. Courses the invisible and mysterious fire. Which the bright mirror's polished face repels ? ^Tis my misfortune to be dull, my lord ! Where dulness seems a crime — but you that more Justly appreciate the fair lady's charms. Abounding where I fail, might easily, Methinks, this unintentional slight repair. And fill the perilous breach with happier vows. De Yard. The path of duty to my son, Fve shown. What more I pray you is in a father's power ? YiCT. To more than one that path is open. Sir ! De Yard. What means the boy ? 58 THE WEIRWOLP. Victor. That you should marry her. De Yard. Your future bride ! Victor. Not mine yet, more than yours. And as a mother I could love her well. De Vard. This is but trifling. Why should I, my son ! Bear the sad burden of your broken vows ? ^Twas not I made them — 'twas not I who pledged My faith and honour, nor on me will fall What shame accrues when faith and honour fail. Victor. Fear not for me. I know my faith is pledged. And to be brief, my lord ! I'll marry her. De Vard. But is your conduct quite consistent with Your obligations ? Victor. Who believes me bound To pin me to the Lady Clemence' side. Or dally in her lap my lazy hours ? I deem it quite consistent with my vows. While free, to enjoy my freedom as I will. De Vard. What ! Is it decent — is it honour- able — For ever absent from your pining bride To waste your manhood in a minion's arms — A hireling nurse, that to thy babe of love. Coldly abandoning her purchased breast. Weans it from one that yearning to be fond, A TRAGEDY. 59 Had yielded to its lips a sweeter stream Of healthiest nourisliment. Victor. What means my lord ? De Yard. I mean the brazen baggage that abides In yonder cottage. Victor. Surely 'tis not just To speak in cruel — harsh — contemptuous — terras. Of one you know not. De Vard. What is this I hear ? Shall not the truth be told ? Victor. ■'Tis not the truth. De Vard. What folly's this ? Victor. She's innocent — De Vard. By the Lord ! The boy's bewitched. Was Montmorenci right ? What brings thee here so often then, I pray, Haunting her precincts, like a jealous ghost. That guards a buried treasure ? What employ. Or function, or capacity, or trust. Thy constant presence in this spot demands ? Her innocence hath she put in pawn to thee. Or made thee keeper of her virtue, boy ? Victor. If she be otherwise than pure and true, There's neither purity nor truth in heaven. De Vard. The matter looks alarming, by the Lord ! 60 THE WEIRWOLF. T fear this wicked slut's pernicious arts. And his temerity, will work us woe. My son ! ^Tis rumoured thou would' st marry her. Victor. With idle rumours what concern have I ? De Vaed. Indeed I cannot deem thee so de- praved As to have dreamed even of so base a thing. But so 'tis said. YiCTOR. I care not what is said. De Yard. Come. Come. Be docile. Run not off the course. Because your reins are free. My words, I trust. Will set your judgment working, and in time. May leaven it with sense. Root up, my son I Root up this puerile folly ere its growth Outtop your resolution. Now attend. IVe work for thee at Paris. There's a coil Of an old business matter got unwound — Touching our title to the Meadow Farms — Which threatens litigation. That old fox, Marrand, of course, is at the bottom of it. You must away this moment, and consult The legal oracles, and secure the best Advice upon our side. The king's at Court. He'll doubtless show thee favour as before. The matter presses. I would have thee start Within an hour at furthest — A TRAGEDY. 61 Victor. May I not Have time for preparation ? De Yard. There needs none. Grey Emperor^s in the stable, liigli in flesli. And wanting exercise. Our banking friends Will furnisii you wbat money you require. And pause a moment on your way to bid Adieu to Clemence. Tliat's imperative. I wish you a fair journey. Come. Away. [Exit. Enter Fran^gise Thilouze. Fran. Thy father ! Was it not ? Victor. Even so. Fran. How stern — Yet anxious and perplexed he looked, as one. Who against baffling circumstances fights ! Victor. Would he had only seen thee, my beloved ! All flushed and rumpled with the sportive force And rude caress of Nature — on thy cheeks The amorous impress of the kissing winds — Thy blue eyes luminous with bewitching joy — This vest, that with bewildering difficulty The budding ripeness of thy bosom sheathes, Trembhng above the treasure it conceals. And stirred with tumult of mysterious charms. The veriest devil of strife or tyranny Would melt in momentary holiness. 62 THE WEIRWOLF. And Hell for awhile forget itself to Heaven, In such a presence. Fran. Victor, too, is sad. Some trouble sits upon Ms manly brow. May Fran9oise know it ? Victor. When authority. However sacred, would compel the heart To swerve from Nature, surely it provokes And justifies rebellion. Fran. Cast such thoughts. Like serpents, from thee. Is thy sire unkind ? Victor. Obedience must have bounds. It cannot reach Beyond the possible. Fran. Alas ! my love I Ah ! Victor ! Victor ! Is it come to this ? Must now the doom my sin and folly caused— The bolt my proper punishment deserved— Be launched upon us both, and thou be crushed. Because I was too careless of thy good — Too fond — too selfish — still to bid thee fly. Or warn thee of the danger thou hast earned. In loving me ? There yet — ^there yet is time. I feel a solemn duty must be done. Which yet I shrink fi'om doing. Cruel duty ! And desperate necessity, when love Its life must threaten with the mortal act That very life requires ! A TRAGEDY. 06 Victor. How now, what mean These cold, sad words — these melancholy tones — Which hang like icicles on golden doors — Mocking the beauty and the inward warmth Which their cold splendour brightens and adorns ! Fran. Even love may sin by tender selfishness Or by excess, and yet of loving sins The loving heart not easily repents. Victor. No more of this, my girl ! No more of this ! Why to thy bosom hug these gloomy thoughts. Till warmed to serpent-life they hiss and glare. And coil around thy faith with poisonous clasp ? Fran. We drift — we di'ift upon the fatal shoals That threatened us afar. Alas ! Alas ! Upon a woful voyage were we bound. A thriftless venture was thy love for me. And fortune meant to mock thee when thy bark Of life she burdened with that foolish freight. Victor. That sinners are we all, the Church attests. But to the sins of others thine are bright. As is the morning sunshine to the depths Of starless midnight. Ah ! what sense of sin. Dear, innocent thing ! or memory can be thine. To bow thee down with this undue remorse — This sad extravagance of mistempered woe ? 64 THE WEIKWOLF. Fean. Alas ! to love thee — was it not a sin ? Else wherefore do I feel_, for evermore, One quiet shadow cross my peace of mind ? Ah_, me ! The girlish beauty — the mild eyes — The gentle lineaments of her I^ve wronged — Eise up in dreams before me and upbraid This happiness that I 've usurped too long. To that sad chamber still my fancy turns. Where sits a fairer and a nobler love. Pining for thee in vain ! Oh ! was it not A crime to rob her of thy loving heart. And make her desolate ? Victor. The crime was mine — Be mine the sorrow too. God knows, by thee I came unsought, uncared for — thrust myself Upon thy coy retirement — I subdued By passionate force and importunity Thy cold, reluctant, maidenly reserve. Of all connivance — all participation — Thou'rt quit, save this — God made thee what thou art In form, but more in nature, beautiful. I could not choose but love thee. Yes — oh ! yes. ^Twas my own willing, unsolicited act Condemned me here to sweet imprisonment. And chained my fortunes in thy circling arms. Oh ! stifle me with kisses. Let me swoon Into the life of love, and penetrate A TRAGEDY. 65 In trance the spheral zones of bliss, and feel Responsive to my touch the heaven of joy. At least we hold the present in our hands — We grasp the palpable and the actual here. No mocking phantasm this — ^no cheating dream — But warm — familiar — ^breathing happiness. Each bounds for each our mutual universe. All else is futile, unsubstantial air — The shadowy unrealities of space. By glimmering spectres crossed. The worst may come. But love shall strengthen us whatever betides — Shall give us courage to defy the worst. Fran. It must be said, my Victor ! — must be done. We part for ever. Weak, indeed, IVe been — Who knew my duty — felt it in my heart — Yet always feebly tampering with the right. Still let the accumulative burden press Upon me till it crushes. Yet for thee — For thee alone — I faltered. Mine own joys Were nothing in the balance. Yes. IVe lived The very life of love, however brief. For me but once so happy to have been — An hour — a moment even — to have enjoyed This sweet-^sweet dream, were more than I deserved. This makes me conscious IVe not lived in vain, 5 66 THE WEIRWOLP. But now tliy father's angry voice is raised Against our wishes — hear me to the end — When to be longer happy as we were Must work thee loss of honour — fortune — peace — Must set thee floundering in unseemly strife — Must drag thee down fi^om nobler destinies — The time is come to say — " My Victor ! Go ! Let not thy life unprofitably waste And burn itself away — oh ! be no more Debased and burthened with my humble love. I dare not owe thee to a father's curse. And we must part for ever !" Victor. Be it so. Fran. Is it agreed, then ? Ah ! — Victor. Why not ? When both Are in accord, 'tis easy to agree. Fran. Alas ! Victor. How now ? Why turn so pale, and start. At the very echo of thine own resolves ? Fran. I told thee I was weak. I felt a pain Here in my heart. No matter. That is past. I thought I should have found thee obstinate — Hot, deaf, intractable, peremptory — Still loth to leave me, clinging to the last. To one so long by former love endeared. I thought with all the power of all my prayers. With absolute arguments, resistless words, A TRAGEDY. 67 Over and over again^ I must have urged This fatal — cruel — sad necessity. Yet scarcely had persuaded thee to go. But now I see ^tis better as it is. Heaven sends thee courage to forget me soon. A more congenial sphere — a brighter bride — Shall win thy willing heart, and whirl thee round, In giddy circles of oblivious joy. And thou shalt quickly smile, and be consoled, Nor cast one lingering and regretful gaze. On the sad maiden whom thou^st left behind. Victor. Oh ! rain down Heaven upon me with thine eyes — Make my lips holy with thy holy tears. Fean. Go. Victor! to the Lady Clemence go. Dry up the cruel tears that undeserved Wear out her innocent eyes, and hollow out Untimely furrows in her blooming cheeks. Console her for the sorrows I have wrought her With the rich treasure of thy precious love. But with my name, I charge thee, never wound Her tender ears, nor tell her how I loved. That thought might prove a spectre to her joy. And haunt her happiest hours, and turn the light Of her new hopes to gloom and wretchedness. Victor. Wretched am I, recalling her to mind. Fran. 'Tis but for thine own sake I bid thee go. (58 THE WEIRWOLF. From love alone I draw the dreadful strengtli To make tliis dreadful sacrifice of love. YiCTOE. After this fashion then we say fare- well ? Fean. Alas ! when duty with imperative voice Commands, we may not murmur or resist. Victor. And Fran^oise finds it easy to forget? Fran. Oh ! Victor ! Easy ! Victor. Why should it be thought For one more easy than another, pray ? Fran. As being of one the duty, not of both. Victor. And might not duty teach thee to forget ? Fran. Love, that partakes the nature of the soul. Is, like the soul, immortal. Victor. Nobly said. And why, in the name of manhood, why should I Be less enduring, or less brave, than thou ? I swear it — Fran. Swear not lest thou change again. How readily alas ! men scatter vows ! Thine own wish was it not a moment since. That we should part ? Victor. Away with such a wish ! 'Twas half in jest, and half in earnest, said. On pressing business, by my father sent, I go to Paris. A TRAGEDY. 69 Fean. ^Tis an opportunity That Heaven provides. Oh ! seize it to sustain Thy struggling resolution. Oh ! my friend ! My love ! Be strong — be valiant to subdue Thy dearest wishes^ when they wildly fight With God — religion — duty — sense of right. Victor. Are love and nature never in the right ? Has the poor heart no privilege to be heard ? Fean. Like dangerous casuists^ love and nature speak With self-deluding voices. And the heart Confessed accomplice of its own desires, Were scarce a fitting judge when these ofiend. Is honour nothing ? All thy promises, And vows, and obligations, empty sounds ? Think of the Lady Clemence — think of her. YiCTOE. On every side my path — on every side — A Scylla thunders, or Charybdis roars. Fean. Thy vows are hers — oh ! Victor ! — hers alone. Victor. Yet equally to thee my vows were given. And my heart sealed them with a double seal. Fran. Alas! thy vows to her were uttered first. They still remain uncancelled — unrecalled — And take precedence of all after vows. 70 THE WEIEWOLF. Victor. My vows to her scarce voluntary were. Since by the fraud and treacliery of our sires. From my confiding folly they were won. And never ratified by mutual love. Fean. Our reason's rightly held accountable For acts our reason judges. And at least She loved thee, surely, and 'twere most unjust To fix on her the penalty of frauds She had no part in — Victor. Never by her lips Was made confession of her love for me. Fran. How could she help loving ? Victor. I will not hear Another word. Let all discussion end. Here's logic that all other logic shames. Thus — thus to fold thee round with conscious arms — To breathe thy breath — to kiss away thy tears — Against ten thousand promises prevail. Fran. My heart ! my heart ! Oh ! cruel ! to persist ! Ah ! me, within this bosom's citadel, A fond confederate thou too surely hast, Who still against my better reason sides, And mocks my exhortations evermore. Victor. Follow that inward — that unerring — voice. Heaven speaks in that. Fran. 'Twas written in the skies A TRAGEDY. 71 That we should love. Alas ! 'twas written too That I must yield thee to the nobler lot Thy destiny provides. YiCTOK, Far otherwise Following my heart for teacher, and infused Therefrom with instincts of sublimer faith Than thine, I read the sacred oracles. Our lots are one — our destinies the same — And round one centre, in co-ordinate spheres. Like double stars, our mutual lives revolve. Fean. Farewell ! Oh Victor ! YiCTOE. This is not the way We part, believe me. Fran. If a maiden's prayers Be answered, the prolific grace of Heaven Shall shower its richness round thee, and thy life Be lapped in blessedness. Farewell ! YiCTOR. With thee All blessedness of mine begins and ends. Without thee Paradise were barren — Heaven Itself a hell for me. Fran. Farewell ! Victor. Be sure When I return from Paris, I'll defy The Montmorencis, and my father too. Fran. Farewell ! Victor. So be it, till we meet again. lExit. Fran. Is that the end ? I fear there's some- thing more 72 THE WEIEWOLF. To come. The sky looks threatening overhead. And my weak footstep wakes a hollow sound. Watch o'er him, heavenly powers ! Your forked wrath That slumbers in the sulphurous banks, discharge Alone on me. Farewell ! Farewell ! Farewell ! ACT II. The Conspiracy. Scene I. A street in a village in front of a cottage. Enter Jacques Reynaed, ivalking slowly as in thought, Jacques. Moments there are when, in the life of each. In mortal conflict good and evil meet. And strive for absolute empire o'er the soul. This mystery was of old foreshadowed in The wars of devils and angels. Then, it seems. We pause between two portals. Either way Passion or chance our doubtful fates incline. And ominous voices whispering in our hearts. Foretell the fearful secret of our Hves. Just so 'twas once with me. Had she been kind. Had the grim stai-s on my affection smiled — A TRAGEDY. 73 It had been as nothing for me to have heaped The hoarded substance of ten thousand lives Like dross beneath her feet_, and measured heaven By whatsoever good she bade me do. But now behold ? She thrusts me out of hope — Standing before me with a flaming sword. While Eden lies beyond. Then welcome hell ! Welcome the darkness of the infernal deep ! Help me, ye devils ! help me, gloomy gods ! Despair is strong — aye stronger than ye all. And in that school the soul that^s disciplined — That builds defiance on eternal wrongs. Compels your service and obedience. Thus I call upon you now, mysterious powers ! But not in adoration. It shall be Your task to feed my measureless revenge. With fitting opportunities. Behold ! In answer to my call, a woman comes. Can we contrive no mischief out of her ? Enter Manon Thieeey, at the door. Manon. Why Jacques ! Friend Jacques ! how heavily thou lookest ! Jacques. Let fools walk garnished with con- tinual smiles. If Jacques look sombre, ^tis that Jacques must think. 74 THE WEIEWOLF. Manon. The saints defend us from all gloomy thoughts ! But come. What news ? What of my cousin, Jacques ? How speed you there ? Jacques. That story soon is told. My speed was thence with speed to be dismissed. Thou knowest too well, cold looks and colder words. And angry frowns my general fare have been. Since young de Yardois took to poaching there. Manon. But tell me — tell me, is it really true, De Yardois ^11 marry her, as people say ? Jacques. You should know best, since you^-e her cousin, girl ! While neither kith nor kin have I to boast, And now IVe lost her, ^tis all one to me. Whether she be his minion or his bride. Manon. Beheve me, IVe not seen her many a day. She comes no more to visit, as she used. Proud minx ! perhaps her fortune puffs her up. But yet I do not envy her — not I. Jacques. How ! Envy ! Envy her ! What means the gii'l ? Manon. ■'Tis rumoured — ^is it not ? Jacques. Suppose it be. Since when were village rumours gospel truths ? A TRAGEDY. iO Manon. He will not marry her ? Jacques. I said not so. Manon. Why then he^ll marry her. Jacques. I said not so. Manon. Provoking wretch ! There's some- thing in thy face Awakes my curiosity. Come now. Let's chat awhile together. There are times When thou canst take Discretion off her guard, And charm the sober nymph Propriety, With the rich freedom and familiar flow Of thy fine nonsense. But an April wind Is not more humoursome. Come. Sit thee down. Be sociable. Put on a pleasant face. And give thy tongue the reins. Sit down, I say. Eude fellow ! Must I for so small a grace Become thy suitor ? Ah ! how many a youth That is to thee an eagle to an owl. Would give his ears — ^aye — only to be asked By Manon thus to sit at Manon' s side ! Jacques. Dost thou believe it ? Come. Manon. I do not — I. Jacques. 'Tis true, nevertheless. Manon. How say'st thou ? Jacques. True. Manon. No jesting ? Jacques. True. 76 THE WEIRWOLF. Manon. He^ll marry Fran^oise ? Jacques. Must. I make a song of it^ to please tliee ? Well. Tlie heir of Vardois for his bride shall choose Fran^oise^ fair daughter of the hind Thilouze ; Thus shall a noble lord a peasant wed. And low-born beauty chmb a noble bed ; On both propitious smile the powers above. Endowing her with fortune, him with love. Still may Heaven^s favour the fond pair attend. Still love with fortune beautifully blend. Confirm their faith with conjugal rewards. And make her mother of a line of lords. Manon. Cease — cease this folly, Jacques ! I pray thee, cease. Jacques. Are these your feelings for your father's niece ? Manon. Your songs melodious as a raven's are. Jacques. 'Tis not the music, but the words that jar. Manon. I take no heed of music or of words. Jacques. But Manon ! Manon ! is not this great news ? Manon. Great news, indeed. Jacques. And good news too, is it not ? Manon. Frangoise is lucky. A TRAGEDY. 77 Jacques. Lucky ! Yet tliou sigb.est. Hast thoa no pleasui*e in tliy cousin's luck ? ]Manon. I'm sure with all my heart I \sasli her joy- Jacques. Another sigh ! Why_, Manon ! what is this ? Manon. Begone ! Thou spiteful monster ! Mock me not. Jacques. Dare Manon tell her thoughts ? 'Twas only now I heard her, sighing, wish her cousin joy. But what does Manon wish her in her heart ? !Manon. Begone ! I say. Thou growest too insolent. I'll talk with thee no longer. Jacques. As for me I bear no malice, Manon ! Nay. I'm glad. Since Fran9oise marries, that she marries well. Of course she'll keep our company no more. When lords and ladies her companions are We cannot blame her to look down on us. Again then let me hear thee wish her joy. Manon. Have I not bid thee trouble me no more ? Jacques. With such a bridegroom can she fail of joy ? Manon. Nay, trust me, he's a paragon. Jacques. By the Lord ! 78 THE WEIRWOLF. He walks the living wonder of the times. What though he's wronged me — IWe an honest heart — I can he generous — ^never would I stoop. By lies to under-average his deserts. Or stint him of his proper meed of praise. I take him for the flower of all his peers — The model of his order and his kind — A measure, index, and example set. Of noble manhood. In defining him. Is manly nobleness itself defined. All fair proportions, and all lovely parts. Are summed up in him. Nothing good but seems As if it touched the limit of excess, In building him together — nothing bad Has room to enter and bestow itself. Who would be braver is but rash and vain, Or wiser, only mad. The loftiness That would not lose its head in cloudy pride. Must equal his — the affability That lower would descend is merely mean. In short — " got up regardless of expense'^ — For Nature was a prodigal at his birth. And tried experiments, aiming at a pass. Beyond herself, and flung her gifts away. To make him what he is, a perfect type. Of all most loved and most admired in man. A TRAGEDY. 79 Manon. He passed this very morning down tlie street Jacques. Indeed ! Manon. Nor could I but admire tlie while With what a careless and unconscious grace He swayed the mad moods of his restive steed. Turning the creature's wildest caracoles To pretty gamboUings. Such a steed methinks As none but he could master. From its eyes Glared hissing fire-balls — its hard snortings felt Like strokes of thunder — flaming far behind A tail rich-black — its high predominant neck Wide-arched and angry as a lowering sky — His streaky mane wrote figures on the ground As distant lightnings on the muffled East Write brilliant hieroglyphs. Oh ! yes he seemed As it were transfigured — brightening as he passed To form angelic — the familiar sun Dancing attendance on him like a slave, To trick him out in gems, to clothe in gold His cloudy plumes, to bathe cuirass and helm In floods of bm'ning splendour Jacques. Down the street To ]\IichaeFs cottage ? Manon. Eh ! Jacques. Go on. Go on. Manon. Plague take the fellow ! Why should I go on, 80 THE WETRWOLP. When I've no more to say ? Go on ! Indeed ! Just for thy pleasure must one talk and talk ? Jacques. "Well. No offence. Manon. And gracious ! How lie stares ! Away with thee — thou gross ill-mannered wretch ! Jacques. Ah ! me — upon a face so beautiful Is it then a crime to gaze ? Manon. Away with thee ! Jacques. Would centuries so employed be wasted ? Manon. Psha ! Jacques. Girl ! *Tis too late to turn away thy face. Seeing that Fve read its fiery secret there. This youth transfigured to an ange?s form Has played the very devil in Manon's heart. Manon. I hate thee, fellow ! Jacques. But who wonders at it ? 'Twas always so. "'Tis thus with all of them. What woman ever set her eyes on him And rested after ? ''Tis the state's concern And should be looked to. They must shut him up, Else, when he weds, the nunneries will be filled, And river-banks be made a spectacle Of public sorrow, wofully bestrewed With the white bodies of despairing maids. Manon. Who does not know that Jacques is full of gibes ? A TRAGEDY. 8 J Jacques. Some gibes fly wide, but mine tlie matter hit. Manon. a denier for thy trash ! I scorn it all. Jacques. Some strive to look the scorn they cannot feel. Manon. Ah ! get thee gone. I hate thee more and more. Jacques. High minded Manon ! Is thy proud heart touched ? Manon. Dost think I burn to rob her of her prize ? How seldom are unequal matches blest ! Who knows not wedded happiness avoids That hearth where violent contrasts or extremes Of birth or fortune in conjunction meet By chance or by design ? From such a doom May Heaven exempt my cousin, and her case The rare exception prove ! But as for me I dare not strike so high — my lot is lowly. With lowly lovers let me rest content. Jacques. For instance — with Pierre Bloui. JManon. Name him not. Thou knowest how cordially I hate the wretch. Jacques. But ah ! he dotes — dotes fondly upon thee. Manon. Dotes ! Nay when doth he otherwise than dote ? The man, who knows not ? — is a proper fool, 6 82 THE WEIRWOLF. Jacques. Love's fiery ordeal whereas the brain can bear ? Pierre ventured witMn reacb of Manon's eyes And got a sun-stroke. His bewildered wits Were by thy glances tricked out of their spheres And spirited quite away. But Manon ! hark ! I wonder at De Yardois. Had his choice Lighted on thee^ 'twere nothing wonderful. Frangoise is tender, pitiful, mild, and soft — Thou full of spirit, and mocks, and wicked mirth. — She shrinking as a flower that hides away And folds its tender petals from the sun And cowers into the shade — thou bursting forth As it were to broad and glaring light of day. Quick, forward, daring, resolute, dazzling, gay — She drawing out of books and Nature, food To fit her calm and meditative hours — Thou apt for action, with audacious glance. Measuring the pomps and grandeurs of the world. And making them thine own — She formed to charm And bless some sober honest villager With simple joys, serene and loving looks. Holy and sad, building her quiet thoughts. Like swallows' nests, beneath the eaves of home — Thou born to be a monarch's bedfellow. To glut thy heart's ambitious appetite, Upon the golden gleam of palaces, * A TRAGEDY. 06 The glare of gems, the crush of equipages. The lustre and the lusciousness of feasts — Yes — often, often — in our rustic talk. When thou and Fran9oise were the double theme And moved divided admiration, all Agreed in this — thus spoke the general voice — ''Manon — proud Manon — soars too high for us^'— I wonder, girl ! — I wonder at his choice. Manon. Unconscienced flatterer ! Jacques. Place him but an hour Beside thee — let him see thee — let him feel The might — the magic — of that witching face — That ! for his faith to Fran9oise ! — By the Lord ! 'Twould peril it much, or Fm a Saracen. Manon. You're a rank hypocrite, Jacques ! I'm sure of that. Jacques. Look you, the Lady Clemence he betrayed. And girl ! What's in thy cousin to deserve Or hope a better fate ? Manon. Malign him not. The Lady Clemence never was his choice. Who knows not he was dupe and victim both. Of two designing — selfish — bad old men. By whose dark policy was his faith ensnared, But his heart never ? So it came in time, 6 * 84 THE WEIRWOLF. That whom he could not honourably forsake. He learned to hate. Jacques. Well — honourably or not — He did forsake her. And 'twas Nature^s work. The gloom of desolation drove him blind. He felt the need of something to be loved. And the first bait capricious accident. Made dance before him, greedily he snapped Into his hungry heart. I know rran9oise. Her quiet nature cannot satisfy Or long content him. Something more he'll need — Some food of finer relish to fulfil His nobler cravings. Change again he must. But the most changeable not for ever change. The roving bee selects his home at last. And what if Victor settle down on thee ? Manon. Dost think to gull me with so wild a jest ? Jacques. I ne^er was more in earnest. Manon. Ah ! no doubt Thou'd'st gladly bind thy rival in my arms. And those who love can hate. But after all These are but idle fancies. Jacques. Not so idle. Something I know — but frankness frankness draws. I can be close as thou. — A TRAGEDY. 85 Manon. Provoking fiend ! Well then— I love him. There. The truth's out now. Oh ! often at this door IVe watched him pass In hope some casual glance — some stray regard — Might lodge me in his memory to attend, The close companion of his journeyiug thoughts. Alas ! He never — never — noticed me, Unless as portion of a picture, drawn And grouped with common things. Jacques. Nay — never sigh. Manon. This talk's the grossest folly. Jacques. Wilt thou then Be distanced in the race by one that else Was born to lag behind — to be thy slave — See her ascend by favouring accidents To fortune's fairest heights, and bear away This glorious prize, which beckons thee to grasp, And wrench it from her ? Manon. How can this be done ? Jacques. What says thy heart ? Manon. It bids me hope, but still Fails to assure my reason. Speak. From thee I look for counsel. Jacques. Patience ! Manon. Nothing more ? I thought — I thought of some immediate scheme Hatched in that sly and politic brain of thine. 86 THE WEIRWOLF. Else not so easily had'st thou cajoled My secret from me. Jacques. Patience ! Every seed Is sown in doubt and darkness, but in time. To tlie eye that watches and the foot that waits. Will surely spring. But, hold ! who comes this way ? Why ^tis your hero, the disconsolate Pierre — Console him, girl ! Manon. The monster — let me fly. Jacques. No. Manon ! Stay. He must not be repulsed. He's just the tool to use in time of need. Be sportive with him, as thy wont has been. Manon. Such sport disgusts me. Playing lubber eels With salmon tackle ! Jacques. I conjure thee, stay. The solid Pierre looks something out of sorts. There seems a quaint uncouth perplexity In his owls' eyes, and on his blubber cheeks — Stay — stay — Enter Pieere Bloqi with a wolfs jp aw. How now ? what troubles thee, my friend ? Pieree. 'Twas ever thus with Pierre — 'twas ever thus. These evil chances dogged me from my birth. A TRAGEDY. 87 I never mount me on an ass's back, In holiday garb apparelled, to attend Fair, feast, or merry-making, but of course Some tricky devil must straight possess the beast And spirit him on to fling me — and where else Unless into the middle of the muck Before a crowd of gazers ? When have I Gone coursing, but some prowling gamekeeper, Or village constable, went coursing too Upon my very traces ? If I reap, 'Tis sure to set in with a three months' rain. But when I sow then drought must settle down. And look ! Not yet my plaguy fortune tires Of persecuting me. But yesterday Quite in the thick of the woods my snares I laid — With all my best dexterity contrived — You'll own I'm dexterous at this work — so planned — So strewed — so sorted — never a wolf that lived. And loitered near, could have escaped, unless By devilish spite or machination foul. And look ! — how near the mark my purpose failed ! Look ! of my skill here's proof irrefragable — For, grappled by its shank, the creature slips 88 THE WEIEWOLF. Out of my clutches, leaving this behind. A trophy, Jacques ! — a trophy. Jacques. As I live A real wolf's paw, which yesterday, no doubt. Some hairy ruffian owned. PiEERE. I know the beast. A huge she-wolf — among these parts renowned — Strong as a bear, and cunning as a fox. Our shepherds know her by her bloody deeds — ■ Her bloody work among their flocks and herds. Alack ! to think she should escape me so ! So nearly taken. — Jacques. ^Twas a strange escape — So strange, almost miraculous it appears. Pierre. That's it — 'twas not in nature. I believe The devil himself has somehow had a hand In playing me such a trick. Jacques. Why not ? Why not ? Since Satan loves no trapping but his own. Pierre. This creature's one of his familiars, Jacqnes I I'm positive. There are Jean and Charles Legros, Would take their oaths of it, whose fold, we know. Was entered twenty-three successive nights — 'Mid driving sleet and rain, for the most part — A TRAGEDY. 8^ And, every night, the fattest of the flock Was taken away bodily — how 'twas done, None knew, not even the men on watch — without A sound or sign of strife — no traces left. Or footmarks printed on the slimy soil. And little Paul, the wandering pedlar-boy. Who near the three cross-roads, at fall of dusk. Saw a huge wolf before his very eyes. Translated to a monstrous bird, four times An eagle's size, which straight before him sprang. And soared away with shrill, unearthly screams. Jacques. For once at least the devil has met his match, And comes not off scot free. But hold! this limb Of Satan — let me handle it — by Heaven ! The same — ^ye powers of mischief and revenge ! My prayers are heard — ]\Ianon. Why, Jacques ! what devilish thought Has set thine eyes like meteors all aflame ? Pierre. But tell me, for thou'st read and studied much. And art a scholar, Jacques ! What are the signs Whereby, v^^hen. people are bewitched, we learn Their sad condition, feeling as it were The pulse of their disease, before it taint The general course and tenor of their lives^ Till men no longer doubt ? 90 THE WEIRWOLF. Jacques. Bewitched ! Bewitclied ! That's better — better still. PiEREE. What ails thee^ Jacques? Jacques. And nothing new. 'Twas talked of long ago. Pierre. Jacques ! Jacques ! what ails thee, man ? Why knit thy brows ? Why now so grimly silent ? Jacques. What if thou Thyself, Pierre Bloui — thou, mine honest friend — Wert an example and a living proof That's pertinent to the question thou proposest ? Pierre. Well — well ! — Jacques. In passing judgment on themselves The wisest err, and our oracular souls. Self-questioned, answer, as the gods of old Answered the world, in riddles. Pierre. Oh ! have done — Have done with this, and answer me. 'Tis thou — Thou, Jacques ! that talk'st in riddles. Answer me. Am I bewitched ? To fear an evil's worse Than even to know, for certain. Answer me. Jacques. Thus earnestly adjured, I cannot less Than answer frankly. Yes, Pierre ! Thou art bewitched. Yes. Thou art bewitched. Pierre. That's easily credible. A TRAGEDY. 91 Jacques. 'Tis proved beyond a doubt^ my friend ! 'Tis proved No less by tbat pathetic liistory Just poured by tbee into our anxious ears, Tban by tliy gait, tby bearing, tby dull eyes, Wbere^ as in cbronicles of flesb and blood, Tbe same sad fact's confirmed. PiEREE. And wherefore else Should Manon shun me, flout me, hate me so. Me, who dote on her — me, who 'd die for her ? Unhappy that I am ! Ah ! woe is me — Jacques ! are such cases common ? Jacques. Common enough. Many and many in my time I Ve known. And 'tis proverbial, men who otherwise With natural gifts and graces overflowed. Your cmel witches hate and persecute. Pierre. Unhappy me ! Alas ! But, Jacques, I pray thee. How did their stories run ? Jacques. Sad stories all — Sad — sad — though various. With unnumbered spite Were some tormented through their weary lives — With disappointment, trouble, strife, and toil — Beset by wayward chances and mishaps. That turned the current of their best designs. To grievous failure — stuck up as it were 92 THE WEIRWOLP. As targets for misfortune — bruised and scourged By persevering misery, till their minds Grew cold and callous to the sense of woe, And hope succumbed at last, and grim despair Oppressed them like a nightmare — grappled with By dangers from whose jaws they but escaped With mortal rackings^ leaving health or peace Or happiness behind. And some were worn By famine and disease — and some pursued By dismal dreams and ghastly phantasies Went howling mad — while others^ as I Ve heard. Were counted fools or idiots all their lives. And by the common herd unjustly scorned. Because a dull, bewildering dissonance Perplexed the pith and centre of their brains With never-ending jangle, and involved Their thoughts in wild confusion Pie REE. Woe is me ! Jacques. Thus came they — most of them — to cruel deaths Or horrid transformations. Some were changed To grinning apes that mocked and mowed at men. Or chattered ^twixt their teeth a gibberish strange. Thinking to move the pity of mankind. Who did but laugh at them. Some in the shapes Of vampires sucked the blood of those they loved. A TRAGEDY. 93 Some parodied as owls to summer moons. Made everlasting moan — but I must stop — Not having leisure, Pierre ! to tell tliee more. Pierre. Was never cure for these afflictions found ? Jacques. The Church was always lavish of her prayers. And oft with counter charms and exorcisms Has met the devil upon his battle ground In man's distracted soul, and anxious priests. And grave, compassionate monks, and weeping nuns. Their breviaries have exhausted, and their knees Worn out with genuflexions — martyrs' bones — The teeth and ashes of distinguished saints. And relics of renowned apostles — ^all — Have all in turn been desperately applied — Some scores of them at once — often, alas ! — Too often vainly — for, indeed, the worse. And more inveterate the disease, the less Was any chance of remedy, and 'tis said That spells set working on us at our births Are potent above all. Pierre. Assist me, Jacques ! Assist me with thy counsel. I 'm undone. Unhappy me ! Jacques. It may be worse with thee If what thou sufferest now be suffered long. 94 • THE WEIRWOLF. PiEREE. ^Tis certain, I'm undone. But what to do ? Tlie blessed saints have pity on me ! Jacques ! Jacques. We must unearth thy devilish enemy — Must find the witch who plagues thee. Pierre. How to find ? Or finding know her ? Jacques. Hast thou no suspicion To help thy search ? Pierre. None. None. Heaven help me ! None. Jacques. Yet here's a wolf of questionable fame Has left this bleeding token in thy toils In a most questionable manner. Pierre, Well. Jacques. I'll bet my life this creature and the witch We seek are both the same. Pierre. Oh ! yes. Thou'rt wise. Who doubts it, Jacques ? Thou'rt wise. Jacques. And thou suspectest None whatsoever ? Pierre. None. Jacques. Think. Pierre. Think ! Jacques. Good Lord ! A TRAGEDY. 95 L PiEREE. I cannot guess. Jacques. Plague take it ! Is there none — None^ in these parts, no woman, young or old. Whose dark, suspicious, and mysterious ways — Her mode of life — her manners — her resorts — Her more than human science and command Of Xature^s secrets, properties and powers — Of times and seasons — of the starry spheres — Of minerals, beasts, birds, fishes, and the like— Encompass her with wonder, and her name With black and deviHsh reputation brand ? Pierre. I know none such. Jacques. Thou^rt dull this morning, Pierre ! Pierre. I quite despair of finding her. Jacques. Again Consider calmly. Hast thou seen of late Fran9oise Thilouze ? Pierre. IVe not. But what of her ? Jacques. Pierre ! I suspect her. Pierre. WTiat ! This startles me. Jacques. It may well startle and amaze you, Pierre ! For afterwards who'll trust in woman's looks ? Pierre. Yes. Yes. There was a rumour long ago I Of something of the sort. But at the time ' I took no heed of it. 96 THE WETRWOLF. Jacques. I saw her^ Pierre ! This very morning. Pierre. Has she lost a hand ? Jacques. She has. Pierre. The right ? Jacques. The right it was. Pierre. Good Lord ! I never — never — had suspected her. Jacques. Eegard her ways that are not as the ways Of other maidens — how she^ll sit for hours Poring on books and musty manuscripts. And charming out of black and crabbed texts. Their secret sense, that like a timid soul. Oppressed with dullness and deformity. Will only to a kindred soul respond — How ^mid the woods and fields she walks by night. Indifferent to the season, all alone. To con the names and order of the stars. Or haply subjugate their shining hosts. With magic forms and mystic utterances — How by the dim light of the uncanny moon She gathers herbs obscure and rare and strange. On whose weird growth no daylight ever shone. For doubtful uses — how she keeps at home A horrid category of things abhorred — Dried insects — spiders — reptiles — and the like — A TRAGEDY. 97 Bleached bones and fragments of all monstrous forms That walked the world — if ever they had life — In ages long ago before the flood — And petrified anatomies, and stones, Sorted in awful and portentous rows, And marked with cabalistic characters. Pierre. True — true — most true. Jacques. The eternal seasons seem Obedient to her will. What time she sows The wilKng Heavens descend upon her seeds. Sun, wind, and rain, make favourites of her flowers. The inevitable lightning passes by And spares her in its wildest paroxysms Of fitful fury. You remember how Poor Marie Perrott walking in the woods Beside her, on a sultry summer night. Was by the sulphurous bolt struck dead — Fran- 9oise Herself the while unharmed ? Pierre. It happened so — I well remember. Jacques. What are we to think Of her cold, peevish, solitary life — How in all village shows and ceremonies. And social gatherings and festivities, She takes no part, but with her aged sire, 7 98 THE WEIRWOLF. From human joys and sympathy divorced. Dwells in unamiable celibacy, Shunning the love — the haunts — the gaze of men? PiEERE. That young de Vardois loves her though, His said. Jacques. Ah ! There we touch on damning evidence Which makes the case against her blacker still. Is it credible so high and proud a youth Would stoop to love her, had she not essayed And practised on his heart with hellish charms And devilish sorceries ? PiEERE. Such affinities Are not in nature certainly. But why Is Manon silent ? Why does she not speak ? She^s Fran9oise^ cousin, and should know her best. Come Manon ! open those — those — pretty lips. Jacques. What ! would''st thou have her testify against Her flesh and blood? I dare be sworn she knows More than weVe ever dreamt of, and no doubt. When duly called upon, will speak her mind. Pierre. Ah ! Jacques ! Some other sorceress let us find. The name of Fran^oise by the poor is blest. To me — to me — too — she^s been ever kind. A TRAGEDY. 99 Jacques. For that she'd her own reasons. Where was shown Her kindness in bewitching thee ? Pierre. That's true. Jacques. How often, shuffler ! have I heard thee tell That story, how she tricked thee once at night Thyself, and in the likeness of a wolf Lured thee along for leagues to follow her — And how thou'dst slain her too, but when the gun Was to thy shoulder raised, thy finger on The trigger, in a moment she resumed Her natural shape. Pierre. Was that the story, Jacques ? I said not so, methinks. Jacques. What said'st thou then ? Pierre. Why this — that being about to fire upon A wolf Vd followed many a weary mile, Fran^oise appeared before me suddenly, And so the beast escaped. Though whence she came Or how, I know not. Jacques. But the wolf escaped ? Pierre. He seized his opportunity and fled. Jacques. Or on the spot by sudden glamour changed. This story damns her, Manon, does it not ? Manon. Well. It looks ugly. 100 THE WEIRWOLF. Jacques. Gathering herbs no doubt ! Pierre. She told me so. Jacques. You spoke with her_, it seems. Pierre. She spoke but briefly, being in haste away. Jacques. As well she might at such a place and time. And yet you're not convinced ? Pierre. How many facts Combine against her ! Jacques ! Fll go at once To Michael's cottage. Jacques. Be not rash. What's worth Thine observation, silently observe, And straight return with all the speed thou canst. Pierre. What Manon, not one smile before we part ? One smile — oh Manon ! Jacques. Manon ! Manon. Would the fool Before the enchantment's over have me change ? Jacques. She's right. Oh ! yes — 'twere dead against the rules Of witchcraft, Pierre ! Pierre. Good Lord ! But if Fm shut Out of her favour by these devilish spells. Will my purgation cure her of disdain. And that bright face of hers be kind as bright ? Jacques. Answer him, girl ! A TRAGEDY. 101 Manon. Away with him ! Jacques. ISTay — nay. Manon. What answer would he have ? Enough of this — His folly's beyond bearing. Jacques . Go, my friend ! Go straight to what^s in hand. First sow thy seed. And look for thy reward in harvest time. [Exit Pierre, Manon. Poor wretch ! The current of his muddy wits Thy fables stir and thicken but the more. Jacques. Call them not fables, Manon ! There^s a truth In all these legends. Nothing wholly false Can cling a moment to the faith of man. And even Pierre Bloui's human. Manon. He^s a fool. That^s clear. But take not others for the same. Jacques. Ah ! girl, that's not true wisdom which aspires To hold itself above the sovereign sway Of mystery and of wonder. Manon. Plague upon This moralizing ! Talk more to the point. What's happened to my cousin? Answer, wretch ! 102 THE WEIRWOLP. Jacques. That's truth I told to Bloui. Manon. Truth ! What's true ? Jacques. That she's bewitched him. Manon. Get thee gone ! Jacques. The proofs Are quite sufficient. Manon. Proofs ! Oh then thou meanest To fasten on her with a public charge And drag her to the stake ? Jacques. It may be so. Manon. That's dangerous. No. She must not — must not die. I'll never be a party in a plot That puts her life in any peril, Jacques ! Jacques. There's nought to make the matter capital. But quite enough to kill her in repute, And turn her lover's stomach, and effect Their separation. Manon. Think you so indeed ? 'Tis true love's test that danger to the loved Still more inflames it. And will such a tale As this obtain a hearing ? Jacquks. There are ears Will greedily devour it. Manon. Aye ? What ears ? Jacques. The Montmorencis and de Vardois will A TRAGEDY. 103 Too gladly seize so palpable a means Of making void this threatened marriage^ which To both their high and haughty families Brings insult and disgrace. And after all Who dares affirm thy cousin's not a witch ! Manon. Come. Mock me not. Thou talkest not to Pierre. Jacques. Hearts have been wrought upon in days of old By amorous conjurations. Potent charms — Warm influences circling in the air — Rich philtres set in motion through the blood — Have done their work before, and why not now ? Or is it that faith alone is capable Of seeing, as of doing miracles ? Those wondrous powers — those awful agencies Of mighty and malignant spirits coerced From their dark kingdoms by man's mightier mind — By his high science conquered and controlled To do his mortal bidding — was not that A grand and proud belief ? — and if such things Had once existence and reahty. And were not all delusion, can our doubts. Which are but weakness — nay^ can the utmost scope Of shallow scorn or grovelling scepticism — Their immaterial essence uncreate 104 THE WEIRWOLP. Or in profound nonentity absorb Their spiritual action and predominance ? And what's most credible, girl ! that Nature should Suffer a vital change and abdicate Her sovereign functions^ or that man debased By self-indulgence and effeminacy. Should in organic dissolution drown His finer faculties of apprehension ? What signs — what marvels — in the unmeasured depths Of all- enfolding silence may be done, Yet we not know them ! What mysterious life Through our own spheres may spring and circu- late — What wondrous forces fluctuate round the world — Yet not with faintest consciousness affect Our cold perceptions ! When the heart is blind. Can these dim orbs — these bodily outward eyes — Interpret Nature's secrets, or evolve The meanings of the mystic universe ? Enslaved by matter, our encumbered sense Reflects but mere appearance. Therefore all That's strange, we tear asunder and degrade To common causes — ^what we can't explain We desperately reject. But penetrate A TEAGEDY. 105 To whatsoever depths we dare, there^s yet Some mystery still we cannot analyse — We cannot grasp — some god or devil at last Lurks in the bosom of the wonderful. No, Manon, no. Kef use not to believe, What^s merely marvellous — not impossible. Manon. What means this long and wearisome harangue ? I never question but such things have been — I never question but they still may be. Yet Nature's sparing of events that break The formal course of her recorded laws — But, gracious Heaven ! What's this ? What's happened Pierre, To paint his face so pale ? Enter Pieere. PiEEEE. I've seen her — Hush ! She comes — Manon. Ha ! Enter Fean^gise Thilouze. Jacques. Stand back. Let the damsels talk. ]\Ianon. Lord, save us ! What's the matter with her arm ? Fran. A trifle, dearest Manon ! Manon. Yet how pale Thy face is, Fran^oise ! 106 THE WEIRWOLF. Fean. IVe overtaxed my strength In walking Mtlier. But what^s wrongs my dear? My visit seems not to be taken well. Manon. Nay, cousin_, enter. Sit. Be wel- come. Sit. Fean. I'll sit with thee awhile beneatli the p or ell. For long I cannot tarry. Manon. But the hurt ! — How was it done_, and when ? Fean. No matter, child ! Manon. Last night perhaps it happened ? Fean. Aye. Last night. Jacques. You hear ? Manon. What! Is it a secret, then, Fran- §oise ? Fean. Yes. ■'Tis a secret ! Jacques. There ! Manon. Then I must know it. Fean. Not now, dear Manon. Question me not now. Jacques. No doubt she's right there. Manon. What are we to think ? 'Tis shocking. Why, this drives me to suspect 'Twas done in some dishonourable work — Some tricks thou art ashamed of — Yes — by Heaven ! A TRAGEDY. 107 Fran. Peace, Manon, peace. ^Tis not worth quarrelKug over. Say sometliing of thyself. It grieves me, cMld ! To think what strangers weVe become of late. Manon. It grieves thee^ does it? If report say true The timers with thee sped cheerily enough, And not been wasted quite in idleness. . Fran. Dear Manon ! we wax bitter. What's all this ? Has any traitor's tongue been here at work To set a feud between us ? Once we were In our affection, sisters. Is it gone. And all become a dream of yesterday ? Manon. If thou thy secrets, why not I have mine ? Jacques. We must be careful, Manon, how we talk. Fran9oise, 'tis said, will be a lady soon. And well we know, the memory of old friends. Amid those high aristocratic climes. Is apt to grow both burdensome and cold. Fran. Old friends, God grant ! I never may forget. Whatever greatness fortune thrust upon me. Whatever loss befal ! But thou — what right Hast thou to palter with that sacred name ? What friendship do I owe thee ? Quite unasked 108 THE WEIEWOLF. Thou'st tendered me tliy love, whicli I refused. What debt or obligation yet remains Between us unfulfilled ? Jacques. I bide my time. Manon. But, cousin ! was it friendly to con- ceal Tliy happiness from me ? Fean. My happiness ! Manon. Mysterious still ! Well. Well. Fean. One day thou^lt learn How little happiness is mine to boast ! Manon. Be secret as thou wilt, 'Tis not my part To probe thee further. Fean. Choose a fitting time. Thou shalt be satisfied. Manon. Fm satisfied. I want no more excuses. Fean. Manon ! Manon. See, Good Lord ! Thine arm is bleeding. Fean. Let it bleed. 'Tis but an outward wound. The deadliest hurts Are those within. Manon. Nay. Bandage it afresh. Come in. PU wait upon thee. Fean. Never heed. What ! Is Pierre Bloui here ? Oh, then, I see A TRAGEDY. 109 How mucli Fve trespassed upon precious time ! For my intrusion, pardon ! Pierre ! Approach. Thy hand — may happiness attend you both ! Heaven bless you ! Come. I take my leave at once. My presence like an inauspicious star Seems charged with trouble and perplexity. I wish thee joy, dear Manon ! Fare thee well ! [Exit, Jacques. How proudly from the perch whereon she has lit, Propelled by windy fortune, she looks down, ConsoHng thee with Was not this indeed The masterpiece of mockery — and of scorn ? jManon. We'll wrench her secret out of her. Jacques. For this Would Manon have revenge ? Manon. I would and will. Jacques. The way lies open. Pierre. Once I thought to speak. But ah ! She looked so heavenly-innocent, I could not — could not. Jacques. Aye — ^tis thus she casts Her devilish spells around thee. Eouse thyself. We must delay no longer. Pierre. Well. What next ? Jacques. We must accuse her. 110 THE WEIRWOLF. Pie REE. What ! The authorities ? Jacques. Just so. Pierre. IVe little fancy for the law. ^Tis like hot iron^ too dangerous to be near. Its lightest touch will bring away the skin. 111 bodes the man who rashly meddles there ! Jacques. Thou simpleton ! 'tis not thy danger —is it ? 'Tis not upon the accuser, but the accused, That prosecution falls — Pierre. The zeal — the zeal — Of these religious gentry ! When they find That I'm bewitched, they'll purge me with a will. Jacques. Thou'lt not accuse her ? Pierre. Can no other course Be taken ? Jacques. There. I've done with thee. Begone. Henceforth drag on thy despicable days. Too vile for pity, and beneath contempt. Pierre. Jacques ! Jacques ! Forsake me not. Jacques. Then follow me This moment to the chateau. Montmorenci Will gladly welcome us. And afterwards We'll look for the police. This moment. Come. [Exeunt Jacques and Pierre. Manon. Go. For a cruel devil and hypocrite — And sly cold blooded traitor. Go. Thy looks Curdle the creeping blood — thy harpy lips A TRAGEDY. Ill Breatlie deadly vapour, fatal to tlie soul. But with ten thousand devils and hypocrites 1^11 join — for friends and coadjutors take The general mass of hell — before 1^11 bend To her high reaching pride. Shall I endure To see her play the lady over me ? See her with that cold prudishness of hers — Those mincing airs of mock humility — That simpering condescension swim about. And make parade of her indifference, just As if to say "I care not — oh — not 1'' — m never — ^never — bear it — "Wonderful How much ambition's hid in modesty ! Who — who'd have thought she'd play so deep a game With her meek looks ? Wliile I poor driveller Who to my conscious heart confessed a hope Of lofty fortune — I forsooth ! must tread In the worn tracks and wake of her contempt. And with her hinds be mated. And to think That he should love her — he — of all men — he — Oh ! madness — madness ! — Xo. My brain's still firm. The weak — the weak alone take refuge there. The strong make instruments of all events, Create their own occasions, and compel Necessity itself to be their slave. Yes. I'll pursue this vision of my hate 112 THE WEIRWOLT'. Even to tlie gates of tell. Go, Jacques ! to work. 1^11 second thee, whatever be thy plans, And shrink from nothing now by thee proposed. ACT III. The Trial. Eall hung with hlach, and dimly lighted. Upon one side a table, with black cover. Upon it boohs and writing apparatus. Secre- taries and assistant clerks thereat. Beyond table, elevated platform, whereon sit ecclesiastical commissioners, legal functionaries, Maequis de MONTMORENCI, CoUNT DE VaRDOIS, othcr Uoblcs and gentry . Opposite side of table facing Court, Fran^oise Thilouze standing, in black dress, her right arm bandaged. Gens d'armes, officers, monks and other ecclesiastics. Constant move- ment of persons in and out. 1st Com. Is the Court ready — all in order set? Secretary. We only wait upon your Eminences. 2nd Com. Before the Prefect she was brought, it seems. Was her examination noted down ? Sec. She would not answer — was refractory And contumacious — She defied the law. A TRAGEDY. Ill) So thereupon the Prefect judged it right, For better discipline and expedition, At once to hand her over to the Church. 3rd Com. A prudent prefect. 1st Com. Fathers! What were best ? First search the prisoner's body, or begin With taking evidence ? 2nd Com. I suppose in this We\'e some discretion, and my judgment ii^i The formal process should precede the search, And of what follows the foundation lay. 3rd Com. I think the same. 1st Com. Well then, at once begin The process of arraignment, Secretary ! Sec. Frau^oise Thilouze, daughter of Michael, whose Surname thou bearest, peasant in estate, Physician by profession, thou'rt arraigned, Before this Court, indicted and accused. For hellish witchcraft, and diablerie — That to the peril of thine immortal soul Thou hast oft the sacred silence of the night Profaned with rites unholy and abhorred — From stones and herbs and reptile shapes hast culled Infernal virtues, made the sunbeams yield Collusive magic, drained from dews and frosts. And hail and snow strange powers — from moon, and stars, 8 114 THE WEIRWOLF. And clouds^ drawn down their mystic influences — Hast with the wicked spirits and herd of hell In impious league and horrid compact joined — Of fiends and devils hast thy familiars made — Thy friends and coadjutors — conquering them To thine abominable and unclean behests With rhymes and spells and cabalistic signs. And written charms, and verbal formularies — Hast in Satanical transformations dealt, And chartered brutal shapes — especially hast In very form and fashion of a wolf Thy divine soul degraded and abused — Hast in that form and fashion oftentimes With bestial exploration ranged about The woods by night and day, but mostly night. And made thy transformations manifest To many eyes, but in particular To one Pierre Bloui, and one Jacques Reynard — Hast further foully practised on the sense Of said Pierre Bloui, and his wits bewitched. And with thy devilish sorcery made him mad — And worst of all, by like unnatural means Has practised on and fatally beguiled The credulous heart of Victor, son and heir Of Count de Vardois, and ensnared his soul. And lured his facile and unwary youth. To pour extravagant and pernicious vows. And promise monstrous marriage. Answer now. A TRAGEDY. 115 Francoise Thilouze ! tkese charges — are they true Or false ? — I bid thee answer — yes or no. Guilty or not, I call on thee — declare. Fran. Oh ! noble, reverend, holy sirs ! I pray you. That in this strait I may not be denied What strength or comfort I might hope to find From presence and advice of loving friends. No wonder, bowed beneath this heavy woe — By this strange, sudden, cruel fate oppressed — • A poor, weak, ignorant, helpless, lonely maid Should falter with unutterable fears And own herself a coward ? Sec. But answer first — Guilty or not — the charges true or false ? Fkax. Why must I answer ? 1st Com. Girl ! what words are these '■ Hast thou no sense of thy position here. Or dost not know thy danger ? 2xD Com. Stay !— 'tis fit We should inform thee, maiden ! the due course Of righteous judgment and investigation. Whose soul, and end, and summary, are no more Than justice, must be clothed in fitting forms — Must in convenient order be designed — Must take some bodily outcouie — else it were A bottomless void, swallowing up time aud words — 8 * 116 THE WEIRWOLF. A wild, unregulated chaos mixed, Of fulsome repetitions, foolisli facts, And inarticulate murmurs, and mad sounds. Know, then, His needful thy defence should tread In beaten tracks — thine answers tally with The questions framed by due authority. And to this end thine answer we require — Guilty or not — the charges true or false ? Fean. Ye tell me justice is your only aim — The summary, end, and soul of what ye do. I know it should be so, and ye are wise,- And learned — the keepers of recorded truth — Arrayed and charactered in holiness. I know besides that God's for ever just — And that he's written his eternal truths In every human soul — to none denied Some glimmering consciousness — some feeble sense — - Of that high music and celestial light. Which are the speech and atmosphere of Heaven. Yes. In your bosoms there's a voice divine. Which, if ye hear and follow, then I'm safe. For then to you shall justice be supreme, Holy, and awful, and inviolable. Then your decrees must blend and harmonize. With the oracles of God — must breathe his breath — A TRAGEDY. 117 Must take the tone of his Almiglity mind. Nor will they want authority, nor need These gloomy forms — this black emblazonment — This pageantry that mocks the state of death — This darkness like the shadow of death itself — To give them sacredness and estimation. I ask you then for justice — justice only. But surely to that end ^tis not unfit I should have friendly counsel to direct On this hard path — untrodden and untried — My tender sex — my inexperienced years. 1st Com. Girl! thy request we cannot enter- tain. 2nd Com. ^Tis quite irregular — there's no precedent To justify so dangerous a proceeding — So inconvenient — so unseasonable. 3ed Com. It may be thought of at some future time. Fran. Irregular ! Dangerous ! Inconvenient ! —Ah! When I was seized this very night, unwarned — With sudden violence in the dead of night — When all the world were sleeping in their beds — With cruel violence and indecent haste — By ruffian hands — by coarse, unmanly men — If men they were whose hideous faces mocked — 118 THE WEIRWOLF. Whose language shamed — the sense of woman- hood — Torn rudely from my father^ s aged arms^ And dragged with every circumstance of scorn And insult — both of my accuser^s name, And how I had offended uninformed — To answer for my life before this Court — This secret Court, that in appropriate gloom And horror shrouded sits — shall I be told These things were regular ? Nay, when on the seat Of sacred judgment — on the very bench Of Justice, with my judges, side by side. Men take their places, whom I know too well For enemies powerful and relentless, who. For some base purpose of their own, have sworn That I must perish — who, like tigers, thirst For mine — my innocent blood — for such it is — Who glare upon me with ferocious eyes. And slay me and devour me with their looks — Is this all regular — all within the law ? The law ! — Alas ! — Its subtle intricacies Who knows, save those that by the knowledge Live And prey upon mankind ! — Those sullen shades — Those dull and gloomy labyrinths who shall dare Explore ? To uninitiated eyes They seem a wilderness overgrown with weeds, A TRAGEDY. 119 Where blight and mould and mildewy rottenness Ferment and fester — where the serpent broods Of fraud and error fatten and infest — But where the light of Heaven falls sad and cold, Dissolved to livid mists, and Justice dies Choked in the crude malarious atmosphere. 1st Com. Her speech already smacks of heresy — 'Tis by the holy canons, girl ! thou^-t judged, Not by profane and secular laws of men. Fran. By what particular canon of the Church Is my old father severed from his child? What holy law forbids my intercourse With all who love me — relatives or friends ? Or are your canons as the voice of God — Sufficient for themselves — without support From written or unwritten laws of Heaven ? 2nd Com. This must not be. Be silent, pri- soner, else We must keep order with a heavy hand. FiJAN. Aye, gag me — gag me. Why should not the talk Even as the power be all upon one side ? 3rd Com. We hoped thou would^st have sued to us for grace — We looked to find thee frighted and ashamed Of thine offences — penitent — humble — sad — We would be tender — would be merciful — 120 THE WEIRWOLF. But mercy in despair must veil her face From stubborn pride and brazen contumacy. Fean. I look to God for mercy — God alone. From you, who are only human after all_, I challenge human justice, such as it is. And therefore in the name of God above. And in the king's name, and the law that flows. Or should flow, both from God and from tho king- However feebly, I protest against Your acts as wrong, and lawless, and unjust. 1st Com. What's this but heresy ? 2nd Com. Nay — at any rate ■*Tis insolence. And surely we do wrong. Suffering her thus to trespass and infringe Beyond all form and shadow of respect, With her licentious answers. 3rd Com. Girl ! Repent ! 'Tis the last chance that we dare offer thee. If not of life, at least of speedy death. Without the tortures that must otherwise Accompany thy perverse and shameless end. Fran. Repent ! Is that your justice ? What ! Before My guilt's examined or your charges proved ! Sec. Oh ! yes. Confess thy guilt — confess the chartre. A TEAGEDY. 121 Implore the mercy of the Coui*t betimes. ^Twill profit thee alike in earth and heaven. Fran. How shall it profit to destroy my soul ? Have ye forgotten there's a God above That sits in judgment upon perjury And scourges falsehood? Ye that are or seem To human eyes his chartered ministers — His vicars upon earth — is this — is this — Your holy teaching — this your Gospel truth ? This — when I stand in danger of my life, To save it by a lie ? Alas ! Alas ! I feel myself so near the brink of death, That even if I were minded to be false, I dare not utter aught save what is true — I dare not lie — too certain if I dare That lie, hung like a millstone round my neck. Would sink me deeper than death's lowest depths, Down the dark chasm and dreadful pit of Hell. 1 ST Com. Enough. Her folly shuts the gate of grace. Fran. Not grace — not grace — but justice I demand. 2nd Com. Thou shalt have justice rest assured of that. Fran. What that assurance means I know too well. 122 THE WEIRWOLP. 3rd Com. Her conscience, like an oracle_, fore- ordains. And her own lips prognosticate lier doom ! Fran. Who sees not that my doom was fore- ordained ? Condemned before I was accused or tried. And sentenced even before I was condemned — Who sees not there, upon that reverend bench. The portents of premeditated wrong— The obtuse presumption of deliberate might — The deafness of inexorable power — The legal murder yeVe conspired to do. ^Tis graven on your cold and stony hearts — It glares from your insatiate cruel eyes — It points your utterance with predestined death. Why should I plead ? Why longer lend my- self To this high mockery — this momentous farce ? ^Tis quite impossible any plea of mine Can touch or find a corner in your hearts. Then do your wills — your reverend — holy wills. In expectation of the worst Pm armed, ril make no weak submission while alive, Nor vainly sue, nor impotently strive. But on God^s mercy — Cod's omniscience rest. And call on him my innocence to attest. De Yard. Thank God ! Her summons God will not attend. A TRAGEDY. 123 Mont. Witli what a rampant and rebellious spirit The girFs possessed. Sure Lucifer himself Must her chief agent and familiar be. Sec. Accused ! we wait some answer more in form. Fean. Set down that answer — will not that suffice ? Or do ye tremble at the name of God, And fear to write it in jour books ? But how If IVe no other answer ? — And I have not. Again I say, I'll not of my own will Be actor in your dull and bloody farce. 1st Com. Methinks weVe waited ou her long enough. 2nd Com. The business may proceed. 3rd Com. And now for proofs. Call in your witnesses. Sec. Manon Thierry. Enter Manon Thierry. Fran. Ah ! Hidest thou thy face, unhappy chUd! -'TIS well thou dost. It shows some nature left — Some struggling fibre of uprooted faith That through the desolation of thy soul, Scorched by the burning drought of passion, lives A feeble life, again to be revived 124 THE WEIRWOLF. By the sweet freshening of autumnal tears, To late repentance. How I pity tliee, Misguided Manon ! and forgive thee too ! Sec. Manon Thierry ! Answer to thy name. And lift thine eyes, and set them on the face Of yonder damsel, here with sorcery charged. What knowest thou of her, bearing on this charge ? Manon. Directly nothing — indirectly much. Sec. She's someway thy relation — is she not ? Manon. First cousin — daughter of an uncle. Sec. You Lived much together ? Manon. Yes. From infancy Companions — playmates — friends — Fran. Yes. Put it down. ^Twill show what friendship comes to — what it means — With Christian men and women, De Yard. And with girls. Sec. Proceed, and what thou knowest of her attest. Manon. My lords ! I know her, yet I know her not. We lived so much together, yet apart — Like sisters in communion — not in kind. Up to this moment, a secluded life — A wayward — strange — unnatural — moody life She has led, but whether from reserve, or fear. A TRAGEDY. 125 Or peevishness, or pride, I cannot tell. From human fellowship she dwells apart, The sovereign of a solitary world. Neither to friendship, nor to love, she leans. Myself except — and I^m her relative — Of her own sex she never had a friend. And men^s regards she put away from her. As one might put away a forward child. With more disdain than anger, and methinks. Also with more indifference than disdain. Sec. But young de Vardois loves her, does he not? Manon. ^Tis said so, but how truly I know not. Sec. Her father's cottage does he not frequent And her society very much affect ? Manon. He comes and goes as noble youths are wont. Where peasant maidens dwell, to come and go. Sec. But men for nothing never come and go. Did young de Yardois never talk of love Or offer it, or make it, to the accused ? Manon. When noble youths and maidens talk of love They talk of it apart from other ears. Sec. But did she never to thine ears confess De Yardois loved her ? Manon. Never. Sec. Has she not 12G THE WEIRWOLF. Practised upon liis heart by cunning ways — By spells and charms and sorcery and the like ? Manon. Not with my cognizance or complicity. Sec. What hast thou more of her dark ways to tell ? Manon. How strange her ways are I Ve already said. The world in which we live — this common world, The world of men and women is not hers. She lives beyond it a fantastic life — Her pleasures and her tastes eschew mankind. With her own thoughts, and fantasies, and dreams, In dark domains of Art — in silent shrines Of abstruse science — in mysterious realms Of knowledge — in the world that^s out of doors — In fields and forests — with the sun and moon And stars — with all the dumb intelligence Of Nature — and it may be something more, That^s not in Nature, her communion lies. She wins companions from the mystic past, And talks with ghosts of the unforgotten dead. And draws their awful voices from the lore Of ancient days, from hard and crabbed texts, From wrinkled parchments, musty manuscripts, From pictures and from books — she's deeply versed In Nature's laws, and causes, and effects — In the elemental pLnses, and the flight A TRAGEDY. 127 Of times and seasons, and tlie eternal dance Of motion, revolution, and repose, Tlie various aspects and Protean shapes Of migratory matter. Slie can tell What tlie mnds whisper with their mildest breath. And what they roar in tempests. On the clouds She traces what the yellow lightnings scrawl. And what the thunder threatens understands. She knows the meaning of the heavenly lights — Can read their course and motion, and divine The mystery and immensity of Night. She^s learned in alchemy — the mineral powers — The functions of this globe^s component crust — The affinities, virtues, correspondencies. And properties of metals, earths, and stones — The laws of composition and cohesion — Of substance and fluidity — all these She has pressed into her service and has taught To obey her nice analysis — she can bring The irregular forms, and rough varieties, And masses crude of the inorganic world To settle into shape, and range themselves In friendly gToups, ready at her command. Again to separate, and again combine. And at her voice will hostile forces blend. Antagonistic elements coalesce. And crystals flame before her in the dark. Of plants and animals she makes bosom friends 128 THE WEIRWOLF. And gives them all her interest — all her love — To which with dumb devotion they respond. She wins their instincts and their sympathies. She learns by heart their natures and their names — Their kinds — their structures — their anatomies — Their haunts — their homes — their habits — and their ways. The crudest and most timid beasts alike Crouch at her feet, and feed out of her hands, And flowers will seem to brighten at her touch And comprehend her presence. She can work Such miracles and wonders as are told Alike of saints and devils, and belong To glorious legends of an olden time, Which like bright coronals upon baby brows Wreathe the young world^s romantic history. But pardon me — to tell you all she knows. Or all her art includes or can achieve. Would take up hours, and still when all was told, Wliich I could tell, or fancied I could tell, I had still forgotten more than I had told. Sec. In brief, her knowledge is unholy, and Unholily acquired. Manon. Nor less nor more I mean, than has thy briefer phrase expressed. Fran. Oh Manon ! Manon ! oh ! Sec. But can^st thou not I A TRAGEDY. 129 Eeport some special and particular act To prove her guilt, and stamp it into fact ? Manon. I^m not her agent or confederate, sir ! Sec. She has a living father, has she not ? Manon. Michael Thilouze — Sec. The same that by repute Is alchemist, or chemist ? Manon. Well. He's spent And wasted many a year of his long life In barren science. Sec. Had he then — thou say est — No part — nor parcel — nor complicity — In her dark doings ? Manon. Oh ! I'm certain — none. None knowing him would deem it probable. He's a poor, simple, innocent, meek, old man. The tranquil current of whose harmless days Flows feebly in contented poverty And modest unobservance. Though he taught His daughter what he knows, which is not much. He disapproves of her extravagancies. And often have I heard him, with a sigh, Confess, how far beyond his teaching now She'd gone, as it were alone, for many a year. Sec. Did no familiar on her steps attend — = No beast — no ghostly or no guardian shape, 9 130 THE WEIEWOLF. Suet as tlie fiends are wont to simulate_, Wliat time they vex onr earthly atmosphere With their unholy presence ? . Manon. One at least There was — one creature of suspicious sort — Scarce ever absent from his mistress^ side — A large black cat — the marvel of his kind. For size, strength, beauty, and sagacity. 1st Com. He should have been secured. 2nd Com. Why seized ye not This creature with the girl ? 3ed Com. Why not, indeed ? Officer. We saw him not, so please your eminences. Man ON. His disappearance with her capture was In point of time exactly parallel. Mont. A notable escape. De Yard. Methinks this cat Should formally be judged for contumacy. Fran. Not many days, Manon. Not many days Ere through thy heart a late — ^too late remorse. For what thou dost this moment, or hast done. Shall strike with sharp but unavailing pangs. Then will it much affect thy peace of mind To know that I forgive thee, which indeed From the very bottom of my heart I do. A TRAGEDY. 131 God grant in mercy, by thyself and Him, Thou mayst that hour as freely be forgiven. Sec. Call Jacques Reynard. Manon. First, by your graces' leave, I'll venture to beseech you on behalf Of her IVe testified against. She's young. And though not guiltless, yet her sins are green — Not deeply rooted are they in the soil Of a hard nature, hardened more by years. Oh ! let me hope you'll still consider this — That mercy '11 be your ruling motive here — That your stern justice may not crop awa}^ Her flower of life, but rather give her time To plant repentance in her contrite soul. And soften Heaven with penitential tears. Fean. Plead not for me. I would not earn my life. Nor owe my pardon, Manon ! to thy prayers. Where Judgment sits. Truth only should avail. With righteous Judgment Truth goes hand in hand. And Innocence with intuitive suasion speaks. But from this high and holy Court — before This reverend Presence — like a bride divorced. Is Truth cast out, and Innocence stricken dumb. Their ears for damning accusations thirst, Being deaf to mercy. Ah ! believest thou Such judges as thou seest above us there, 9 * 132 THE WEIEWOLF. Will carefully consider or regard Sucli trivialities as mere sex and age ? 1st Com. We may not listen^ maiden_, to thy prayers. Or take account of sucLl petition now. 2nd Com. We waste our time. Another wit- ness call. 3rd Com. Another^s here. Sec. This woman stands arraigned For witchcraft. Look upon her and disclose If aught thou knowest thereto that^s pertinent. Jacques. What I know truly, truly I'll unfold. For God and all my guardian saints forfend That I should trifle with the oath I take. Or draw damnation down upon my soul By perjury, deadliest of all deadly sins. To lie 'twixt man and man is mean and base, To lie to Heaven is mad — but thus to lie Deliberately to fling our falsehood up Into God's face, and with concocted fraud Afiront Omniscience — that's insanity. And insolence, and impiety, all in one. Oh ! of such barefaced daring but to dream Should paralyze the functions of the brain. And strike one cold with sudden epilepsy — I crave the kind indulgence of the Court For this digression — Well. 'Twas six months since. A TRAGEDY. 133 Upon a niglit in Marcli — the last but four — The twenty- seventh of March — the very night Of that wild uproar of unruly winds — And mutiny of mistempered elements — No doubt all present recollect it well — Which in one hour with sudden blight defaced The forward flush and beauty of the spring, And spoiled the young woodlands of their early charms, Leaving unfoliaged the poor skeleton boughs As if from ambush on the unwary year, A second winter bursting out apace. With force of arms and violence, had usurped The season's sovereignty. What a time it was ! What toil — what pains — it cost us to remove The woody ruins from our choked-up ways. Where still in monumental heaps they stand. By the road-side, and take the traveller's eye. Even as we left them piled. That very night Was I returning from the village home. At fall of dusk — my way was lone and drear — And anxiously I marked the mustering signs Of airy mischief — how the encumbered moon — Long since deserted by the treacherous stars. Her pale auxiliaries, who in coward flight. Had dropped ofi" one by one — how stiU she strove Against disastrous fortune, but at length Perplexed and sad, like one that in despair. 134 THE WEIEWOLF. With liostile numbers struggling, proudly yields The unequal combat, gradually submerged, Sank in the gathering blackness of the West — And how the pitiless, insatiate clouds. Like conquering squadrons trailing on her flight. Her failing efforts with fresh hosts besieged. And shut her up in gloom. The darkness grew. I felt the passing nightbird's heavy wings Flap by my ears with thick and cloudy sound. And fitful moanings floated through the air, And low premonitory whispers crept Among the restless leaves, and every while A gush of windy clamour would arise. Poured like a sigh from earth's overladen breast. Whereof the abrupt cessation left behind Silence more awful, terror more profound. Dark — Dark ! — The sense of utter solitude Oppressed me, and my feeble steps began To falter with fatigue — my wildered eyes To glare with troubled inquisition round. My track was lost. I knew not where I trod. Judge then with what an agony of joy I saw before me in the solid dark A light gush up. Far off ! — far off it seemed Like some dim meteor shining from the shore Of a mysterious world, but not the less. Believe me, welcome. Then with heavy steps. Through briar and copse, and bristling underwood, A TEAGEDY. 135 Through dripping boughs that plashed across my face_, Soaked with the first drops of the sputtering skies, I tore my way — climbing the slippery trunks Of fallen pines, that ages long ago Had in their faU ploughed furrows in the soil, Where now they rotted — wading through the beds Of ancient streams whose shrunken currents crept With hidden murmurs through the overtopping reeds, That trembled to their touch — with many a fall Plunging through cavernous indentations scooped In soft and oozy mould, for many a year Enriched by bounteous autumns, and whereon Time out of mind the thick untrodden moss Had spread its clammy carpet, intermixed With the rank toadstool and the feathery fern. At length with toilsome effort Pd approached The spot I sought — an opening in the wood — This room might be the measure of its size — A little grassy circle made — as it were— By man^s art clear and level. But alas ! No mortal hands had fashioned it — no spade Its bloom of virgin earth had ever turned — No axe had shorn its native woods away. Above it climbed a clogging atmosphere 136 THE WEIRWOLF. Of sulphurous fog, and ever in the midst A pale blue flame sprang pointed from the ground_, Shedding its ghastly lustre o'er a scene. Was never matched for horror. On the turf Keclined a ghastly shape, by devilish art, Of wax, or some such substance, tricked with life. Its hollow eyes, whose dislocated orbs Shot forth a lurid glare — its face with pain Distorted and convulsed — so well expressed The extreme of mortal suffering, as might win Compassion from a fiend. Its open breast One bloody cavity, without a heart — Whence had the heart been wrenched away — it seemed Fresh torn out by the roots. Who doubts my heart Should sicken at the sight ? I could not choose But shudder at those simulated pangs. Such perfect life did the apparition bear. So human showed its sense of agony. The purple clots — the swollen and festering flesh — The lacerated masses red and raw — I saw them creep and quiver — Sec. Did the shape Resemble any one thou knowest ? Jacques. It did. Of one that I know well, and knowing, love. j^ A TRAGEDY. 137 And hold in honour, and deserved respect, The copy was exact. I speak in fear. And tremble to pronounce that noble name. But truth must out, whatever be the risk. Victor de Yardois ! — May the Lord above Protect his precious life ! Sec. Amen ! Othees. Amen ! Sec. Proceed. Jacques. Nor this alone of living things I saw. Beside him was a huge she-wolf. That ever as if with passionate industry And growl of brutal appetite devoured A bleeding human heart, or what to me 'Its perfect type and natural image seemed. Sec. What didst thou then ? What thereupon ensued ? Jacques. Long — long I stood-i-too long irre- solute. Rapt in the dull idealess ecstasy Of silent wonder — then as if from sleep Upstarting in a spasm of sudden fear I snatched a branch that rotted at my feet, [ And hurled it at the monster — in a trice The ghostly pageant was dissolved, and I I Once more alone with darkness and the storm, I I caught a sound of footsteps pattering past — ' A sense of human presence through me thrilled — 138 THE WEIEWOLF. The sweep of female draperies — and a form That brushed across my vision in the gloom — Then all was gone. But wonderful the change — What sudden metamorphosis had touched The woods around me ! They no longer wore Their strange weird aspect. They were strange no more^ Nor I bewildered. I could now discern Their thin and threadbare outskirts on the grey Background of heaven — the fretted tracery Of leaves and branches in the widening light, And lower level of the horizon^s verge — Could notice where the new took settled shape. Or mixed with, and encroached upon the old. Beneath my feet, slow gliding, I could feel Indented footprints — tracks of man and beast — Long grooves cut in the ground by graving wheels Of carts and waggons, passing to and fro. I strode through scattered limbs — a mass con- fused — Of trees, which human hands had toppled down. And strewed about in indiscriminate fall — Whose shattered spoils encumbered where they fell. I stumbled o'er their levelled carcases. Fresh fallen and sappy with their latest spring. Or feathery with the moss of mourning years. I rubbed against their flayed and barkless sides. I A TRAGEDY. 139 I touched with passing hand their flat-hewn trunks. The work of iron teeth and edges — gnawed And notched with axe and saw. From everywhere Breathed human presence — human neighbour- hood — Till my heart leaped to their familiar signs. And so my way was open. Still the storm Delayed to fall, and held itself aloof. Threatening above me, as an eagle spreads His cloudy wings, and poises ere he swoops. Thus I'd free leisure to escape, and soon By my own humble roof was safely screened. Sec. Did after-search discover nothing more ? Jacques. Nothing, indeed. Sec. And diligent search was made ? Jacques. Over and over again, for I myself By day and night have searched the forest through — Its haunts, familiar to my boyish days. With restless hot persistency explored — But never since mine eyes have lighted on The scene of that night's bloody pageantries — The spot I then beheld by horrid rites. And tricks of monstrous devilry defiled. 1st Com. This is a fearful instance and a sad. How little are the strongest safe, when thus Hell's wicked agents work ! 140 THE WEIRWOLF. 2nd Com. Call up again Manon Thierry. 3 ED Com. There,, in Courts she waits. A LoED. Your son was mucli in danger, it appears. De Yaed. Yes. By this tale his errors are excused. What skill could parry such a devilish thrust ! Mont. The devil knows best whom best to practise on. There are who welcome him with open arms. And headlong rush on hell. Sec. The Court would learn Where was the girl Thilouze upon the night Described by Keynard, March the twenty- seventh? Manon. I mind it well. A dreadful night it was. Her father^s cottage I for shelter sought. But she, being absent, we with anxious eyes. Besieged the doorway, waiting her return. And in the thick and middle of the storm. When the racked sluices of dishevelled clouds From their black reservoirs poured oceans down — When peal on peal the thickset thunder crashed Straight o'er our heads in dire continuous din — The while the maddest winds that ever made Rebellious blazon betwixt earth and heaven A TRAGEDY. 141 Scoured past, careering tlirough tlie wet-black waste, As if in the horrible uproar they rejoiced, Wliich they made still more horrible — she came In piteous plight, dishevelled — drooping — - drenched — So pale and so forlorn, she might have passed For a storm spirit, or dim night -wandering ghost. Sec. Ye questioned her, no doubt ? Manon. Of course we did. And got for answer brief — she missed her way — The darkness overtook her, gathering flowers. And in the storm she grew bewildered more. De Vaed. Seems then against a drenching thunder-storm Art magic is not proof. Mont. How ! Knowest thou not No extra service — not a jot beyond Their actual contract will the fiends perform ? Sec. Pierre Bloui ! Bring him hither. JEnter Pieere Bloui, a ivolf's i^aw in his harid, and between huo Monhs with Qrucifixes, Sec. Fellow ! state What is the substance of thy charge against This woman, at thine instance here arraigned. Pierre. Oh noble sirs ! have pity — Heaven above, 142 THE WEIRWOLF. Have pity on me ! Masters ! ye beliold A wretcli upon wliose birth misfortune set Her cruel seal, and since with heavy hand Hath overborne — whom every form of ill — All shapes and engines of extremity — All monstrous powers and devilish influences — Calamitous currents, and malignant stars — Have aye conspired to plague and persecute — Sec. Speak to the point. Eschew prolixity. Dost thou suspect this woman for a witch, Or know her ? Pierre. I suspect and know her too. Sec. Belie Vest thou that by black unhallowed means — By necromantic art — by devilish spells — By charms — by sorceries — or the like — she brought This current of mischance upon thy head ? Pierre. "'TIS my belief. Sec. And wherefore ? On what grounds ? Thine answer — quick. 1st Com. The fellow^s all abroad. Jacques. Go on. What hinders thee ? Col- lect thy wits. If wits thou hast. Eemember — the she- wolf — The moonhght — and the sorry trick she played. Pierre. I must begin at the beginning, else A TRAGEDY. 143 I grow confused, and cannot testify What I know best. 2nd Com. Let Mni deliver himself In Ms own fashion of whatever he lists, ^Twill expedite the business. 3ed Com. Be assured There^s none can hurt thee, if thy story tend To do religion service. Pie REE. Give me time To think — ^twas once — ^twas once upon a time — De Yard. A learned exordium. Mont. Interrupt him not. Pierre. The deep black mantle of the night was lined With white effulgence of the summer moon. Intent on sport, I sauntered through the woods. Which lay, like an enchanted city, bathed In silver sleep. So fair around me spread The still night picture. In the luminous lines — The long panoramas by the moonlight made — Broad dusky shadows crossed by brilHant gleams — I fancied streets, and avenues, and lanes, Shut in with strange fantastic edifices — Begirt with temples, palaces, and towers. In all their architectural imagery And multitudinous ornament arrayed — ■ A wilderness of spires and pinnacles. And porticoes and arches, painted thick. 144 THE WEIRWOLF. And flushed togetlier in sublime excess, And bright extravagance, and bewildering waste. And over all the great Night looking down, Festooned with fire-dust from the waste of worlds Like gems flung o'er a bride in wilful sport And recklessness of love — the shivering dance Of dewy leaves, lit up by moon and stars. Like lanterns at some fairy festival — The solemn stillness — the pervading gloom — That was not light or darkness, but was both Darkness and light mixed married and made one — The strange bewildering glimmer that belongs To moonlight only — shed a wondrous charm Of supernatural beauty. I began To walk like one bewitched. My foolish pulse From one extreme to the other rose and fell, But came in the end to beat delirious time. And chime, as it were, with some mysterious force, Which like a shadow from another life. From outward Nature emanating, flowed And covered all, within me and around. Till all my several senses were absorbed. And individual being merged and lost In that dim, dreamy, dread, immensity — De Yard. A right sententious peasant this appears. A TRAGEDY. 145 MoxT. Why halts tlie fellow ? Curse him for a fool ! De Vakd. Run out like an hour glass. Turn Mm upside down. Mont. I would I were beside kim with a thong. De Yard. Nay. Prompt him. He's at fault. He's lost the cue. Mont. De Yardois' jests for ever are ill-timed. 2nd Lord. The story's not his own_, I'm much afraid. Mont. The same he's often to his fellows told. 2nd Lord. But he recites it here, as if from book. De Yard. He should recite it better, in that case. Mont. He may forget what happened long ago. 2nd Lord. His face fits ill with phrases so refined. Mont. Hush ! hush ! dear friends ! We in- ten-upt the Court. 1st Com. Proceed. We make slow progress all this while. 2nd Com. Nay, g-ive him time. He needs be more composed. 3rd Com. He's nervous and confused. His memory fails. 10 146 THE WEIRWOLF. 1st Loed. He looks an honest fellow, never- theless . 2nd Loed. For me/ I put no credence in his tale. 1st Lord. Wrong in particulars — right upon the whole. Mont. My noble friends ! Be careful what you say. De Vaed. The joint was his — the dish another dressed. Mont. When will de Yardois learn to be dis- creet ? De Yard. I^m weary of their crisp, cold- blooded, cant. Mont. What ! Art thou minded to endanger all? De Yaed. However ill played, your play will end the same. Jacques. Now fool ! What ails thee ? Art thou deaf and dumb ? Sec. Proceed, but closer to the matter keep. The simple truth suffices. Not the place For flights or fancies this. Pierre. They were not flights. Nor were they fancies. Then was I bewitched — That time some glamour o'er my senses fell. Then on my soul this devilish shadow stole, And ever since, encumbered by its spell. A TRAGEDY. l4 7 I've walked environed with a waking dream. But sometliing stirring — something that di^ew near. And made scarce audible rustle in the dark — Aroused me. Turning, I beheld, erect Upon a white mound, which the moonlight chose To rest itself upon, and painted bright, A huge she-wolf — ^her bushy tail upturned Fell backward o'er her loins — her lifted nose Snuffing the silver air. With cautious tread And constant pause, from shade to shade I crept, And soon in trembling breathlessness stood near, Holding the iron instrument of doom Well poised, my finger on the trigger just Upon the point of off. But in a trice. Before I touched the trigger — she was gone — Gone like a phantom — gone without a sound — Before mine eyes by sudden glamour changed. In the wolfs place, a human figure stood — A maiden shape — a maiden tall and fair. Yes — one I knew too well — before me stood In white robes glistening — spirit-like, fair and pale. I swear it on my soul — Fran9oise Thilouze, The girl that stands before me there — the same — " She stood before me then alone — that night — That very moment. I could almost see The wolf into the maiden melt away. 10 * 148 THE WEIEWOLF. Sec. She spoke not — did she ? PiEEEE. Muttering as she passed Few words of doubtful import^ she was gone. De Yaed. a perilous hour for maids to walk abroad. Mont. Who but a witch would walk at such a time ? De Vaed. Nay — that would I so fair a witch to find. Mont. Call her not fair whose actions are so foul. De Yaed. ^Tis said the sea-nymphs had un- sightly tails. And yet above the waist they showed divine. ^Tis but mad Nature's merry wantonness, "Who thus deformity with beauty joins. To mock man's judgment, and confound the wise. Sec. Witness! What is it thou bearest in thy hand ? PiEEEE. I pray you, reverend sirs ! Be not deceived. This limb's not what it seems. 'Tis hers — I swear it. 'Tis her right arm. 'Tis hers indubitably. Two mornings since, 'twas whole and sound as mine. Next morning, as your eyes behold it now. She bore it bandaged. Some mysterious harm — I A TRAGEDY. 149 WMcli ste with studious industry conceals — Wldcli sLe^s ashamed of — wliicli she dare not show — Befell her on that intermediate night — That very night I set my snares beside The spot,, where I beheld her, as yeVe heard. Restored to woman^s from a bestial shape. That very night, this limb I now produce. Which seems the flesh and member of a beast. Was taken in the toils. Oh ! is it not palpable What work she was about, and how the fiends Their victim and confederate have betrayed. As they're accustomed ? Here's a proof that shows Her guilt in largest letters. Let her say How was her arm hurt ? Let her answer that. Unbandage, Fran^oise ! Let her tear away Those rags that hide the witness of her crimes. 1st Com. Unbandage her. (Armunhandaged.J 2nd Com. The truth's inevitable. Praise be to God ! Her guilt's undoubted now. 3rd Com. Right arm with right. The mem- bers correspond. Pierre. Oh ! damning and indisputable proof ! Abhorred witch ! What canst thou answer now ? Fran. (Aside.) I dare not answer, 'twas an accident Befell me, by a chance explosion caused. loO THE WEIRWOLF. Helping my father in liis laboratory — I dare not — lest tlie mention of Ms name, On the old man's head might draw their malice down And thus involve him in my danger — Nay Were I to answer what's so probable, 'Twould gain no credence here. So let it pass. 1st Com. What mutters the false witch between her teeth ? We're far too scrupulous. We're but wasting time. What need we now with further witnesses ? To me so clear and plain the case appears That in my judgment sentence may be passed, 2nd Com. Let everything be done with decency And done in order. 3rd Com. Let her, if she can Explain Fran. Then, 'twas an accident — no more — Sec. How done ? — How did it happen ? — Let us hear. Fran. Ye've had my answer. I've no more to say. 1st Com. She mocks us. Good. The matter here may end. 2nd Com. Nay. Let her call what witnesses she will. A TRAGEDY. 151 3ed Com. Can aught gainsay what^s been already sworn ? Fean. Tlien summon all the sufferers from your streets. Out of your hedges and your ditches bring The lame — the halt — the blind — go fetch them all. Call in the poor — ^the friendless — the forlorn — The sick — the maimed — the mad — the miserable — The poverty that in lugubrious dens On offal feeds, too poor even to pick up The crumbs that from the rich man's table fall. For menials flung — the misery that's amassed And makes its nest in murky labyrinths — That rots and swelters in unwholesome mews — In crowded alleys — in overpeopled lanes — In filthy crevices and fetid holes — Wherein the rawness of the imprisoned air Strikes chill, but heals not, bearing on its breath Congestive poison and pestiferous dew — Wherefrom it issues to corrupt the light And doubly taint the tainted atmosphere — The sickness that from cold and hunger draws Its baneful life, and lives upon neglect. Yet dies for want of nursing — the disease That by self-gendering aggravation grows And festers into plague — the homeless want That to the frosts of winter, day and night. 152 THE WEIR WOLF. Its naked skin exposes unabasked Without a skred between — the wretchedness Whose rude and undiscriminating rags Brush the silk hem of sleek prosperity, Yet take no virtue from it — bring them all Bring in the dying — if ye dare, the dead — And here on oath — with due solemnities — In this high presence — let them testify — The herbs I gathered were of use sometimes — That often I bewitched them out of woe — And if I leagued with devils, I drove away The devils of Hunger, Pain, Disease^ and Death. 1st Com. Here^s insolence again. 2nd Com. Proceed we next To search her body for the brands of Hell. 3ed Com. Considering all we've heard, and ascertained. By proofs so clear, 'twould seem superfluous 1st Com. My voice is for the search. 2nd Com. The same is mine. oRD Com. And your joint voices are irre- fragable. Fean. Yet spare my sex this last indignity. Oh ye were born of women — all of you Had mothers once — and some of you this day Have living mothers — sisters haply some. I do beseech you think of them before Ye make their sex dishonoured in my shame. A TRAGEDY. 153 Since in your malice^ and your cruel tliirst For human bloody or ignorance, or disdain Of feelings shared by creatures ye despise — Though we^re of the same nature, flesh, and blood. From the same God descended, as yourselves — Ye seek my life — Oh take it on the spot — Yes — take it now — this instant — ^tis no more Than in the course of Nature I must lose Some few years hence — a trifle in the account. Of long eternities that are to come. If torture be my doom, pronounce it now. I can expect no better at your hands From what I bear, or have already borne. And knowing how ye^re cruel — how ye burn To glut your cold hearts with vicarious pain — To the Infinite Mercy have I prayed, and pray For strength to bear the worst — Then do the worst. Why not be brief? Why pause upon your work. For vain observance, wasting precious hours With foolish processes, and futile forms ? What hinders you ? No further proofs ye need Who never needed any. Then at once Rush to the extreme ye long for — grasp the goal And sublime summit of your grand desires. Yes. Tear away my flesh with red-hot tongs — Saw me asunder — cramp and crush ni}^ bones 154 THE WEIEWOLF. Witli rack and screw — impale me — -roast alive — Wring out my wretched^ insignificant life. In gory drops, and every drop a pang — But spare me — spare me — from that open shame. 1st Com. Drag her away — regard nor shrieks nor tears — •'TIS only what her insolence well deserves. 2nd Com. But should we not be present ? No report Is certain as eye proof. 3rd Com. Agreed for me. Fran^oise is dragged out. Exeunt omnes excejpt De Yardois and a few attendants. De Yard. Upon her face her condemnation's writ. Out of her eyes immitigable doom. And ruthless judgment shine. Temptation there Assumes too palpable and too sweet a shape, For us to suffer. ^Tis imperative — It must be done. She must be out of the way Ere he returns. There's no alternative For us — from this most dire extremity No loophole of escape. Against the power Of so much beauty we contend in vain. One smile of hcry were fatal. One soft glance A TRAGEDY. 155 Shot from the silken fringes of those eyes_, Would, in a moment_, like a winged spark, Set Yictor^s passionate nature in a blaze. And blow our plans in air. A desperate ill A desperate remedy demands. Alas ! That I should say it, those innocent-shining orbs Which light like stars the round heaven of her face. Must set in death — the darkness of the grave Must quench their mild but perilous influences. And that sweet mansion made of lovely flesh — That tabernacle of a consummate soul — The feminine fulness of whose rounded forms. As in the statuary's marble mysticism. Lie coldly chastened and subdued beneath The calm inscrutableness of maiden thought, And sad disguise of sorrow — must be made Incapable of mischief — But indeed It irks me somewhat to be thus concerned In taking of her off — but 'tis their work Who are her lawful judges, and not mine. Are they not all, grave, just, and holy men ? They surely would not wrong her, or abuse To um'ighteous ends their sacred ministry And high judicial functions. Still methinks It might be done, since done it must be, with Less ceremonial superciliousness — Less idle ostentation and parade — 156 THE WEIRWOLF. Less lingering over vain formalities. And over-strained observance — ^wMch prolong The tedious agonies of suspense, and seem To me no better tban tbe extravagance Of wanton pride, and barren cruelty. I would not vex witb one superfluous pang The lamb that^s slauglitered for my natural food — Tlie vilest reptile I^m compelled to kill In self-defence — much less can I delight In making cruel and inhuman sport With this unfortunate girl, whose death indeed. But not whose aimless torture I desire. But how prevent it ? They will have it so — These reverend fathers. Nothing else it seems Contents the holy hunger of the Church — The chm-ch of peace and love — the church of Christ. And this protuberant zealot Montmorenci — Who after all's but one of your half wits. Halting 'twixt knave and fool — of course he must Shine foremost in the godly galaxy — • Well — 'tis not my aSair. I'll think no more of it. Enter Montmorenci and other Lords. 1st Lord. Who doubts her guilty now ? Mont. That did I never. 2nd Lord. 'Tis said these secret characters of shame On witches' persons branded by their fiends — A TRAGEDY. 157 The abominable brands of guilty joy — Are as indelible as tbe motlier-marks Some babes are born witb. 3ed Loed. Were sbe not a witch, I could have wept for pity of her fate, When in their rude and unrespective grasp, She showed such tender, touching, modesty — Swooning at last from very helplessness And overwhelming sorrow — 1st Lord. See ! They come. Filter Commissioners, Officers of Courts ^r. Fran- 901SE supported. Sec. Prisoner ! Attend the sentence of the Court. They judge thee guilty — sentence thee to death, And to the secular arm — the authority Of temporal kings and courts, and civil powers — Give up thy wicked body to be burned. So brief thy sojourn in this world shall be. We charge thee, therefore, let thy precious soul. Be henceforth all thy care. Thy tottering steps Approach the verge of hell. Think — think how soon The hurrying hours may bring thee face to face With those abominable and pernicious fiends. For whose vile sake thou hast made thyself accurst. And been a rebel both to God and man. 158 THE WEIRWOLF. We bid thee still repent. Thougli not on earth Kepentance shall avail to save thee from The sentence now recorded_, yet alone By late repentance of apostate souls Can their offended mother — ^holy Church — Take them to her wounded bosom back again. Thereby alone can thy recovered soul Escape the penalty that after death Awaits thee, quivering, in eternal fires. ACT IV. The Remoese of Manon. Scene 1. — At the door of Thierey's cottage. LuDOviQUE and Manon Thieeey. Manon. Oh ! when will he return ? LuD. Be still, my child ! Peace — peace — I say. For all this restlessness Will he return the sooner ? Manon. Some mischance Must have befallen him, surely. LuD. Gracious Heaven ! Has sorrow turned thy brain ? He^s gone no more Than half an hour. And haply many a mile The holy man must wander ere he gain The dread intelligence. \ A TRAGEDY. 159 ]\Ianon. Ill news fly fast^ And every prating or malicious fool Will burst to blazon it. The very dogs Will liowl it in liis ears. He'll never come, He^ll never dare to face us witli the worst, He'll never dare to tell us, ^^ She must die/' LuD. Now rest, my daughter ! I beseech thee rest ! Oh ! Heaven ! how wild and haggard are thy looks. I shudder when mine eyes encounter thine. Could I but see thee weep — 'twould comfort me. But since this trial — since the fatal hour Thy cousin was condemned, though groans more deep And terrible than earthquakes seem to rend That tender bosom — I declare to Heaven — No — not a single tear thine eyes have shed. JManon. I cannot weep. Their sorrow is ac- cursed Who mourn as I do. Often when our tears Seem dried up at their sources, they go up — Up — up — to damn us. LuD. Ah ! what words are these ? Manon. What a base coward is conscience ! Ere the deed Of infamy's been done, it speaks with soft And puny whisper like a whimpering child. 160 THE WEIRWOLF. Afraid to breathe its wish. But afterwards, When from the black — irrevocable past The spectral memory glares, then conscience rings Its loud alarum on the soul, and strikes With deadly sting. ^Twas but some hours ago That I conspired, and swore a thousand lies Against her innocent hfe, and she will die By me betrayed and slain. Where wert thou then. Oh conscience ! where was thy reviling voice — Thy warning admonition ? Stricken dumb. Abashed and frighted by my bold desires. LuD. I knew my Manon had a tender heart — Manon. My Grod ! My God ! LuD. But there's some mystery here. This desperate frenzy — this immedicable And adamantine anguish, so unlike The gentler sorrow that beseems thy sex. So shocks — so fills me with amazement, child ! — Manon. That I might die ! God ! That I might die. LuD. Indeed her fate sits heavy on my soul. Thy groans find echoes there. Unburden then Thy bursting griefs — shape sorrow into song — And I'll strike in and chorus it with mine. Manon. Father ! ITl live to save her. LuD. Would thou couldst ! Manon. I feel as if I dare not pray to God. A TRAGEDY. 161 But, for her sake — my prayers were barren else. — I^m bold to invoke all blessed influences That are His emanations — and connect Our thoughts with Him — this omnipresent air, That tempers with its cool and innocent kiss The fever on my brow — the all-seeing light That images His glance — the clouds that rise From earth to heaven like winged mediators. And come like angels back — ^yon skies that seem His living shadow — LuD. God be thanked ! She prays. Manon. Away ! They answer not. The skies are deaf. And with their obdurate and awful silence Mock me and curse me. LuD. Patience ! My poor child ! Manon. Is this your justice ? Through her innocent head To smite my crimes ? LuD. My daughter ! let us hope Her judges may have mercy. Manon. Quack me not With that fool's cordial. Was she not condemned For sorcery ? Is she not a witch by law ? The sons of God — the Fathers of the Church — Affirm it, and would swear it on the books They reckon holy — Would I were a witch Myself, and could by sorcery set her free — 11 162 THE WEIRWOLP. Since Heaven's so pitiless^ I dare ask from Hell Infernal aid. LuD. Oh Manon ! Oh my child ! Wildly thou talkest^ impiously I fear. But 'tis no wonder. Ye were born and reared Twins of the same sad fortune — the same year Made orphans by a like calamity. And side by side your girlish beauty grew. Your only emulation was the love From baby eyes reflected — Manon. Love ! ye saints And holy angels ! LuD. What a look was there ! Why dost thou start ? Oh Manon ! oh my child ! Manon. It is my punishment^ and I deserve it. God knows, 'tis but a pin's point to my crimes. LuD. Thy crimes ! — This must be madness ! let her rave. Alas ! I know were never sisters bound By ties more tender, or more close than theirs. Manon. My sisterly regard was shown in this — I've helped her early to a place in heaven. LuD. Alas ! it mattered little what they wrung From thy reluctant lips. Their hearts were steeled Against all pity, and her doom prejudged By malice or revenge— I A TRAGEDY. 163 Manon. Aye. Lay it on. Fll never flinch, nor ask thee to forbear. LuD. And why must I be silent ? Why forbear ? Have I not equal privilege to mourn ? Though reason calm the current of my grief. And age smooth o^er its surface, not the less It rends my inmost soul. Then swell sad heart ! Ye watery sluices open ! kindle lips With my profound and passionate complaint ! Oh ! my poor Fran9oise ! oh my sister's child ! Darling that I have dandled in these arms, Whose infancy these eyes have watched so long I Is this the sum of all our hopes and pains ? Are thy sweet studies, all thy fond pursuits, Thy meek and mystic meditations, all — To have no happier issue ? Ah ! poor thing ! With beauty, grace, and goodness, far beyond The common of thy sex, thus stricken down In the fair spring and blossom of thy life By bloody spite and barbarous cruelty ! Manon. Oh me ! Oh me ! LuD. And was it thou, poor lamb ! Thy butchers dared to liken to a wolf ? Just so the monster in the fable mocked The lamb he slaughtered. So it fares with thee. By bloody men, by cruel beasts devoured — By beasts ! — unjust ! — there's no comparison. 11 * 164 THE WEIRWOLF. Wolves would have spared her — tigers have bow^d down — Abashed to pity by her innocent looks. Hate changes men to devils, the raging heat Of angry passion scorches up the springs And chokes the flow of gentle charity. Manon. Aye. Devils ! Devils ! LuD. Yes. I remember well The day her mother died. 'Twas at the last. When pale and wasted on her couch of straw She lay, encircled by the sacred gloom Of sorrowing faces, ^mid the solemn hush Of death-bed stillness, which her failing voice Broke through with feeble whisper, as she breathed Into my pent-up heart her last commands. '^ Dear brother ! if our MichaeFs simple ways Should fail to shelter and protect his child. To thee, as to a second father, I Commit the precious charge.^' In loving words Her spirit so passed away — the dregs of life. Spent in that fond endeavour. All in vain — Oh ! how can I acquit me of the task ? Alas ! what can I do but weep, but weep ? Manon. That I might die — might die ! LuD. Oh ! Michael ! Oh ! Unhappy brother ! hadst thou been content With labour's humble lot as I have been. A TRAGEDY. 165 And never with idolatrous ardour plunged Into the vanities of science — still Thy steps were safe as mine. But no, but no. Thou must have learned flights — by books and stars Thy soul was lured astray — Behold ! what comes Of all thy learning and astrology ! Enter Father Simon. F. Simon. Peace rest beneath the roof where sorrow dwells ! Look up to God ! my children ! (MANON/aZZs.) LuD. Ah ! She's dead ! Thy looks have killed her. F. Simon. Nay. 'Tis but a swoon Of sudden terror — Feel, her pulse returns. She stirs. Take heart. She'll waken up too soon To life and misery. LuD. Then our hopes are done. The sentence is confirmed. I pray thee, speak.' Manon. Speak, father ! speak, and let us know the worst. F. Simon. The worst is over, when the worst is known. There is no more hope of pardon. She must die. LuD. The stake ! my God ! The fire — F. Simon. 'Tis so decreed. Look up to God ! my children ! 166 THE WEIRWOLP. Manon. He blasphemes. Shall I look up to God that am accursed ? Shall I — that am to outer darkness doomed ? I that have sinned against the Holy Ghost ? Sinned against light and knowledge — head and heart — Damned for a deed that cannot be forgiven ? LuD. Accursed be every hand that lights those flames ! Damned all who help to bring or bind her there ! F. Simon. Stay, Ludovique ! thy bold blas- pheming tongue. Manon. I charge thee, father ! Interrupt him not. Stay not the course of Justice. Said I not I was accursed ? F. Simon. I charge thee daughter ! by That God who is the father of all truth. Whatever sin thou hidest in thy soul, To thy soul's peril, dark and undivulged. Confess it freely, and confess at once. Here and hereafter 'twill assure thee peace — And haply to thy soul's salvation tend. Manon. My peace is parted, never to return. The darkness of my soul no ray divine Can now re-visit ever. The despair That bows me down confession cannot purge. A TRAGEDY. 167 The wrong IVe done lies out of the reacli of God, Which, even if he could he would not cure. But I'll at least be frank — what I confess Shall be the damning truth, however vain. "Wliat infamy IVe earned, or now deserve, Fm not the coward to shrink from. Hear me then. My fathers ! spiritual and natural, hear ! And shudder as ye hear. My wicked arts Have slain my cousin. Jacques Reynard and I Her murderers are. 'Tv^^as in our guilty brains Was hatched that brood of lies that grew to life. And ripened in her ruin — our device That wrought upon Pierre Bloui's simple soul. And won him to denounce her and accuse Of crimes, whereof she dies. AU — all is false — False — false as heU. And now ye know it all. Ye understand who drag her to the stake — Who light the fire — who are her murderers. LuD. Ah ! Little I suspected whom I cursed. F. Simon. Let this instruct thee, son ! to curse no more. Vengeance is God's. To God be vengeance left. LuD. Come back that curse ! — but oh, my breaking heart ! If I survive this, grief can do no more. Nay, from thy lips even how shall I receive 168 THE WEIRWOLP. What else were quite incredible ? Thou ! — thou ! — Oh Manon ! Thou to join that pack of hell ! — To run with them in hounding her to death — To be their agent and accomplice in — In this — the bloodiest and the blackest deed That ever cried for vengeance up to God ! What bastard grafted off a savage stock — What gipsy changeUng alien to my blood — Have I been housing ? On what tiger^s cub My fondness wasted ? Oh my child, my child ! I feel — I feel this villany of thine Will crush me down_, and bow me to the grave. Manon. Have no more pity, father ! Spare me not. Heap up reproaches till they touch the clouds — My towering guilt shall overtop them all. LuD. When in these loving arms I took thee first — A new-born babe — thy mother from her bed Gazing into my face with speechless joy — Oh ! in that happy moment would that God Had smitten thee to death with sudden plague, Kather than thou hadst lived to do this deed ! r. Simon. Cease, Ludovique ! Have pity on thy child. For more of pity than reproach she needs. No sinless sorrow knows such agony A TRAGEDY. 169 As the remorse she feels — remorse, the trae Forerunner of repentance. LuD. She repent ! Nay. Though she reach Methuselah's utmost age She'll not have grace or leisure to repent This monstrous sin. F. Simon. '^ Judge not^ lest ye be judged." God will not break the bruised reed, nor thou Kefuse all pity to thy penitent child, Whose looks that scarce dare lift themselves to thine. Should find a passage to a father's heart. Look up, my child ! Despair not. Look to God. There's mercy left for many such as thou, And many worse. But come. We must not lose Our time in talk. There's business to be done. With our best speed and diHgence we must Kelease this innocent girl Manon. Kelease her ? How ? By what means, father ? F. Simon. There's an easy means. Thou shalt unsay before authority The story that condemned her, and impeach What thy confederates swore. Manon. And thinkest thou These kites that thirst so hotly for her blood Will on my simple recantation baulk Their high-born cravings, and forego their prey ? 170 THE WEIRWOLP. F. Simon. How now ! Thou falterest ? Manon. I ! Misjudge me not. Father ! Til follow thee to hell itself Could that avail us. Bring me face to face With direst danger^ so that it repair The wrong IVe done, and rescue her sweet life — Then kill me if I flinch. But ah ! too well I know their selfish aims — their cruel hearts — Their hard — relentless — bloody policy. F. Simon. Think not so basely of the men that God Has armed with office and authority — But come. At Montmorenci^s are they met. We'll seek them there. The endeavour must be made. The issue rests with God. Manon. This moment — then. I follow thee — F. Simon. Nay. Never risk success By aught unseemly. Get thyself arrayed In cloak and coif. FU wait beside the stile. 'Tis much the nearest way. [Exeunt Father Simon and Manon. LuD. Aye, get thee gone ; Thy sight grows hateful to me from this hour. Alone — alone — ^I feel. Yon outward world To my old age looms dark and terrible. A TRAGEDY. 171 And through the twiHght shadows I must grope Bereft of every solace. All my hopes Are now in death. T^ll bury me indoors. The looks of men would only trouble me. Adieu ! adieu ! to daylight and the world ! Silence and darkness my companions be ! [Exit Scene 2. Room in the Chateau de Montmorenci. MoNTMORENCi, De Yardois, other Nobles, Com- missioners and other Ecclesiastics, at dinner. Servants attending, De Vard. No more excuses. Marquis ! The repast Is worthy of the gods. 1st Com. Profanely said. 2nd Com. Correct it thus — worthy of Para- dise. De Yard. Nay, Adam and his wife were fed on herbs And fruits — a meagre diet — worthiest of Those days of ignorance. Here^s variety They never dreamed of. 3rd Com. Quite a wanton plenty. And rich profusion of delicious meats. De Yard. The smiling seasons have combined to flush 172 THE WEIRWOLF. This board with golden gifts. The woods and fields^ And teeming waters have exhausted here Their utmost luxury_, till the fabulous horn Sounds fabulous never more. Our mother Earth Has drained her bosom of its milky sweets. This feast's a miracle. See. The feathered tribes — The shining spoil of streams — the savoury flesh By freedom fed and flavoured — fruibs that fell Of their own ripeness from the abundant boughs — Boots rich and soft with pulpy nourishment. And fat with sugary sap— luxuriant herbs And luscious condiments that cool the blood. And let the jaded sense relax itself By quaint and slow degrees. ] ST Com. WeVe much indebted To the fine taste and hospitable care. That crowd such sweets together. 2nd Com. And attest However scanty our good host's domains, Their wondrous wealth and high fertility. 3 ED Com. Who doubts it, or denies ? De Yard. Your cook — ^is he too The produce of the estate ? Mont. Yes. Born and bred. De Yard. He does his breeding credit. 1st Lord. I'd have sworn He's late from Paris. A TRAGEDY. 173 De Yard. He's a genius — he — A kitchen-artist. How supreme is mind — How science glorifies the meanest cares — And with what magic alchemy transmutes Our nature's gross necessities ! We enjoy These rarer dainties, daintily devised, With nobler relish — taste with sense sublime — Whereby the bestial appetite's absorbed. And into fairer faculty refined — As muddy rivers melting in the sea. And through his crystal pores distributing Their long- accumulated impurities. And native foulness, with the silver foam. And shining blue and green assimilated. Lose all their turbid natures. 1st Lord. Finely said. 2nd Lord. De Vardois 's humourous. 3rd Lord. Nay. That's nothing new. Mont. I pledge you. Abbot ! In a brimming glass. Champagne ? 1st Com. I'm honoured. Mont. Come. Fill up. Fill up. De Yardois, you ! De Yard. Then Burgundy for me. That's the true life-elixir. Mont. How ! What's here ? What uproar breaks on our festivity ? 174 THE WEIRWOLP. Enter Servants, Father Simon, Manon Thierry- Two last as if held bach partly by Servants. 1st Serv. Messieurs ! His reverence would not be denied. But_, spite of prohibition, made his way. F. Simon. On me the blame. I come for life and death. My business told, most fully shall account For this intrusion, and, I know, excuse it. Nay, certain am I, your august displeasures Would for delays have held me answerable. Since every moment wasted is a wrong To suffering innocence. For the girl Thilouze — On her behalf I come — for her I plead. She^s innocent — innocent now beyond all doubt. A plot^s confessed — a wicked plot contrived For ends and purposes of base revenge. And every charge against her falls away. Built up of falsehoods, frauds and perjuries. Nor can I doubt, inquiry made, at once You'll order her release. Manon. Release — Ha ! Ha ! Mont. What baggage have we here ? Who dared to give This common slut admittance ? 2nd Serv. She attends Upon the curate. A TRAGEDY. 175 F. Simon. By your leave she's here On my behalf, and indispensable. 1st Com. Condemned and innocent ! What's all this ? F. Simon. The proofs Are clear and certain. 2nd Com. Of her guilt no doubt — They were this morning, and they still remain. F. Simon. Your pardon, sirs ! I deal ad- visedly. Let this young maid be questioned. 'Tis the same Who gave to-day her testimony against Fran9oise Thilouze, her cousin. Let her speak, Or to be brief, her story I'll unfold. And she shall answer for its truth. She comes Spurred on by sorrow and remorse, before This high and holy presence to declare Her cousin innocent — nay, most foully wronged, And to her own abundant shame, confess Her part in a conspiracy devised By a discarded lover of her cousin. One Jacques Keynard, to gratify his spite And devilish vengeance. In a jealous fit — An hour of womanish weakness — by this villain Seized with malicious cunning to infuse Into her ears his leperous sophistries. This girl was tempted to betray her friend. And she and Jacques together wrought upon 176 THE WEIRWOLF. A third accomplice who with them conspired — A simple credulous creature — Pierre Bloui, Whose wonder-loving ignorance, all injQamed By the sly art and treachery of Reynard — It came that trivial matters and events By no means dark or marvellous in themselves. Were swelled to wonders in the dubious light Of loose interpretation. These believed Pierrots own untutored story, blended with The grosser tales and fictions of Reynard, As by some natural cement, furnished them With what they needed most — solidity — Coherence — probability. Thus it came That your high reverences were deceived. And your supreme authority betrayed To wof ul error. I beseech you now Consider this appeal — that so the accused May with all possible convenience be Restored to freedom. Let the maiden say If IVe expounded truly. Manon. Gospel truth Is not more true. Should this bad sentence stand — If at your hands my cousin suffer death — ^Tis I^m her murderer, and her innocent blood Shall sink me down to hell. But not the less I warn you, holy prelates ! at your doors Her death, and my damnation, shall be laid. A TRAGEDY. 177 I If ye persist in this injustice done Upon my instigation. De Yard. Saucy wencli ! 1st Com. But softly, fathers ! This is not the time For fresh inquiry ! 2nd Com. Steps prehminary Have to be taken — information laid. And summons issued — ere we can address Ourselves to disinter established facts. Or reconsider a concluded case. 3rd Com. Besides, 'tis nowise certain we've the power. De Yard. 'Tis obvious now the business is to dine. On certain days the Church prescribes to fast. Therefore on other days we're bound to feast. F. Simon. What say your graces? Have I heard aright ? What ! Are there times when stricken Innocence May vainly challenge Justice ? — sue in vain To those who 're sworn to do it, and dispense ? When reckless power has done a cruel wrong — A grievous wrong — a wrong indisputable — Has blindly done it — for all men are blind Sometime or other — in mistempered haste. Misguided zeal, or rooted obstinacy — Must every motion to redress the wrong 12 178 THE WEIRWOLF. Be made by clock and bell — tbose sacred claims That prove tlie proudest- — melt tbe hardest hearts — The privileges of anguish undeserved. That stir some touches of humanity Even in heathen bosoms — must all these — Shall justice — righteous judgment — ^^right itself. Following the rising or the setting light. Like shadows come and vanish, or depend Upon the deaf, inexorable hours ? Alas ! Alas ! 1st Com. Old man ! dost thou forget Beneath whose roof — ^before what presence — here Thou standest ? 2nd Com. Where with force and violence Thou hast intruded — 3rd Com. Speaking evil too Of dignities ! Mont. Intruded ! By the Lord ! — Which no pretended business can excuse. De Yard. A father too — a father of the Church ! The Church against the Church — the sin of schism — Which of all sins all Churches hate the most — I hate it too — myself — at dinner-time. Manon. Yes. To forsake the platter and the cup — A TRAGEDY. 179 To rise up flushed with wassail and with wine — And rescue innocence from unrighteous death — That were — that were — a fatal precedent. De "Vard. a wilful maiden ! Mont. Fellows ! See to her. 1st Com. ^Tis idle, parleying. Let her be removed. 2nd Com. Young maiden ! Thy demeanour ill beseems Thy sex and years. 3rd Com. And little helps the cause Ye come to advocate. F. Simon. Nevertheless be just. I pray you be not prejudiced to wrong By our rash utterance. Let it not be said Our skilless conduct of a righteous cause Possessed your minds with thoughts unfavourable To a just judgment. For this frantic girl She merits no regard. The quick remorse That^s working in her is not yet refined To clear and godly sorrow. Ah ! The excess And violence of her anguish have unsphered The motions of her soul. But that she's true And brings the truth to light can any doubt ? Her very frenzy proves her honest heart, And shows her tale authentic. Then on me. If weVe offended, and forgiveness Submission cannot win, let all your wrath 12* 180 THE WEIRWOLF. And penalties be piled — yet hear me still Oh her behalf, whose cruel doom precludes An abler advocate. She's been foully wronged. Your duty and your privilege it becomes To see her righted. Men are fallible. The wisest, whether by mischance or fraud, May own themselves deceived — but fools alone Harden themselves in error. Yet 'tis not For mercy to the guilty that I plead. Mercy, sweet handmaid of high power, belongs Rather to God than man, or only counts Among the proud prerogatives of kings. From you a nobler virtue I require, And hope for ! Justice — one that's not beyond Your present powers to own and exercise — And yet an humbler too — that never courts The vulgar adoration — that affects No pomp of outward circumstance, yet is Most truly godlike, being from God derived — A virtue vulgar natures scarcely feel — Never appreciate, never understand. Much less exhibit — whose calm front befits The sterner grandeur of heroic souls. Oh ! show this virtue yours. If hearts you have Inclined to softness, let them melt indeed. But melt with pity for the innocent. Compassion for the oppressed. Extend to her Your fruitful sympathies, and vindicate A TRAGEDY. 181 Thereby the majesty of Law_, assailed By fraud and perjury and conspiracy. 1st Com. Father, this comes too late. The case is closed. And our decision final. 2nd Com. Sentence passed. No power that^s less than royal can reverse. 3rd Com. We therefore beg you^ll speedily cut short This trespass on our leisure. F. Simon. 'Tis enough ! I take my leave in sorrow. Manon. Dashed so soon ! To it again. Conjure them to relent By Bacchus ! By the bottle ! Those are names Must touch them surely. F. Simon. Your authority Includes the power to respite your decrees. You cannot pardon, but you might delay. Three days are all I ask ! Three days of grace. That formal application may be made For royal mercy. 'Tis not possible In briefer to effect it. 1st Com. We refuse In brief your application, 2nd Com. That^s our answer. For there's no matter to proceed upon. We cannot countervail, or set aside 182 THE WEIEWOLF. Recorded judgments^ or endanger rule. Or violate the sacredness of forms, By an irregular process based alone Upon tiie bald confession of this girl. 3kd Com. Whose mind too visibly defaced abates The value of her statements. Manon. Tush ! A leech ! — By touch of pulse determine on the spot Whose wits are soundest here. 1st Com. Too palpable And obvious the design is, to suggest A moment's question. 2nd Com. 'Twould create distrust Of all proceedings, and discredit bring On justice ever after, to permit Her single recantation and disclaimer. And incoherent raving, to impugn The weightier and more relevant testimony Of other safe and honest witnesses. 3rd Com. And what she swore this morning now to unsay Discredits her for ever. F. Simon. Come away. My child ! My child ! 'Tis madness to persist. Manon. Then, I beseech you, send for Jacques Reynard, Set me before his dai'k and knavish face, A TRAGEDY. 183 And if I cannot make him prove himself Liar and coward, then tie me to the stake. Beside my cousin. 1st Com. Cut the matter short. We're rooted against change. 2nd Com. And have already Spent too much breath and leisure in the length Of this discussion. 3ed Com. Therefore be advised. Cease to pursue this matter further, lest It issue to your hurt. F. Simon. That moves me not. Perish all earthly interests, hopes, and aims. Could I by their abandonment extend Her life one single hour. But I perceive 'Tis all in vain. The will of God be done ! My feeble voice can profit her no more. To thee, everlasting Providence ! I do commend her. Make her sufferings short. Oh ! how much longer shall the oppressed on earth Await deliverance ? How much longer. Lord ? Alas ! in our despair we turn to thee. Scanning the future, as the weary eyes Of worn-out watchers in the dead of night Anticipate the dawn 184 THE WEIRWOLP. M.k'^0^ (struggling with servants, and hurling one from her to the ground.) Ye Priests and Peers ! Do ye not tremble ? If there be a God Beyond tbat azure dome, he surely will Deliver and avenge her. Mont. ^Tis insufferable ! Drag out the frantic wench. F. Simon. Be still, my child ! Come with me. Come. 'Tis vain to parley more. Manon. What ! go dismissed, and never tell my mind ! Think not that I^m so easily put off. Nay, let them bury me ten thousand leagues, Or wedge me in the focus of the globe. Or drown me in unfathomable seas. My mangled atoms still shall find a voice, And in the roar of desolating winds The sobs of prisoned earthquakes, and the growl Of ripe volcanoes, bellow to the heavens My irrepressible curses. Off with you. Ye menial swarm ! Stand off. For I will speak. What reverend sirs ! Are these the laws of France That smite and slay — that punish and condemn But never save. Is this your justice — this — A bottomless pit — a grinning Golgotha A TRAGEDY. 185 Whose brink Is paved with skulls and skeletons — Its sides built up of bleeding carcases ? And have the holy canons of the Church No other aim — no other interest Than blood, blood, blood ? How ? is there no escape — From your cold condemnation no return ? Oh more inexorable than the grave. Which yet some day shall yield its victims up ! Is there no pause— no respite — no revision — No possible backward path whereby the chance Of human error may be rectified ? Shall men Hke beasts be slaughtered ? Human life With less deliberation blotted out. Than would attend the killing of a snake, Oi' wait upon the common forfeiture Of mere official rank or privilege ? With you are trial and inquiry death ? Does your touch wither ? Do your glances blast ? Is this your pious zeal, is this the way Ye honour God, forgetting his commands. By holding up a prize for perjury. And consecrating murder ? Do ye scowl Because ye hate the truth ? I know your hearts Too well — too well — ye mitred hypocrites ! Ye holy butchers, solemn murderers ! 186 THE WEIRWOLP. Ye privileged traffickers in righteous blood ! Ah ! woe betide the Church the day she gave The keeping of her sacred oracles To you — profaned with your adulterous breath Her Holy Sacraments — What are ye better Than merely titled executioners — Whose only office is to kill — kill — kill? The headsman's office is more honourable. He does his bloody service openly, And wears his degradation in the face. Of the divulging daylight. But your deeds Though not less bloody, are disguised and masked By specious forms and solemn sophistries. In labyrinths of law — in murky caves — ^Mid dim tradition's obscure intricacies — Ye privily lurk, and stab the innocent — And crouched like spiders in unseemly dens. Ye sit, and gorge the malice of your hearts With cold and gloomy joy. Ye ravening wolves Clad in sheep's clothing ! Whited sepulchres 1 — (Towards the end of this speech , Manon, having been some time struggling with the servants, is finally dragged out.) Mont. White-livered slaves ! Why stand ye thus agape ? Aye. Drag her. Gag her. Are ye not enough ? A TRAGEDY. 187 Fear ye to touch, her ? By the Lord of Heaven ! The fiends her cousin deals with^ must have claim. To full possession of her kith and kin. 1st Com. I scarce can speak for horror ! How ! so young ! So passing fair ! Yet inly so defiled By that licentious and irreverent soul ! 2nd Com. Ill natured and ill taught. 3ed Com. HI taught indeed. Are these your lessons Father ? F. Simon. Holy sirs ! The teacher can no more than nurse the seeds By nature planted. From her birth this maid Showed the same fearless and unfaltering spirit. I would she'd been more chary of her speech In this high presence. But your graces know ^Tis neither in my power nor any man's To stop the torrent of a woman's tongue. Alas ! my heart is heavy — Oh ! that words Could touch you yet. 1st Com. No more of this — no more. 2nd Com. We may not hear. 3rd Com. Methinks we've heard enough. Mont. Away with him — Away with her and him. (Father Simon is led away by the servants.) ]88 THE WEIRWOLP. Scene 3. A forest by moonlight. Pierre Bloui alone. Pierre. The spells are surely past — the en- chantment o'er — Since the proud Manon bids me meet her here. Now courage Pierre ! The game's in thine own own hands. Be not abashed. Take courage. Be a man. What more is wanting for a woman's love ? What should I fear? Hell's phantoms failed against me ! And shall her beauty daunt ? Shall I be scared By fairer shadows ? By bewitching forms And sweet proportions of harmonious flesh ? What is there in a red and juicy lip To make me tremble ? In a brilliant eye To scorch my manhood up ? Enough. I feel That I grow valiant — see what wit is worth When not enchanted. But she comes ! She comes ! Enter Manon. Where now is all my resolution fled ? The blood goes curdling inward from my face. Almost I wish to shun her — Fool ! — to quail And shiver at the threshold of that joy Thou hungerest for the most ! Wretch that I am She must despise me ever — But what's this ? A TRAGEDY. 189 Ye powers of Heaven ! Wliat damned sorcery Hath changed the springing music of her gait To that unsteady languid heaviness ? What sudden grief ^s untenanted her cheeks Of their familiar roses ? Is it care. Or fell disease that feeds with seaming tooth Upon the blooming tissue of her skin ? Where are her sparkling eyes, her merry smiles, Her pouting lips' provoking prettiness ? Oh, Manon ! Manon ! What sad work is here ! What ails thee, darling ? Ah ! God send it were That thou wert pining for thy loving Pierre ! Manon. God send thee quittance of thy folly, Pierre ! Pierre. Aye, flout me. Flout me. I will bear it all. Though in good time I look for some amends. Manon. Look on these hollow eyes, these shrunken cheeks. Feel the cold wrinkles of my flabby hands. See my limbs totter ! Hark ! how hoarse my voice ! And think, are these the ministry of love. Or I fit toy for amorous fooleries ? Pierre. I care not Manon, how thy face is changed. To see thee wretched, pains my loving heart But never can affect mv constant faith. 190 THE WEIRWOLF. No^ only love me — only now be kind. To me at least thou shall be beautiful — In every change my pretty Manon still. Manon. Good honest Pierre ! I know thou lovest me, Words are not wanted to confirm thee true. And if my cold heart should at last be touched. If I were minded now to listen to Thine earnest vows, and put thee to the proof What would^st thou do to gain me ? Pierre. God of Heaven ! What would I not ? Oh ! name some desperate task. Set me upon a foaming torrent^s verge — Some precipice through whose black-gaping breast. For ages hath the stream a channel gored. With splintered rocks heaping its violent course. O'er which, as o'er the battered skeletons Of hated foes which rancour never quits. But still gloats over with insatiate rage. It chafes and thunders ever — set me there And bid me wade across. A word from thee Would win me to it. Bid me grapple with The fiercest beasts that through the sleeping woods Spread tyrannous desolation — single out The strongest — wolf or bear — I'll throttle him Or perish at thy feet. A TRAGEDY. 191 Manon. Enough of this. And keep thy distance. What Fd have thee do — Stand offj I say — has no such madness in it. ^Tis nowise dangerous — scarcely difficult — But only needs despatch and earnestness. I would not have thee risk thy life for me. Pierre. I'd gladly risk and lose it for thy sake. Manon. Not so extreme is that which I require. Pierre. Make me thy slave, and use me as thou wilt I'm proud to serve thee. Manon. Then attend. Be calm, And keep thy hands off, and thy distance there. Expect no fond confession from my lips — Hope not to hear them pour out honied words. Or make thee drunk with wild conceits of love. But as thy soul is precious to thee, Pierre ! — If lurks therein the faintest sense of God — The slightest terror of his judgment — hear ! Oh ! Pierre ! A bloody murder we have done — Have in a deed of butchery dipped our hands. Whose black aspect was never paralleled Through the long annals of recorded crimes. WeVe plunged above our heads — ^we^re steeped in guilt — Guilt that the devils should grin at and admire, 'Tis even in Hell so unimaginable. 192 THE WEIRWOLF. Our arts have practised on the sweetest life Was ever mansioned in humanity — WeVe cropped the fairest blossom of all times. Vile — vile — assassins that weVe been and are. For us what mercy stands available — What plea's authentic ? How shall we escape God's wrath and due damnation, whose award Is by no long to-morrow separated From where weVe placed this moment — whose abyss Yawns under us — unless from sheer despair, From absolute wreck and bare abandonment. Like water from the barren rock, we strike And compass her deliverance ? Pierre. What's all this ? I cannot understand. Man. Frangoise Thilouze — My cousin — we've betrayed her. Pierre. How ! betrayed ! Manon. Her blood's upon us. Pierre. How? Manon. The dreadful doom That waits for her this moment — that's our work. 'Tis we — 'tis we — that drag her to the stake — That cut into her flesh with cruel cords — That kindle round her limbs the pitiless fire — Oh God ! Fit emblem of our pitiless hearts ! A TEAGEDY. 193 Pierre. Does Man on weep because a mtcli shall die ? Man ON. Pierre ! If she be a witch then I'm a witch. And Jacques Reynard is honest — and thyself In wisdom thou'rt a very Solomon. And there's no sin or sorrow upon earth — No knavery or iniquity anywhere. And the world's rulers are all good and just. And never do us wrong. And everything " Is as it should be in this puzzling world — And all is goodness, grace, and holiness. Pierre. Since first the world began 'twas much the same. Manon. Say yonder skies are but a paper scroll, Which thou canst scoop and shrivel in thy hand — The sun — the moon that shines above' thee there — The stars, and all their sister lights of heaven — • Say with a puff of breath thou canst arrest. And momently extinguish — say this earth Whereon we stand, with all its Hving forms — This infinite universe, with all its worlds — Seen or unseen, are but a shadow limned Upon a hollow space — say matter reigns Predominant over all — that things of sense Alone have real being — nothing hid Beyond the visible — no diviner soul 13 194 THE WEIRWOLF. That moves this mighty pageant and informs — No God above to judge and punish crime. Oh ! say all this — or if thou canst say more — Whatever contradictions thou canst dream — Whatever false, absurd, impossible. Thy fancy can invent, or speech affirm — But never say poor Fran^oise is a witch. PiEREE. I thought ^twas fully proved. Manon. Proved ! But to whom ? To those who never looked for proof at all ? What 's in their idle fables ? Wolves have lost Their paws before, by similar accidents. But 'twas not witchcraft, till a score of knaves. And one poor fool — I say it to thy face — Thou, Pierre ! — found profit in supposing it. Or making, it a supernatural fact. When^oh, thou numskull ! — when her innocent hours She gave to God and Nature, gathering herbs 'Neath the chill moonshine, and the inclement air. For noblest uses, art thou not ashamed To think of her as other than she was — The sovereign of her sex — its living crown — No less for inward than for outward charms ? PiEREE. Was Jacques — the clever Jacques — was he deceived ? Manon. Art thou so dull, so thick of wit, so blinds A tragedy; 195 So wrapt in hundred-fold credulity — As not to see what quality of stuff His knavish tales were made of ? Does it need A tongue to tell it to thy waking senses. What else to the apprehension of a babe Were palpable, that every word he coined And palmed upon thee for the gold of truth, Was merest tinsel ? Be his dupe no more. Look through his thin and threadbare artifices. Thou knowest the traitor my poor cousin loved. Thou knowest as well what favour he obtained — With what a calm and modest majesty She spurned the obtrusion of his treacherous love. For this he hated her — and from the hell Of his dark hatred and ill-brooding spite This train of devilish machinations grew. Which ripened in her ruin. God ! — just God ! And I was his accomplice — even I ! PiEREE. Aye, thou ! Manon. What then ! I was as vile as Jacques. No name in all the calendar that's kept For black damnation is too black for me. She was my playfellow — my friend — my sister — And I — have murdered her. My motive learn — I too was mad with love and jealousy. Pierre. Have I a rival then ? His name — his name — That I may curse it. 13 * 396 THE WEIRWOLP. Manon. Spare tliy time and breathy That folly^s long burnt out. Tbe oblivious past With black, opaque, obliterating tide Rolls o^er its idle fires. PiEERE. Her noble judges — The reverend and the holy Manon. What of them ? No gods are they, exempt from crime and wrong, From madness or from error. They Ve their wants, Their appetites and passions, like the herd Of meaner mortals. Tempted even as we. Their plans are gilded by the privileges Gf lofty station — their high-sounding sins. Sanctioned by specious names, to greatness swelled By wider scope and license. Thus how often Does power, by bloody uses long depraved. And never called to reason or account For its excesses, by unfelt degrees Become thereby disnatured, and contract The vulturous taste and appetite for blood ; Pierre. To slay her thus — without a motive — thus — So beautiful and innocent too j What doubts Distract me, Manon ! Manon. Are thy wits astray ? De Yardois — Montmorenci — have they not A son and daughter — must I spell it for thee. A TEAGEDY. 197 Like a cliild's lesson ? Canst tlion not perceive Their obvious interest in my cousin^ s deatli ? Pierre. Yes ! I begin to see — the glimmering trutb Breaks into form before me. Manon. On thy knees ! And give God thanks that thou — that thou alone — Of all in this most damning deed concemed_, Hadst yet an honest thought. Pierre. AJas ! alas ! Manon. Well mayst thou cry alas ! But never faint, And lose no time in wringing of thy hands. Be prompt — be zealous to repair this wrong Thou^st helped to do. Pierre. Eepair — repair it ! How ? Manon. To Paris straight ! — Fran9oise may yet be saved. Pierre. To Paris ! Manon ! Manon. Is not Victor there ? Else were she not in danger now — then go ! Seek Victor with the speed of all thy limbs. Tell him what peril waits the maid he loves. They say he's high in favour with the king. Her pardon he'll procure. Pierre. Too far — too far ! Ere I reach Paris all is over here. But to return in time — impossible. 198 THE WEIRWOLF. Manon. Stay not a moment, travel niglit and day. In thy just ardour and beneficent zeal Forget — forget impossibilities. Though mountains rise before thee_, and the leagues Thou hast to master_, multiply themselves To the infinite of distance, do thy best. And Victor will do his. So just a cause God wiU befriend, and look you, do not doubt Eeward will follow. Pierre. That I cannot doubt. Oh ! yes, if we succeed, our noble foes Will not forget to compensate the man Who rashly baulked them of their prey. No doubt ! They could not reach de Yardois, but on me TheyM condescend to be revenged, and I Being useful then no more to him or them. Would surely be surrendered to their spite. No doubt ! No doubt ! ^Tis manifest enough I should be well rewarded. Manon. Slave and coward ! — But anger^s wasted on thee. Thou assume The privileges and dignity of man — Thou prate of love and marriage ! Never more Come near me after this. Her innocent life Might by thy means be spared — the bloody meal A TRAGEDY. 19^ By thy connivance and assistance spread. Snatched from the jaws of murder and revenge. And look ! thou tremblest like a child ! Vile coward ! PiEEKE. I fear the danger ! let the truth be told. In such affairs as these PU never move. Manon. How easily thou wert induced to join This black conspiracy ! Oh ! how little pains We took to make thee plot against the life Of one that never injured thee ! — And now. Wilt thou less easily be wrought upon To make what poor amends are in thy power ? In what^s unjust and base, and despicable. Art thou so hot and zealous — ^but in good So sluggish and so cold ? Pierre. What I did ignorantly That I did innocently ! The wrong was done By Jacques and thee. Repair it, thou and Jacques ! Manon. How sharply that retort strikes through my soul ! Ah, could I — could I but recall the past ! — But come, we trifle — So thou wilt not go ? Pierre. I will not. That^s enough. Manon. Refusing this, Think^st thou to prosper in thy suit to me ? Is this thy love, false braggart ? 200 THE WEIEWOLF. Pierre. Ah, thy cruelty Has done for that. By kindness love is fed. ^Tis wonderful how little it requires. A glance — the veriest shadow of a smile — Sustain its spiritual life — bereft Of every hope, it dies. Manon. Still dost thou love me ? Still love me, Pierre, with all my wickedness — That foul confession clinging to my lips — Soiled so with crime — that even were I as fair As Venus rising from the oozy deep, Should make me ever in thine eyes abhorred. Deformed and ugly ? Dost thou love me still ? Pierre. Whatever wrongs thou'st done are nought to me. The Lord forgive my weakness ! Almost I Could love thy very wickedness ! which seems To bring thee nearer me. Manon. Thou talkest well. But trial shows thee false. Pierre. Nay, Manon, Nay ! Put me, oh put me on a heavier proof. Manon. Art thou to choose that gavest me the choice ? Pierre. I meant no proof or trial such as this. Manon. To any sort of proof thy promise binds. Pierre. This is no trial, therefore I^m not bound. A TRAGEDY. 201 Manon. With my completest means thou shalt be bribed. PiEREE. Then all or nothing. Bribe me with thyself. Manon. Go then to Paris — If Fran9oise be saved, 1^11 marry thee ! Pierre. Thy hand upon it ! Manon. There ! Pierre. Swear it ! Manon. How ! Listen then ! So help me Heaven ! Strain thou thine every nerve — thine utmost pains — On thy return Pll marry thee. Pierre. ^Tis done. I take thine offer, girl ! Manon. Away at once ! Lose not a moment. Pierre. Yet one kiss — one kiss — In earnest of our bargain. Manon. Get thee gone ! Is this a time for toying, when her hours Are to a second numbered ? Get thee gone ! Or I renounce thee ever. Pierre. Ah ! but one. ^Ianon. Thou sullen booby, have thy will. But now — 202 THE WEIEWOLF. This instant — off ! Pierre. Behold ! behold ! I fly. Manon. And hark ! if thou be slack, I'll hear of thee. Then never venture to come near me more. [Exit Pierre. Manon. The creature, how I loathe him — at his touch How my flesh creeps ! But even as IVe sworn Will I keep honourably the dreadful vow. Oh_, thou my God ! accept the sacrifice. And sanctify the penance ! What remains ? Can nothing more be done ? Aid me remorse ! Spirits or fiends, that lash the guilty soul For good or evil purpose, help me now ! I have it. Yes ! There's yet another chance. The thought's an inspiration. Heaven itself Must aid my just design. For if she dies, God's justice is impeached. In place of right. Chaotic rudeness and confusion reign. And naked tyranny bestrides the world. At least I'll try it. Henceforth, what's life to me. Tied to the gross embraces of a fool ? And now to prove what my weak sex can do. 203 ACT Y. Scene I. — Road through for est. Groups of male and female peasants passing and repassing. At a greater distancej a little on one side, gens d'ai-mes, halberdiers, exempts, monhs, peasants loohing on. Sounds afar of chopping and ham- me^'ing. Smolie at a distance. Enter Syl- VANUS_, peasants, 8fc. 1st Man. We should be near. 2nd Man. Ah ! yonder is the place. I see the moving multitude. I hear The sounding axe and hammer. There they go — Labourers and monks and soldiers. 1st Man. What a swarm ! It surely has begun ? 1st Woman. The saints forbid ! For ten gold louis I would not be late. I pray you let us hurry. 2nd Man. Nay. No fear. No need_, my girl ! of hurry. Syl. See. The smoke Its thin grey curtain lazily unfurls. Yet hugs the morning air. 2nd ]\Ian. Not from the stake That smoke proceeds. 'Tis but preliminai'y. 204 THE WEIRWOLP. The form and order of the spectacle Have not commenced. In yonder wavering crowd The many -voiced murmur^ and the restless stir. The noise and haste of urgent preparation_, Are all that I discern. This way, 'tis certain. Must the procession pass. And Fll be sworn The good Lord Abbot's scarcely out of bed. 2nd Woman. The halberdiers were early upon guard. I rose to see them passing — 2nd Man. Or thou wouldst Have lain abed for hours. We know thee, wench ! 2nd Woman. Have I not leave to lie abed as long As my Lord Abbot ? Syl. Nay, how sluggish seems The rosy dawn herself at getting up ! So loth, as it were to stir and lift herself Out of the moist arms of the wanton clouds — 3ed Man. Indeed — indeed — the surly face of Heaven Forebodes no good. The burdened atmosphere Is black with tokens of impending showers. Syl. But look you when the young indifferent day From their embraces draws^ the baffled mists A TRAGEDY. 205 Transfer their fondness to the foolish earthy And fold her round^ and on her modest brows Print shining kisses^ till they grow so fond — In amorous ecstasy they dissolve and die. And waste their substance and their watery wealth On her abundant breast — and notice next, How when the whining melancholy winds. Like servants waiting at untimely hours On the late revels of devoted lords, Would drag them off, the fascinated fools Still spread abroad their limp reluctant arms, And linger to the last before they go. 3rd Woman. This may be fine talk, but do tell me, Paul! — Thou'rt something weather-wise — in good plain French, Be these the signs of rain ? 1st Woman. Of rain ! Oh Lord ! Heaven shut the watery sluices for a day — One day at least ! 4th Man. My mind misgave me much. When my old tyrants, the rheumatic pains. Returned last night to plague me. 3rd Woman. Out upon thee ! Thou dotard ! with thy pains, which are no more Than a just penance for a wanton youth Which left thee rottenness to scourge thine age. 206 THE WEIRWOLP. 4th Man. Now rot thy tongue for tliat ! Thou saucy jade ! 3rd Man. ^Twas a home thrust. But touching rain — ^twill come Sooner or later. If it come not now At least ^tis nearer now than yesterday. 1st Woman. More soldiers — see the lines to- gether draw. 2nd Woman. Brave fellows ! Are they not ? Syl. How much ado They make with this poor girl ! 3rd Man. And wherefore not ? Not every day they light upon a witch_, Or find such goodly fuel to make a blaze of. 1st Woman. Now God be thanked ! the sun is coming out. ^ Twill yet be fine — and Hwere a pity else. A heavy shower might play such havoc with The fire, and spoil our sport. 2nd Man. Nay. Never fear, ' Tis cared for — that — They know what they ^re about. 2nd Woman. I should be loth to lose the spectacle. 3rd Woman. And so should I. 4th Man. They come so seldom now — These solemn acts and holy sacrifices. But I remember in my younger days — When Spanish Charles was Emperor — A TRAGEDY. 207 3rd Woman. To the devil With Spanish Charles, thy younger days_, and thee! Thou prosy time-killer ! 4th Woman. Go say thy prayers. 1st Woman. If I must pray, for sunshine I would pray. Syl. Oh ! cruel girl ! were it thy chance to burn As yet — who knows — it might be, in thy turn. Upon some like occasion, those red lips Would pray another prayer. Too gladly then Thou'dst welcome every shining drop that fell. Nor deem it grievous though they poured as thick As on thy glossy head the raven hairs. Poor wretch ! 3rd ^Ian. I marvel now the wicked witch Calls not her fiends to help her in this strait, And sluice the ground with showers. 2nd Man. Her hour is come. The powers of darkness have deserted her. And near the holy crosses of the monks Their devilry would fail. 1st Woman. So burn she must. Syl. Poor wretch ! poor wretch ! 3rd Woman. Thou heretic to show Such pity for a witch ! 208 THE WEIRWOLP. Syl. If witch she be Have I not leave to pity her ? 3rd Woman. She deserves Her punishment. Syl. Why then I pity her That she deserves it. 3kd Woman. Who would spare a sin Approves it surely. Syl. I approve it not. But which of us shall dare to cast a stone Upon the sinner, we who never sinned ? In his own case were ^ny one of us The judge, would any, for the blackest crimes Call down so dire a sentence on himself ? 1st Woman. No more of this, I pray — ^tis wearisome. 3rd Woman. Shall crimes like these remain unpunished then ? Syl. That^s not our business surely, my sweet friend ! 3rd Woman. Cut off must be the wicked, so ^tis writ. Syl. Cut off — ^but not by us, nor in our thoughts. 3rd Woman. But some must do the work, or ^twere not done. Syl. It is not ours to punish or condemn. They do the work that are appointed, best, A TRAGEDY. 209 And I thank God, my girl ! that His not ours. More to be pitied than the smitten, child ! Are they that smite. Alas ! by the iron laws And stony girdle of necessity They walk constrained and gyved. The powers they wield Are not their own — the sovereign elements Which seem to make them mighty, are but means And signs and engines of their own subjection. Like the sad genii of Arabian tales, The slaves of rings and lamps, they cannot move Out of the enchanted coil that hems them round Inexorably stern — their strength's controlled For purposes and ends they wot not of. Or not by them designed. They bind — they burn — They crush and tear — they torture and they kill — But from their horrid task once entered on. They cannot turn, or tear themselves away, For tenderness or pity. They must on As they began — must rigorously suppress All gentle thoughts — all loving impulses — ■ AH soft compassionate instincts — must be deaf To the celestial voices. Unto them 'Tis not permitted to be merciful. But we, my friends ! are happier, for we're free To follow Nature. The divine desires — 14 210 THE WEIRWOLF. The godlike promptings of our inmost souls — Whereby God speaks to us, if he ever speaks — We need not stifle. Our humanity Is not like a sealed book, whose outward shape We bear about us, but whose inner sense Has no significance for us. Why — ah, why — Should we refuse our sympathy to sorrow — Why scourge the bleeding bosom of affliction With coarse contempt and heartless mockery. Because its wounds are cankered with despair — Its ills incurable — or because, alas ! The desperate burden of a guilty soul Weighs it down hopelessly ? Is it not enough That sin must bear the inevitable pangs Of self-reproach — must undergo the doom Of open shame, and public punishment — But we, like fiends, must glory in its pain. And triumph in its sufi'ering ? If this girl — This poor inheritor of the wrath of God — This feeble victim of a potent church— This quarry stricken by the kites of Christ — If innocent she be, your mirth^s unjust — If guilty, then ^tis cruel. Hath she done To any of us a wrong ? And if she had. Are we not Christians ? what forgiveness means Have none of us been taught ? This wanton scorn Would seem but mere revenge — A TRAGEDY. 211 1st Woman. How long must we Endure this prosy fellow ? 2nd Woman. Did we come To hear him preach a sermon ? 3rd jMan. Come. No more Trouble our patience. 3rd Woman. Wherefore art thou here, Attending on this cruel spectacle ? Sharing the wicked deeds that others do ? Syl. Swept on the current of the crowd I came In thoughtless — foolish — fellowship. Often thus We do the things we disapprove, because Another does them with us. But a word Is good in season. I withdraw myself And herd no longer with you. 3rd Man. Well away. 2nd Woman. A goodly riddance. 1st Woman. He was ever thus In opposition. Left to himself, himself He disagrees with. Gracious ! How I hate These men who reason about right and wrong ! But come. 'Tis time we moved. 2nd !Man. ^Twere better wait. For near this spot must the procession march. And yonder through the trees I see them come. 1st Woman. Perdition to the witch ! A merry day— A merry day we^U have. {Distant Music.) 14 * 212 THE WEIRWOLF. 2nd Man. Tlie music ! Hark ! And voices in accord. 1st Man. A solemn strain. 1st Woman. We^ll join the chorus. 2nd Man. Silence. 3rd Man. Stand aside. Enter procession of monies and other ecclesiastics. Three Commissioners, De Vaedois, Mont- MOEENCi, other nobles, some on horseback. Father Simon following. Chariots at a distance, with male and female sjpectators. Procession and crowd of peasants in continued movement. In the middle of the procession, Fran^oise Thilouze, in blach penitential robes, wolf's paw round her nech, A monk with^ cru- cifix on each side of her. Chorus of Monks and Peasants. I. When knowledge into crime By impious pride and mad ambition led. To heavenly heights sublime On reckless pinion rashly soars. Or with audacious tread The dreadful depths of hell Presumptuously explores, In vain the woods with woful warnings swell. A TRAGEDY. 213 Vainly many a mystic sound Wakes witli wild and ominous wail The slumbering pulses of tlie midnight air_, Scaring the wolf as he prowls around, Or lurks in his mountain lair^ And smiting with supernatural dread The heart of the watcher, lone and pale, Who watches at night some loved one's bed — Sad as disembodied cries — Cries from shrieking mandrakes torn. Tones that wander o'er the skies — Wander homeless and forlorn — And dismal as some spirit's shrill voice that sails Floating upon icy gales From the kingdoms of the dead. Vainly is the wrath divine Writ in many a sombre sign — Writ in meteors overhead — Meteors pale and blue and red — Which the wind-racked seaman fears. Vainly from the conscious spheres. Shuddering as they whirl them round In choral dance profound^, Fall like sparks prophetic tears. Flash mysterious utterances. Vainly the bright hierarchies above. Shedding agonies of love O'er us of their seraph-glances, 214 THE WETRWOLP. Foreshadow and reveal, By many a mystic gleam — By prodigy and dream — Tlie sorrow and the fear that angels share and feel. II. In vain — in vain — before We tempt the perilous track, The voice of Grod^s commissioned counsellor Would warn the wanderer back. Yes. If man would only hear Conscience speaks in solemn fear. When on Heaven^s mysterious ways Human eyes would rashly gaze, Or when too curiously profane would peep Beneath that unknown deep, Wherein, as in a fathomless ocean^s breast. Eternal secrets rest. *^ Oh, fool \" with awful voice she cries, " For yonder barren prize. The poor rewards that empty knowledge brings The tricks and fantasies of pride — The fleeting shadows of unreal things — Whereby no soul was ever satisfied — For transient pleasures — perishable toys — To forfeit heavenly joys. And madly to surrender up A TRAGEDY. 215 The eternal heritage above." Ah ! not the red Circaean cup — The drunken dotard's deadly love — So sui'ely to destruction leads. As this vain desii*e of knowing Things forbidden to be known. Light enough of God's bestowing Have we for all earthly needs. And duty's path is ever clearly shown. Beyond lies sin's impenetrable gloom. Or fairy bowers of lust that end in death and doom. Ah ! by this lust of knowledge first Were our happy parents cursed. Lust of knowledge sprang from hell — Thus the rebel angels fell. Rest we then with faith content In the twiHght Heaven has sent, Till the glorious dawn appear To make all secrets plain, and every mystery cleai\ III. The soul with guilty thirst Of lawless knowledge fataUy possessed. By its own hopes accursed. Shall never more — shall never more — Be capable of rest. A phantom light for ever 216 THE WEIRWOLF. Shall lure it on before. But to draw near the goal of its endeavour. To its wish shall not be granted, Nor its passionate anguish blest. Oh futile chase that issues in despair ! 'Tis even as one that, with sense enchanted. Should follow the shadows fair — The purple shadows — the golden gleams — Which the conjuror sun ere he bows his crest. Calls up to kindle his shining dreams. Deaf is earth, and deaf is heaven. Nature, to avenge her laws. Tired of warnings vainly given. Like a slighted god withdraws Into eternal scorn, and silence cold. Yonder starry worlds behold ! As they glisten — as they glare — Through the solitudes immense. Almost with a liviug sense. How they mock his impious prayer. With an infiaite despair ! Does the guilty spirit groan ? What's the sum of all that's known ? Mystery still with widening coils The pride of reason foils. Hark ! from Hades' burning zone — From the wastes where horror reigns. Where from their lurid fire's eternal glare A TEAGEDY. 217 Sulphurous emanations flow, Glimmering over gloomy plains — A cruel laughter springs, Which., furrowing up the sleep Of the primeval deep, Hoarse through the vaults of space with jarring echo rings. IV. The ways- of Heaven are just — The ways of Heaven are kind — Who wholly unto God for guidance trust, Shall perfect safety find. Out of God our being flows. He our strength and weakness knows — Sees the reach of sense and thought. What we can and what we ought — Knows best within what bounds confined Man^s speculative mind. The toil — the struggle for inquiry past. Shall rest in peace at last. Of old — before this wondrous earth Was quickened into birth. Or the fair universe awoke in pride Of youth and beauty on the deep. As on her marriage morning a young bride. Dream-flushed and lovely, lifts her face from sleep. And darts star-glances from her quickening eyes. 218 THE WEIRWOLP. That kindle up the skies — Omniscience drew the circle round, Whatever was right for man to know. Who ventures past that sacred bound. Accomplishes the eternal woe. And fearful is thy fall from light, Wretch ! to outer darkness tossed — In abysmal chaos drowned ! Falling with perpetual flight. Till the black depths — the bottomless gulfs pro- found — Disturbed amid theii' terrible repose. Shall on thy sheer descent inexorably close — And discords, mixed of rage and pain. Booming ever in thy brain With delirious sense possess tbee — Spectral arms enfold and press thee As of slimy monsters wound — Twining — ever twining round — Twining — grasping — holding fast — Till bell itself absorb and swallow thee at last. 1st Woman. A goodly pageant. Syl. And the music too — So excellently toned, it strikes the ear Aghast with sweetness. 1st Woman. Thou ! — still here to trouble us With thy dull prating ! A TRAGEDY. 219 3rd Woman. Yonder walks the witch In funeral garb arrayed. Syl. Oil ! divine face ! Oil ! glimpse of radiance beautiful though brief^ And mild as noiseless hghtnings ! — Eyes so sweet And so unfathomable ! A moment ! Then We miss them after like extinguished stars ! Ah ! with what agony of the silent soul — When sorrow bows her eyelids to the ground. 1st Woman. What is it delays them now ? 1 ST Man. Beshrew me ! Friends ! But ^tis a lovely wench. 3rd Woman. The devil^s a judge Of beauty — doubtless. 1st Woman. Of a fashion — See The devil's in all the men. How they do stare ! Out of the way thou gudgeon ! Stand aside. Syl. The devil — Vye heard it said_, but never quite Conceived the saying — was once, or is, transformed Into a shape of light. And I'd as soon Believe it, as that yonder angel-maid Should be the minister of unholy deeds — Those holy looks the horrid harbingers — Those heavenly eyes the loose interpreters. Of devilish and abominable thoughts. Shall sin be sanctified in such a shape ? 220 THE WEIEWOLF. Shall God tempt man with beauty — Heaven and hell Be leagued together for man's overthrow ? Shall He permit the bright hierarchies Of heaven, and the awful agencies of hell. To meet in damned and unnatural dance. Blending their absolute antagonisms And infinite opposition, to ensnare Our souls with perilous shows ? Eternal powers ! Who shape the course of matter and compose The periods of the plastic universe ! Shall all your fairest forms, your most com- plete And wondrous works, your high consummate strain Of the aggregated forces, issue thus In phantoms that embrace but to destroy. And meteor lights that lure us to the grave ? Has Nature fashioned that excelling face — Endowed that form with wondrous witcheries — Only to blind and puzzle as with shams And false similitudes of light ? If this Be so, let's never again put faith or trust In fairest semblance — the most beautiful Let us mistrust the most. Then happy they Who never from their births beheld the light — Who never on their foolish eyes relied. Or built on vague appearance their belief. A TRAGEDY. 221 Or fantasies of outward sense mistook For the divine realities of truth. 3ed Woman. If thou must preachy postpone thy cruel gift For more' auspicious season 2nd Woman, Have a care Whereto thou wanderest, man^ or there be hands Will roughly handle thee. Gens d^Aemes. Back ! fellow ! back ! Give way — give way — there. Officer. Let the holy men Have room to pass and breathe. Gens d'Armes. So. Clear the way. The procession pauses, hreaking into groups. Peo^ple passing and repassing. Chorus of Monks, Quamvis stultus sit securus, Deus tamen est venturus, Qui purgabit Ipse purus Corpora et mentes. Magni coelum et profundum Quatient ictus, et rotundum Terror agitabit mundum, Pallidasque gentes. 1st Monk. Sorceress ! Thy time is brief. Prepare to die. 222 THE WEIRWOLF. Fean. Prepare thyself. Art thou not mortal too ? ] ST Monk. But not like thee to present death condemned. Fean. What matter a few years not worth account ? 1st Monk. In fiery pangs shall pass thy guilty soul. Fean. By bodily pain the spirit is still unharmed. 1st Monk. Hast thou no fear to perish in the flames ? Fean. What kills the soul alone we rightly fear. 1st Monk. Eternal torture waits thy soul in hell. Fran. Not in thy power eternal iudgments dwell. Chorus of Monies, Parum trepident insontes, Laetae placidaeque frontes Sint eorum_, sicut montes Quos oppugnant venti^ In procellis quum versentur, Et nigras nubes minentur. At turbari non videntur Sedibus retenti. A TRAGEDY. 223 2nd Monk. Durst thou with face so calm look up to heaven ? Fran. Yes. IVe a father and protector there. 2nd Monk. Blasphemer ! Does the wicked He protect? Fran. He's the only father of the miserable. 2nd Monk. If He protect thee, wherefore art thou here ? Fran. His justice waits, but is not the less sure. 2nd Monk. This is His justice, that is done to thee. Fran. The ways of man are not the ways of God. 2nd Monk. We do His will that are His ministers. Fran. In doing a wrong ye're not His ministers. 2nd Monk. By His permission what we do — we do. Fran. The devil himself 's permitted for a time. 2nd Monk. For thee nor God nor devil shall interpose. Fran. " Get thee behind me, Satan !'' Tempt me not. 2nd Monk. Thus Satan raves, divided from himself. Fran. I know — I know — the ways of God are just. 224 THE WEIRWOLF. I dare not question His mysterious will_, And what He does not hinder He sustains. Support me, Hope and Eefuge of the oppressed. To my weak faith Thy plenteous grace afford. And in Thy mercy wash my sins away. 1st Monk. Without confession dost thou pray to God ? Fran. To whom but God alone shall man confess ? 1st Monk. To us that are the ministers of God. Fran. His ministers or not, ye are only men. 1st Monk. To us the keys of heaven and earth are given. Fran. Shall mortal man the place of God usurp ? 1st Monk. To us Hwas given above to bind and loose. Fran. Shall man absolve another from his sins ? 1st Monk. We keep the keys — we watch the gate of heaven. Fran. Shall man assume the privilege to for- give ? 1st Monk. Through us — through us — the sinner^s prayer is heard. Fran. I know one Mediator only — Christ. A TRAGEDY. 225 1st Monk. Tis we wlio hold His delegated power. Fran. I cannot waste my soul on human ears. And least of all on yours, ye sullen tribe ! Whose hearts the cloister's clammy atmosphere Hath with rank mildew eaten and consumed. Leaving instead a cold and gloomy void. That mocks the pleading voice of innocence With barren echoes or inhuman jeers. 2nd Monk. Accursed witch ! To prate of in- nocence ! Fran. Pray God thine end be innocent as mine ! 2nd Monk. This is but stubborn pride and arrogance. Fran. I take thy censure though 'twas wrongly meant. 2nd Monk. Was that in mockery or repent- ance said ? Fran. I stand upon the threshold of the grave. 2nd Monk. Why then, confess, and make thy peace with God. Fran. To God, not thee, be my confession made. And here, whatever pangs your spite inflicts, I take for justice, which by Him dispensed. Can never equal my exceeding sins. But vex me not thou with thy vain advice. And fulsome importunities, which are 15 226 THE WEIRWOLF. A sorrow and a snare to erring souls. My hopes of mercy and of grace depend. Nor upon tliine nor any human aid. They grow above in heaven — above the stars — They flourish there like climbing parasites. Rooted and nurtured in the blood of Christ. Chorus of Monks. Paveant autem scelerati. Saevum pondus est peccati. Magis autem implacati Ira Dei sasvum. Janua patet infernalis. Ignis emicat lethalis^ Cujus qualis ardor, tahs Ardor est in oevum. 1st Monk. Confess. Confess. ■'Tis thy last earthly chance. Confess. To all salvation's possible Save to the impenitent. Confess and save Thy soul from judgment. Fran. Oh, mistaken zeal. And blind ofiiciousness ! Ye toil in vain. Ye shall not move me to confess to you In any wise — but not to God himself — Much less to you — will I confess a crime Which never IVe committed or conceived. I A TRAGEDY. 227 Whereof I^m innocent — more — oh! more than thou^ Since in thy thoughts it finds a place at least — Whereas — ^for me — I know not what it means. 2nd Monk. Thou liest. Jezebel ! In thy throat thou liest. Fean. For this I bid thee fear the wrath of God. 2nd Monk. It falls on thee, thou wretched castaway ! Fean. Who persecutes the wretched is ac- curst. 2nd Monk. Aroint thee, witch! Thy curse I do not fear. {Crosses himself.) Fean. To God, what sin worse than injustice shows ? 2nd Monk. ^Tis not injustice sending thee to hell. Fean. The heart that's dead to pity — that is hell. 2nd Monk. Blasphemer ! Silence ! Else I'll have thee gagged. Fran. My silence shall condemn thee but the more. 2nd Monk. Nor speech nor silence shall avert thy doom. Fean. Worse doom than theirs not hell itself assigns. Whose hearts, long hardened in habitual wrong, 15* 228 THE WEIRWOLF. Persist believing wrong is ever right. I pray this doom from thee may God avert. And teach me to forgive as One forgave. Who dying, said, ^' They know not what they do." Chorus of Monhs. Tempore peribit eo Quisquis inimicus Deo. Posthac non valebit reo Venia perpetrati. Tunc occumbet insolentis Eegnum veteris serpentis. In lacum semper ardentis Sulfuris jactati. (Procession passes on. Exeunt FEAN901SE, Monhs, Nobles, 8fc.) Chorus of Peasant Girls. Pass on, the clouds of doom are gathering o'er thee. Death's pageants gird thee round with ghastly show — Yon pile that lifts its ominous brows before thee, Their torches that afar like baleful meteors glow. Earth from her bosom spues thee into infinite woe. A TEAGEDY. 229 Through fiery gates of death Thou shalt exhale thy breath, And plunge from mortal pangs to endless pain below. Depart, accursed ! Descend to shades infernal, To lurid wastes and seas of rayless fire. Where night and desolation reign eternal. And justice gluts for ages her insatiate ire, Still with damned undying millions filling up the frightful pyre. There impenitent despair insults eternity with curses. There remorse, bereft of hope, his hopeless an- guish aye rehearses. Pangs that never know reprieving — Groans that rend without relieving — Sobs like shocks of earthquakes heaving — Howling rage and helhsh spite — Mix their music never-ending, Kound the spheral slopes extending. Like a stream in ocean blending. With the dreary wastes of night. Listening angels as they wander, wander on their missions high, Shall pause in airy flight, Beyond the brink of light. And shudder at that sad but awful symphony. 230 THE WEIEWOLP. Descend and prove what hideous utterances Shall, issuing from thy lips, that chorus swell — How the fierce horror of thy burning glances Eeflect the agonies of universal hell ! Now gapeth on thy soul that black hereafter, Do subject demons thy behests obey ? They mock thee — mock thee with malignant laughter. And grinning ghosts rebelliously deride thy sway. Look not to them for aid or respite or delay. False — false as human friends. When sorrow's hour impends, Who pour malicious scoff's, or coldly fall away. Where now thy spells of might, thy words of wonder. The types and engines of unearthly power ? Hast thou no withering dews, no blasting thunder. No serpents to seduce, no dragons to devour. By whose means relentless judgment might be cheated of an hour ? Ah! thy mystic reign is over, devilish arts no more avail thee — Moon and stars give heed no longer, muttered charms and curses fail thee. Go, for heaven and earth reject thee. Go, the infernal realms expect thee. None dare pity, none protect thee — A TEAaEDY. 231 Every hope of pardon past. Go, but not by bell forsaken. Tremble ! Tremble ! Tbou must waken From the dream of death, overtaken By the unpitying fiends at last. They shall come, thy shrinking spirit in their grasp, to bear away. Even now their pinions sweep, Across the dismal deep, And lash the sulphurous air, impatient for their prey. Depart, the clouds of doom grow gathering o^er thee — Death's pageants gird thee round with ghastly show — Yon pile, that lifts its ominous brow before thee — Those torches that afar, like dancing meteors, glow. [Exeunt omnes, (Shouts and tumult in the distance. Enter peasants hearing Clemence de Montmorenci. Fathee Simon. Juliet. Male and female peasants, and other spectators,) F. Simon. There. Lay her on this smooth and grassy turf — But gently — gently. Juliet. Fellows ! do ye hear ? More gently — on your lives. 232 THE WEIEWOLF. F. Simon. Some water. There ! Juliet. Alas ! Alas ! my lady ! F. Simon. Sprinkle it Upon her face. She will recover soon. Bless thee, my daughter! Give her room and air. All tenderness and pity as she is. The day^s anticipated horrors weighed Too heavily on her heart. Juliet. Oh ! ^Tis a loss Not easily repaired. F. Simon. What means the girl ? There's no such danger. Juliet. Father ! If we chance To lose the spectacle ! F. Simon. Was the Marquis warned Of what has happened ? 1st Pea. One was straight despatched To tell him. F. Simon. Eaise her — yet a little more, ■'Twixt life and death she labours, like a flame With difficulty kindled in a damp And heavy atmosphere, her wavering senses With cold obstruction fitfully contend. And falter into consciousness. Juliet. She sighs. F. Simon. Again ! That's well. Sadly we enter life. A TRAGEDY. 233 And from tlie gloom of temporary death As sadly we return. Juliet. Her eyes ! Behold ! She lifts them to the light. Clem. What have we here ? Ho! Juliet! JuHet ! Juliet. Juliet is not far My dearest lady ! Clem. I remember — Ah ! Enter Marquis de Montmorenci : Lords, Peasants, ^c. Mont. Clemence ! my darling Clemence ! I rejoice To find thee safe. Clem. Who^s safe that has a soul ? Who's safe from judgment — safe but in the grave? There only danger and temptation cease. Oh ! human nature's feeble, and the powers Of darkness suffered for a season, rage Like roaring lions. Surely hell's let loose. And deeds are done upon this earth of ours. Should scare God's holy angels — Mont. Be composed For none but friends are near thee. Clem. Have a care. They're certainly possessed. What else ? What else? 234 THE WEIRWOLF. Eyes have they, but they see not, ears, but hear not. Bhnd — blind. Deaf — deaf. Dear Father ! Thou dost well. Share not their counsels — sit not in their seats. Oh ! thou dost well to come away from them And leave them to themselves. We^-e all — all blind- But of all blindness that^s the fatal sort Which settles on the heart. Take heed. Take heed. Mont. Her tide of reason's only on the turn. And does not fully flow. Juliet. How wild she looks ! {8houts at a distance.) Mont. This day, 'tis certain, are the powers of hell Scourged in the person of their minister Who's justly doomed to perish. Clem. Ah ! the fires Of godless persecution scorch the souls Of those who kindle or who suffer them. But surely — surely — 'twas a blessed chance That drew me hither, and by grace divine The foolishness of my presumptuous soul Was turned to saving mercy, when I saw That fair pale face, by sorrow sanctified. A TEAGEDY. 235 And worshipped as before a sweet saint^s slirine. That living image of martyred loveliness. Then from the stony rock of my hard heart, Struck by the spirit of God, a holy spring — A spring of pity — gushed and overflowed And swept me momentarily out of life Into the neighbourhood of death and heaven. The veil was lifted from divided worlds. And through the shadow of death I passed, and saw Beyond as it were a glance of the eyes of God, Which cleared the mists of error from my sight, And blessed me with eternal secrets. Mont. What ! Another of thy visions ! Foolish child ! WerH not thy wits are somewhat gone awry, I could be angry — Clem. Listen ! I beheld A troop of devils gush upward from the deep. Through the airy wastes I watched them whirl- ing, like The smoke of burning forests, from afar. Swept onwards by the persevering air. And float and spread, till earthward they inclined. Shrouding the hills and fields. I saw them poised. Then swoop and settle, like a greedy flight Of bii'ds obscene, that in the summer swarm 236 THE WEIEWOLF. Where the rank carrion steams. In course of time They filled their place, and bursting out of bounds. They flowed all round, Kke an ambitious pool, That swoln in summer by the sudden rains. Disdains its banks, and with its muddy ooze. Overwhelms the fertile plains. They held in fee The subject- world, and took it for their own. And for a season was dominion given Into their hands, and privileges and powers — Authority to smite and slay — to give And take away — to govern and instruct. Thus, by mysterious ordinance, they became The sovereigns, and the teachers, of mankind. They seized the imperial sceptres — they usurped The kingly thrones and palaces — profaned The temples of religion — shaped and swayed The college and the senate — perched themselves On pulpit and on rostrum — they were clad In purple, lawn, and ermine, and their brows With crowns, and mitres, and tiaras bound. And thus dispensing to obedient crowds — For men will fawn wherever there is power — Their solemn laws — their reverend oracles — For reverence waits upon solemnity — They ruled and taught the nations much the same As now by kings and priests they 're taught and ruled. A TRAGEDY. 237 For with strange throbbings of the heart, and hot And feverish chokings, and abundant tears, I trembled for the future of mankind. To those dark powers — that fearful fate con- signed — I looked in long despair, and pitied much The sons of men, my brothers — I assumed The extremes of all disastrous destinies. When universal horror should bestride And whip the world to ruin. I looked round For bloody massacres — remorseless wars — For tyranny — and anger — and revenge — For every form of wickedness and woe. Oppression — tumult — blasphemy — despair And anguish of the nations — all in one — I looked for all this to be meted out In larger measure, and more dire results. Than ever had been felt or known before. Or by the saddest poet sung or dreamed. In all the mad monotony of the past. I looked for horrors upon horrors heaped — Iniquity upon iniquity piled — Infernal suffering and infernal crime — By multiplication of inbreeding wrong Made gross and monstrous and intolerable — In indiscriminate mass accumulated. In short — hell upon earth — the natural growth 238 THE WEIRWOLP. And dire effect of diabolic change. But change there was not, more than oft before Accompanied the common ups and downs Of governments, churches, emperors, popes, and kings. Which dance awhile like puppets, and go down And disappear thereafter — much the same The world went on, as under human rule, No difference, measurable or perceived. In the outward face and general scope of things. And wars there were, but neither less nor more Than had been wont to be. Of woes and crimes The customary measure. And the blood Of human victims dyed the oppressor's scourge — And human lives by tyranny's iron heel Were trampled out like vermin — but no more. Nor in proportions deadlier than beseems The ghastly cravings of insatiate power — Mont. Enough ! my child ! Enough ! Clem. 'Tis wonderful How little does the government of men Differ from that of devils — Mont. Oh ! gracious Heaven ! Clem. 'Tis current too. IVe heard that once in Rome Satan himself was made a cardinal — And would have been, or was, elected Pope. But when he came to touch the holy keys A TRAGEDY. 239 His courage somehow failed him, and he fled. And afterwards was seen no more on earth. Mont. Fie ! fie ! my Clemence ! These are vulgar tales Unfitted for the lips of noble maids. F. Simon. So bitter, yet so young. Mont. Alas ! she raves. ^Twere well we could remove her. These mad words Have here too many hearers. F. Simon. I beseech you Be careful lest her strength be overtaxed. Clem. Remove me — yes — remove me quite away. From France — or out of the world — or any- where — Far — far — from sight or knowledge of the deeds They^re doing yonder. Mont. Send these knaves away. Juliet. Hence, fellows, hence ! Ye^re needed here no more. Clem. Poor souls ! I thank them. They were kind to me. Mont. To-morrow to the chateau come. Your pains Shall be rewarded. Juliet. Hence ! Away ! Ye hear. \_Exeunt peasants. 240 THE WEIRWOLF. Clem. Wliy take we part in this phantasma- gory? What want we here ? Why are we in the world ? Oh what a huge illusion is it all ! Is anything at all what it appears ? Who goes without a mask upon his face. Or talks his naked soul ? Religion— God — Virtue and honour ! What pretentious names We make them in our acts — our daily lives ! What morels in all the piety we preach — The goodness we go bail for to mankind — Than costly garments kept for gala days. From common life and business put aside ? F. Simon. Each has it in his own power to be true. Clem. But whom to trust, however true one- self? F. Simon. Enough for each, of his own truth assured. Clem. But how shall one weak arm the truth maintain ? F. Simon. Enough for one, if he maintain his own. Clem. Shall he not help another to be true ? F. Simon. But truth is great — and ever will prevail. Clem. How long are we to wait, and suffer lies ? A TRAGEDY. 241 F. Simon. Child ! we must wait for Grod's appointed time. Clem. Alas ! our life's a long perplexity. F. Simon. Too brief for most of us, I fear, my child ! Clem. By our ini juities measured, too — too — long. F. Simon. In an eternal certainty Hwill end. Clem. And yet however long, too brief for truth — Too brief for truth or certainty below. Oh ! who that lives — however long he lives — Can ever hope — shall ever find the time — To sort the motley multitudinous forms Of many-headed error, or detect The juggle of appearance, or prevent Deception's weedy growth from getting head Of our perplexed experience, and weak pains, And choking up our way ? The vain attempt Wastes our best years, and so we're played upon By one after another sleight-of-hand. But learning nothing till too late to learn, And fretted with perpetual change, till death Looks in at the window, like a constable On midnight revellers, taken at the dawn, And with rude voice and rough peremptoriness Breaks up the tedious game, and all we 'know Is how much we've been fooled — 16 242 THE WEIRWOLF. Mont. Enougli of this. Will my dear Clemence see tlie spectacle ? Clem. No more — no more such spectacles for me. How canst thou ask it ? Mont. Why then tarry here ? Clem. There — where oppression like a vulture sits To gloat and gorge on human agony — Mont. Thou camest hither of thine own free will. I did not urge thee. Clem. I had foolish dreams Of doing good. My weakness I forgot — Oh for the heart and sinews of a man ! Mont. Pray God thy brain, my Clemence, be not turned ! Think — think of what thou sayest ? What right hast thou Herein to judge, much less to interfere ? Clem. No right but that of human brotherhood. And human sympathy, and human love ! In woman's bosom there's a charter drawn Direct from God, and registered in heaven. Whereby she holds her high prerogative — Her blessed rights and privileges of pity — And there's no power in human ordinances To rob her of it — A TRAGEDY. 243 Mont. If this folly hold, My grief's made cureless too. Clem. But never think I'm frantic, father ! There's a Providence Watches the falhng sparrow — how much more Takes virtue by the hand. God's on thy side Wronged innocence ! Yes. And His Almighty arm Shall help thee at the last. [Shotits,) Mont. We must away. The chariot ! fellows ! Clem. Father ! tell me first — Nay, tell me truly — is this maid a witch ? Mont. Why think so basely of her judges, child ! As that being innocent they'd her death desire ? Clem. Judges are men, and men are fallible. Mont. But, Clemence ! these are men of high repute — Of known experience and severity. Their offices are honourable — their lives In holiness and virtue correspond. Such men, if any, have the ear of God. For this occasion chosen — sworn to do What's right and just — 'tis foUy to impugu Or question their decrees, which God himself Inspires, enforces, and authenticates. Clem. We know them by their fruits. 16 * 244 THE WEIRWOLP. Mont. She's been condemned On clearest evidence of establislied facts. Clem. The girl's no more a witch than thou or I. Here in this village since her birth she's lived A harmless — many say^ a noble — life. How was she never charged with this offence Till Victor loved her ? Mont. That's her deadliest crime. That proved her dangerous, when his fickle heart Was drawn from right_, from duty, and from thee. Clem. What, then ! is it witchcraft to be young and fair ? Is loveliness a sin inexpiable — And beauty branded with the curse of God ? Bright eyes — sweet looks — gentle and winning ways — Smiles that like sunbeams quicken in the heart The seeds of nature — tones that stir affection Into responsive life, like answering chords Of instruments in choral dance combined — If these be magic, how shall they be saved Who clothe their lives in like predicaments ? How shall those noble mistresses and maids. Who sit above yon crowd in cushioned state, Escape the due damnation ? They must burn, A TRAGEDY. 245 Or what^s your justice wortli ? Since by the same Sly witcheries — by the sarue seductive arts — That drew their highborn lovers to their feet. Was Victor won. Mont. Yes. He deserted thee. Clem. Deserted me — as men are wont to leave One idol for another. But_, indeed_, For both of us 'twas better — that it was. Mont. He left thee scorned, and slighted, and ashamed. Yes — and for whom ? A nameless vagabond — A low -bom slut — a minion of the soil — A beggar's whelp, straw littered — one who's romped With hinds and common labourers — been em- braced By sweeps and potboys — chucked under the chin. And hugged and kissed, by foul-mouthed arti- zans And mean mechanics — worse — a sorceress — The auxiliary of hell — who's leagued with fiends — Comrade and friend of God's eternal foes. Clem. Oh ! father, on her sweet and patient face I read the signs of God's eternal grace. I saw her spirit in all its beauty bare. 246 THE WEIRWOLP. Througli clouds of grief, and anguish, and des- pair. Witli heavenly glory was her darkness rife — God's smile spread like a rainbow round her life. She can, content with favour from the skies, Their persecutions and their pains despise, And as from heaven's immeasurable height. Overlook the shallowness of human spite. Thank Grod for this, and praise His power divine. Who out of darkness makes the daylight shine ! Mont. Thank God for this — she'll trouble us no more. Clem. She will be saved, my father ! that she will. Mont. And this enchantment gone — this snare removed — Which now wraps Victor's senses — there's a hope Of his return to reason. He'll repent And make atonement for the wrong he's done To my sweet Clemence, my poor slighted child. Clem. Ah ! what was I to Victor ? His re- gards Could never stoop to me. He stands too high, 'Mid the unimaginable unmated air. Above the humble measure of my thoughts. I could not keep pace with his soaring soul. Or bring him strength, or solace, or security. 'Twere just as if the all-overseeiug sun A TRAGEDY. 247 Should vex a violet with his lofty love — The simple flower that hides herself away From his consuming rays — Mont. Fie ! Clemence ! Fie ! Such talk 's unworthy of thyself and me — Unworthy of the blood that^s in thy veins. Clem. But pride^s unworthy of a Christian soul. Mont. Of great and small life's duties are composed. And pride's a part of our humanity, Not to be shifted like a suit of clothes. Or changed to fit the fashion of the time. 'Tis sinful only in excess, my child ! Like any other passion it may rage To violence, or be pampered to disease. But 'tis our duty, in its due degree. Reined in by moderation. To neglect All right observance of our state required. Is to disdain the bounteous gifts of God, And to dilute humility to meanness. Clem. Shall no account be taken of the part That Victor has to play ? Will he be soothed. So easily then — that proud and fiery soul — Be led and dragged about by a hook in the nose. Like a tame bear, by sticks and hunger tamed — That's baited first, and petted afterwards ? Will he come back because you beckon him — 248 THE WEIRWOLF. Repent, because you bribe him to be good ? Will lie be taught by clever management To cancel love, and memory, and revenge ? What ! when he finds his hopes laid desolate — His golden dreams besmeared with blood and dust — The girl he loves thus cruelly murdered — Mont. Fie ! My Clemence ! Murdered ! That's a dreadful word. Clem. But IVe no better. Therefore it must serve. And could I find a worse, I'd use it too. Mont. Let Victor come. What matter when he comes ? What can he do ? The dead return no more. The dull grave listens to no conjuring voice. Nor will the deaf and desultory winds Restore the dust they scatter. Like enough He'll pout and bluster like a peevish child Over a broken toy. But Time will cure As time is wont, his medicable woe. And kill the languid embers of disease. With fresh infusions. When the tempest lulls. And calm reflection shining like a sun Upon his futile fury and mad tears, Shall show his airy castles battered down — His flowery dreams uprooted and despoiled A TRAGEDY. 249 In hopeless desolation — tlien indeed, Like growtli of tender shoots which, winter's heel Has trodden down and levelled with the dust. But which the genial breath of spring revives — So shall his first and early love once more Awaken in his heart, and he return, With downcast looks and penitential prayers To make his peace with thee. Clem. Is this the pride Thou Mst have me feel? Is this — is this the way The Montmorencis take aSronts like mine — The way that's worthiest of my blood and me ? What, welcome back the lover to my arms — The man who slighted and insulted me — As thou thyself hast taught me to believe — With such parade of aggravated scorn. And undeserved indignities ? Him, who Without a cause imputed or assigned — Alleged, pretended, or presumed in me Unworthy as I am — but, as we know. Because another maid was better worth — Of nobler parts — more bounteously endowed With wisdom, beauty, goodness — cast me off. And left me so — degraded ? Would not this Indeed be meanness ? Mont. Clemence ! There's a time For all things. And our time's but idly spent 250 THE WEIRWOLF. In taking thouglit for morrows- so remote. Sufficient for tlie day's the evil thereof. Come. If thy strength permit thee^ let's away. Clem. I'll gaze no more upon their horrid work. Mont. Nay, if it please thee, we'll go home at once. Clem. Behold ! behold ! thy daughter on her knees ! {Kneels) If power thou hast any, or weight, or influence. With those grim priests, and mitred ministers. Of God — no, not of God — 'twere blasphemy To dream that He can sanction what they do — But if with abbots, bishops, or the like. Who hunger for the blood of this poor child. Thou canst in any sort or mode prevail — If by thy power their murderous appetites, Can be subdued, or chastened, or controlled — If by thy smiles be softened or cajoled — Oh fly — oh fly — to save her from their fangs ! Oh tear her from them — haste — my father ! haste ! Oh do not — do not — lose this golden chance — This great — this glorious opportunity — Of good — of honourable — of noble work — Of rescuing innocence from oppression's rage. Of planting right victorious over wrong — Yes over barbarous wrong, and butchery. A TRAGEDY. 251 Mont. Eise. Clemence ! Rise. I cannot listen more. Clem. But I beseech thee_, venture to be just. Fling form aside — abandon ceremony — Away with social reverence — social rules — Follow the teaching of thy noble heart — Let not its free and generous impulses Be chained by vulgar saws and sophistries — Aspire above the selfish pride of power — The associative tyrannies of rank — The clogs of custom and conventionalism — Mont. No more of this. Clem. Ah, stay not to dispute. Fill — fill up for me my imperfect prayers. My cold — my sluggish speech anticipate. Think — think — were I — thy Clemence — in her place Whom now they^re murdering yonder — were I thus On any cause or pretext — wouldst thou not Spurn from thee law, religion, reverence, faith — Make light of all their power, and all their prayers — To snatch from such a doom thy darling child ? Mont. Come. Come. No more of this, I say — no more. Clem. Dash me not down to ' the earth with dreadful words. 9.^9 THE WEIRWOLF. '' No more ^^ — with words so like a knell of deatli. Let not the voice so long Vve venerated— The voice that ever to mine ears has been Their dearest music^ pour into them now 'The sentence that my heart's last hope destroys. Mont. Thou foolish child ! Clem. Oh fly ! dear father ! fly. Mont. No more of this. I cannot thus be moved. Clem. Then, if thou can'st be moved, oh ! teach me how. Mont. Thou knowest thy prayers and tears are all in vain. Clem. Alas ! (Shouts afar.) Mont. Thou hearest. Clem. The respite of a day — An hour — she's young — and death is terrible. But such a death — Mont. Enough. I've not the power, Thou knowest, to save her, Clemence ! nor in truth. Even if I had the power, have I the will. f Shouts J Clem. What mean those shouts ? Their tone seems somewhat changed. They carry to mine ears a ring of joy. Mont. Whom have we here ? A TRAGEDY. 253 Enter Sylvan us. Juliet. A messenger. Mont. What now ? Syl. My lord ! your presence is fortliwith required. They seek and need you yonder. [Eaiit MONTMORENCI. Clem. What portends This sudden summons ? Oh my heart ! my heart ! Oh save her, Grod of Heaven ! — she will be saved. F. Simon. What^s happened, lady ! Trust me to enquire. [Exit. Clem. Friend ! by thy face thou shouldst be honest. Speak. Syl. ril answer truly, lady ! what I'm asked. Clem. Why shout the people ? Is a pardon given ? Syl. No pardon yet, but still the girl is saved. Clem. Has young de Yardois come to save his friend ? Syl. No. But her innocence is undoubted now. Clem. Didst thou not tell me, fellow! she was saved ? Syl. Because her innocence is as clear as day. Clem. Clearer than 'twas before it could not be. 254 THE WEIRWOLP. Syl. But now she's saved_, and safer than before. Clem. What miracle — man ! — lias touched their stony hearts ? Syl. Miraculous almost tlie event has proved. Clem. Proceed. Explain tlie matter more at length. Syl. Tlie wolfs been found — tlie wolf — whose severed limb. Left bleeding in tlie jaws of Bloui^s trap, And afterwards produced in court, was held The deadliest proof against the unhappy girl. Since with, her own late-amputated arm The correspondence seemed irrefragable. But yonder now tliis bairy monster lies. Before ber judges dragged, in the open air. There, by the stake, bleeding and dead, it lies. Clem. And now by loss of limb identified ? Syl. a corresponding limb the wolf bas lost. And tbis new correspondence clears Fran^oise. Clem. Miraculous truly ! Friend ! But by what cbance. Or wbat contrivance was tbe creature slain ? Syl. By woman^s wit and woman^s arm ^twas done. Clem. This makes the matter more miraculous still. Syl. Lady ! the wolf was by a woman slain. A TRAGEDY. ZOO Clem. Speak. Let me learu^ that I may bless_, her nam.e. Syl. Manon Thierry^ cousin of the accused. Clem. The same who testified against the accused ? Syl. The same. I know her. •'Tis the very same. But when she found her cousin stood condemned, It seems, the extremity of remorse and shame Eacked Manon's soul, and spurred her to confess What part she had taken. ^Twas a cunning plot Contrived between her and one Jacques Rey- nard — A devilish wretch, that never was outdone In wickedness, and whose malignant soul Burned hot with hatred to the girl Thilouze, Because sheM frowned upon his proffered love. He was her cousin's teacher and confessor — Her prompter, agent, and auxiliary — He whispered in her ears with words of hell — With vile persistence of insidious breath. Reviving in her heart the waning flames Of jealous passion, for it seems that once Was young de Yardois too by Manon loved. And with them was a foolish fellow joined — Pierre Bloui, more as dupe and instrument Than as confederate. These together wrought, And by theii' villanous art and diligence 256 THE WEIRWOLF. Was woven a web of well-assorted lies. And slanderous fabrications, by whose means Their innocent victim to the stake was brought. Clem. Was this made public ? Was it in form confessed ? Syl. By Manon. She confessed it yesterday. Clem. Confessed it ? — to the right authorities ? Syl. Confessed it to the fathers, and the peers. Clem. And yet no motion made to free the accused ? Syl. Dear lady ! ^twas confessed but not believed. Clem. To apprehend truth, we must our- selves be true. Syl. But Manon's recantation was so strange — So mad — so wild — so violent — so made up Of noise, gesticulation, and despair — Her rash, irreverent words no credit won. And her true penitence but for frenzy fared. Clem. How long will heaven — how long will earth endure ? Syl. Nor with confession did she rest content. But to atone more fully for her crime. Into the neighbouring woods forthwith she went. Bearing a rusty musquet on her arm — Her girlish arm, too light for such a load — And there encountering with the foe she sought. A TRAGEDY. 257 Known by its lost foreleg, a huge she-wolf, Alone she slew it — drew it all alone — In triumph to the stake. Clem. A sight was that To take away one's breath. But^ friend, proceed ! Tell thy strange story just as it occurred. Syl. I stood among the crowd, beside the pile. The manifold noise of preparation slept. A trance of expectation held us mute. Round — round — we pressed, with sweltering eagerness — In staring wonder — solemn, breathless awe — Round where the rude enclosure, wooden-railed. Repressed and curbed the multitudinous surge. And kept secure the penal sanctuary From popular intrusion. There in state, Sublime on lofty platform, proudly sate Monks, priests, and prelates — counts and cava- liers — Forestalling judgment with their awful looks. Like gods that with judicial vengeance burned. Who brandished from their brows inexorable. The bolted fire, and shook with solemn hands. Above our heads, the mystic urn of woe. Nor men alone were there. Amid their ranks Were mingled female forms — the brilliant forms Of noble women — rich with gems and gold, 17 258 THE WEIRWOLF. In many coloured garments gaily grand. Who througli tlie manly mass slied grace and charm, And mild effulgence, as wlien lightnings pierce The sombre rack of clouds, or moonlight peeps With playful calmness through the cracks of storms. Below, the silent, sullen firemen stood — Death's ministers, and dark as death itself — Black-stoled — their melancholy faces smeared With miry blackness, through whose inky screen Flashed the red fury of their fire-shot eyes. Like night-fires glaring through the dusky woods. When all the heavenly lights are blotted out And crushed by the cold weight of scowling clouds. They stood there, waiting for the fatal sign. And grey gens d'armes kept watch among the crowd. In quiet groups, or severally took place, Or slowly moved along. I glanced at this. As it were, a moment. Soon my gaze was drawn. And caught, and on the central figure fixed — And fascinated by that piteous face — The face of her to dreadful death designed. Thereon, as when some sepulchre beloved By poet-souls, is sculptured in sweet shows Of carving, or adorned with fair conceits. A TRAQEDT. 259 Or fondly garnished with religious flowers, Transfigured into beauty sorrow shone — There faith looked out victorious over shame. She did not once lift up her patient eyes, But held them down, as if she'd bid farewell To all she loved, and after, thought the world No longer worth a look. Her nervous lips Seemed set in resignation. Her wan cheeks, Wherefrom the red light of the crimson rose By amorous anguish had been kissed away — Had borrowed in its stead a paler tinge From tender twilight. But that face — that face — Oh ! what a heaven of holiness and peace It breathed — how calm — how beautifully still — Untroubled as a flower-bed lapped in dew Upon a windless morning. There she stood — Begirt with shows of torture — shapes of death — With types of mortal terror — mortal woe. All failed to move her — earthly ills had power No longer to afiect her meek indifference, Or shake the clear and godlike constancy Of her rapt spirit. Oh ! surely in that hour. The doubt — the dreary mystery of this life — Had ceased to trouble and perplex her more — Its clouds — its shadows — its phantasmagories — Like a dark curtain lifted — she could glance Beyond the sensual, and this brief eclipse 17 * 260 THE WETRWOLF. Of pain and terror past away^, would leave Behind the brightness of the eternal dawn. Ah, with what grace — what touching majesty — She bore herself — when on the splintery stake She leaned for pain and weakness — when the cords, Which in their coarse embraces held her up. And with rough freedom wound themselves around Her slender waist, and in her lily arms Cut purple furrows, shining white and red. Through rents and tatters in her sad attire — I fancied the unimpressible hearts Of even her savage executioners Touched with unconscious pity — yes, I thought Their grimy cheeks were beaded with bright drops They knew not to be tears. For us that took No part save watching for the dread event. Which in the morning when Hwas farther off We'd almost welcomed with inhuman joy And mad unnatural triumph, now 'twas near — So near — and with appalling presence stood Before us, and its spectral shadow cast Upon our shuddering senses — oh, that pause Of irrepressible horror ! — Every pulse Made mute with the over-mastering agony. Which clad that hour in aspects of all time — A TRAGEDY. 261 To smite with sudden stop tlie stream of things. Or, Kke the meeting of mad universes. Blow life out with a shock. We dare not stir — We spoke not even in whispers — sad and still, And gloomy as a midnight thick with clouds, Each other's faces flatly we perused. And so with solemn wordless sympathy. Soul answered soul. Methought the wheezy winds Held in their curdled breaths — the lowering day Put on a sombre scowl, as if of strength And glory wasted with indignant tears. And scornful gi'ief, as might a bridegroom feel. Who mourns the sudden absence of his bride Missed on the bridal morning. But anon The sun grew up — the hour hung over us — Delay could stretch no further — 'twas a moment Engendering madness. Hark ! a shout that soon Spreads into shapeless uproar, many- voiced — The tumult thickening from the outer crowd AVith gradual surge swells inward. They divide. The multitude are cleft asunder clean, And hurrying along the central chasm appears A maiden shape, in whose disfigured face. Disordered mien, dishevelled garb and hair. Scarce can the pretty Manon be discerned. Straining with half- delirious energy. And desperate effort, in her girlish grasp. 262 THE WEIRWOLP. She drags the body of a wolf — brave girl I— Not— not a moment she relaxes — no — Though eager friends press forward to assist. And thicken round her progress, tightening still The nervous grapple of her thin small hand. She thrusts them off with feminine petulance, And waves her arm impatiently. Behold ! With passionate haste she dashes off her face Her ropy hair, reft of its raven gleam. Which shaken out of its accustomed coils, Falls meshed and ravelling on her neck and breast. Or flutters in her eyes — her bloodshot eyes Like red malignant meteors glaring past From the dark background of distempered skies. But sad disfigurement ! — the ruby bloom Of her soft cheeks, the round deliciousness Of her white arms, with many a bloody scratch. Are seamed and scarred — her skin with sweat and dust Mapped over by the unflattering touch of toil. See ! through her torn and soiled habiliments. The bold air freely plays — ^her languid limbs Betray their faihng motion — ^there — alas ! She swerves — she droops — a deadly weakness works Like poison in her veins — the hectic rose From her wild face begins to fade away — A TRAGEDY. 263 And crazy totterings muffle up her steps, Till like a foundering skiff slie sways about — A foundering ship that shakes her lofty top, And reels and shivers, ere her final plunge Into the blue depths of the weedy sea — Before he sucks her down, and writes above His cold and glassy smiles. Again — again — Driving along, she gathers up her strength For one last effort — with a resolute will She plunges forward — then with eyes of fire, Hoarse voice, and frantic gesture, flinging up Her bare arms to the sky, and plumping down The carcase at her feet, she calls upon The assembled magnates to reverse their doom, And set her cousin free. But this achieved, The struggle's over. Backward she recoils. And pouring from her lips one passionate cry. With sudden swoop spreads out upon the ground. To raise her many a manly arm aspires. The people crowd about. From lofty seats Descend the prefects of police. The peers And prelates follow. IVe no more to tell. Clem. Thanks ! honest friend ! But who, in name of Heaven ! Bear hither this sad burden in their arms ? Syl. sight of pity ! 264 THE WEIEWOLF. Enter Fathee Si^o^, peasants, and others^ hearing Manon Thierey. F. Simon. Lay lier on tlie turf. Another victim. But this time^ I fear^ The tyrant death will not abate his grasp. Clem. Is not this pale and mangled piece of flesh The very heroine of thy story, friend ? Syl. The same, indeed. Alas ! the very same. Clem. Oh, noble girl ! though much I pity thee. Yet much more am I bound to honour thee. Manon. There — lay me close beside her, lay me there. Clem. She takes me for another — let her stay. Manon. I pass away in happiness and joy. Thou'rt saved. That thought^s an angel's lullaby Hymning my soul to everlasting rest. Oh ! Fran^oise ! in thy bosom let me die. Yes, let me feel thy kisses on my lips And wrap me close with thy confining arms. Like parasites that fold themselves around And hug the thing they love until it dies. So when I'm drawn into the abyss of death. Some sense of thee shall linger on my soul, A TRAGEDY. 265 Like tones of music streaming into sleep. And colouring all its dreams. Farewell ! Fare- well. Farewell ! dear Fran9oise ! thus 'tis sweet to die. {Dies.) Clem. Farewell ! thy beauty makes death beautiful, Like midnight blazoned by the setting moon. Brave spirit ! That would not wait for her reward ! F. Simon. She dies in vain. Clem. What ominous words are these, That like a spectre's at a funeral feast Would scare us from our sorrow ? Speak again. F. Simon. My daughter ! what I've said, I've said. 'Tis true. Clem. Must the dread sentence, after all, pre- vail? F. Simon. The sentence is being executed now. Clem. They dare persist against undoubted proof ? F. Simon. They dare, being resolute upon her death. Clem. On legal right do their proceedings stand ? F. Simon. A sentence passed is final, it ap- pears. 266 THE WEIRWOLF. Clem. Final — thou say^st ! Wlien right and argument Are cut from under, till their void decree On false or bottomless foundation flares ? Would they not take this maiden^s testimony ? Had she no power to touch them with her tears And dying supplications ? F. Simon. These, it seems, In point of form, were not available. I stood near, weeping, when upon the ground. Like a green bough, that full of shining leaves. And rich with blossoms in the summer falls. Snapped by the unmannerly licentious winds. And parted from some proud tree^s skiey top. Despoiled, and bruised, and beautiful she lay. We raised her — would have roused her — but in vain. We could not fix her fluttering consciousness. Or win her wandering senses to their posts. Though still we questioned her, no apt reply Her lips would lend, but ever and anon O'erflowed with quaint and pretty rhapsodies, Clothing with utterance the fantastic thoughts That came and went across her waning soul. Like clouds that chase each other in the west. And flutter o'er the face of dying day. We patched thus much together — nothing more — That by her sure aim wounded, the wolf fell A TRAGEDY. 267 At first for dead, but tlien recovering, rose And staggering, strove to fly. Forestalling which. With, arrowy glance, the quick and resolute girl, Pounced like a swooping eagle on her prey, And winding round his rough and hairy throat Her tender arms — those delicate arms that lie Upon your lap so drooping and disused — Thus held him throttled till he died. What strife Those woods then witnessed ! what a conquest there Did woman^s courage — woman's strength — achieve ! Alas ! she bought her victory with her Hfe. Clem. But softened not her judges — F. Simon. They resumed As with refreshed and heightened appetites Their interrupted meal — oh ! — pardon me, I should have said — their duty. Straight away I came, forlorn and desolate as a soul That wanders through the wonder-land of sleep Into a dream of hell. Oh ! would 'twere only A dream, this moment what we feel and know ! Clem. How long will Heaven behold these deeds unmoved ? F. Simon. Patience ! To teach is easier than to learn. Clem. I pray for her deliverance and expect. 268 THE WEIRWOLF. F. Simon. God make it speedy. 'Tis alas ! too sure. Clem. She will be saved. F. Simon. No miracles^ my child ! Are now vouchsafed, nor angel-forms descend On earth to help the righteous, or to save The miserable from their predestined doom. Heaven's far away from us. Above the skies God reigns, but talks not with the sons of men As erst he talked in Eden. 'Tis not now As in those holy and primeval times When power and wonder glorified the dawn Of young religion, and the luminous air Was rich with heavenly visitation — Clem. Still- Believe me, father ! — still to the eye of faith Those wonders may continue. Heaven and earth Are not divorced. The eternal elements Of a miraculous existence dwell Around us, as of yore. Is God a man That he should change ? What is there in the skies. That was not in the days of Paradise, Adam, and Eve ? The same unchanging stars Beflect the same unvarying universe. Nay, even from this accustomed common soil — This dust whereof we're fashioned, and to which A TRAGEDY. 269 Dissolved, our recreated atoms go — This high-road of familiar every day — Celestial wonders ever spring and grow. Alas ! we want the appreciative eyes — We fail in spiritual and in holy sense. To know them when they're near us — F. Simon. But, my child ! Not now they're near us. Now they're not vouchsafed, To this impenitent and material age — This irreligious people. Nevertheless, 'Tis not for us to murmur, or repine. 'Tis not for us to tempt, or mock at, God, Or with rash impotence, or peevish tears. Affront his justice, calling madly down Unripe fulfilments — Clem. Surely God is just — And surely good. The good his children are. And He must love them as a father loves — F. Simon. And therefore 'tis He spares them from the curse Of high or prosperous fortune. Their reward Is not below. He chastens whom He loves. Where find you this exemption for the good From wrongs by men inflicted, or from woes That scourge humanity ? Who've been reckoned saints 270 THE WEIRWOLF. But those wlioVe suffered ? When above our heads They stalk superior, by the very laws Of that superiority they're bound To suffer more than others — o'er the herd They take precedence, and are separated, By their superior suffering — they must bear A more than common burden — they must drain To the very dregs that cup of bitterness Which others only sip. — But yonder — see That thin grey curtain crawling up the sky, As when death darkens o'er a lovely face. Clem. The smoke ! — oh fatal sign ! F. Simon. The curious crowd, That like a labouring sea were agitated With ceaseless motion, now condense and shrink To ominous stillness. Clem. Let us pray to Cod. F. Simon. There's nought else left. (Shouts.) Clem. But hark ! They shout again. Oh, my heart whispers — hope. F. Simon. To hope is mad. Clem. The heart sees further often than the head. (Shouts.) Again ! what means it ? F. Simon. Some new impulse stirs The popular mass. A TRAGEDY. 271 Clem. Quick. Quick. A messenger ! F. Simon. That task be mine. Til bring tbee tidings soon. But I beseech thee, daughter ! Be composed. [Exit. Clem. And this is justice — this ! Oh God of Heaven ! And they who do these things are holy men — The priests and fathers of the Church of Christ. But ye, blind skies ! are deaf and silent too. The indifferent sun shines on, and day and night. Revisit earth with beneficial change. The seasons dance their annual round of joy, Earth heaps her lap with bounties as of old. And Nature smiles the same eternal smile. As in the soft dawn of her innocent days, Ere man and crime were born. Oh, spirit ac- cursed. Oh, hellish pride of persecuting power ! If God permit you to exult awhile, 'Tis but to make youi' downfall in the end More prone and fatal. Monarchs ! see ye not The writing on the wall ? — ^Yes now — even now — As one that listening to the watery roar Far off, can prophesy the coming flood. And tell how soon the river's sleepy stream Shall swell with wanton rage, and overboil. 272 THE WEIRWOLP. And waste the fields,, and scour the peaceful plains — po to mine ears with ominous warning draws More near the tumult of a coming time — A time of blood and terror — tears and woe — Of crime and strife, and murder and despair — When men by tyranny run mad and blind, Shall like infuriate steeds in reinless rage, Against the bars of their oppression kick. And shiver them in splinters — What strange shape — What woful personage comes halting here. Whose thin grey hairs, like records of the past, By sad years left, accumulate woe on woe. And double the respect that sorrow claims ? Enter Ludovique Thierry. LuD. Where is my child ! Show me her bleeding corpse ! That I too late may wash it in my tears. And heap cold duty on her cold remains. Clem. The father's grief is sacred. Stand aside. LuD. I knew it must be so. I knew it must. Her death was signified to me in dreams. But by my cruel anger she was scared. And my reproaches drove her out to die. Oh ! Manon ! Oh ! my child ! A TRAGEDY. 273 Juliet. A piteous sight. Clem. Thou poor old man ! I would I could do more Than pity thee ! LuD. 'Tis over. Death's hard hand Is on her. Ah ! he'll not forego his hold For any conjuring or petitioning Of mine, I know it. She'd have answered me, Had but the faintest consciousness been left In her sweet body. Oh ! her sleep is sound. Sleep on, my darling ! Soon I'll follow thee. Oh, Manon ! oh, my child ! Clem. Molest him not ! LuD. Nay. I beseech you take her not away. For on this spot I'll bury her in flowers. With flowers — fresh flowers — I'll build her monu- ment. Go. Pluck me — pluck me — flowers. Clem. Obey him, friends ! For by these fluttering and ephemeral forms Of thought, engendered out of the ooze of woe. That crowd the mourner's brain, and kindly wait Like angels on the unmitigated doom, The shelterless and naked sense is screened. And soothed to sweet oblivion. LuD. Lay them there. This turf is fresh and fair. The tender leaves Are sweet and bright, and flowers are beautiful. 18 274 THE WEIRWOLF. Sucli praises many a time were showered on her. But now they suit no more. Far other terms Must misery find to flatter her in death. Silent she lies like memory in the heart Of one bereaved, that scorns to tell the world The secret of his woe. And pale as clouds. That by long watching o'er the waning sun Have worn out of their cheeks the rosy glow. And cold as passion in a virgin breast. Take — take — them all away — no more of them ! For out of keeping are their brilliant hues — They mock the sombre colour of my thoughts. Juliet. Nearer and nearer still the tumult draws. Clem. I dread to meet the foremost messenger. LuD. They shut my brother up. They held him mad. As if a nature so serene and mild Could even at its worst be capable of harm. But ine they would not seize — a mad mistake — For I was fain to follow and be crazed. So might I from my misery make away. Clem. With face of joy the reverend father comes. Enter Father Simon, Sylvanus, Peasants, ^c. Juliet. Good news ! oh ! Father ! tell it us in words. A TRAGEDY. Z iO F. Simon. Good news it is. Frangoise Thi- louze is saved. Clem. I doubt these words so often said in vain. F. Simon. But now by royal pardon sbe^s released. Clem. Victor de Vardois had a share therein ? F. Simon. Oh ! yes, he came just in the nick of time. Clem. Oh ! tell us how it happened — tell it all. F. Simon. I was not present when de Vardois came. Clem. That tale our special messenger shall tell. Syl. Yes. I was present when de Vardois came. In breathless silence poised — anticipating No happy issue — as I stood — burst forth The thousand-throated inarticulate roar Of hurrying multitudes, whose joyous shouts Foretold and preluded his swift approach. I saw his steed shoot by me, meteor-like. Directing for the stake his arrowy way. I watched him cleave the crowds, that right and left. Were dashed aside before him, Hke a stream Of sand before a chariot's whirling wheels. I marked his sides with bloody patches scored — His shrunken flanks that panted as he passed, 18 * 276 THE WEIRWOLF. Begrimed witli blood, and smeared in sweat and dust. Upon the sounding turf Ms heavy tramp Made music, and beat time with his long strides, And every stride left its own length behind. I felt two pairs of fiery eyes flash by As if they burned their way in the heated air. And as in dreams we pass all obstacles And count resistance nothing — so it seemed To them — both steed and rider — with a bound The barrier past, de Vardois on his feet — Then straightway, dashing at the pile, he tore His headlong course, with crash of feet and hands. And steel-bright circles of his waving sword. Still making instant and unsightly wreck. Of everything in his way — thus breaking through The astonished guards and firemen with the wind And shock of his approach. Ten paces prone He hurled the foremost — scared his comrades fled In terror, or at trembling distance drew. Till with impetuous onward rush he reached To where that pale and drooping lily leaned. Towards him inclining, as towards her he climbed — Showering a thousand speechless messengers Of love and wonder from her innocent eyes. She from the first, what time the joyous shouts. And rush and tumult of the people, broke Her trance of resignation and despair, A TKAGEDY. 277 Felt her deliverer's presence, thougli unseen. And kindled to his coming, as a flower That opens to the daylight, taking life. And Kght, and beauty, from the all-bounteous sun. Then in the extremity of her joy she swooned. At sight whereof de Yardois maddened more. Made furious answer to her mute appeal. With gashes of his sword, whose heavy strokes Through cords and chains cut sheer, whereby released. He lifted her in his triumphant arms. And bore her to the front. We shook the fields, And echoing woods with our tumultuous joy. Clem. How came it that de Vardois^ sword availed. When justice, reason, truth, and mercy failed ? F. Simon. Not the sole agent was de Vardois* sword. But thus it came about. I hurried wild With newly wakened hopes, and by thyself Commissioned — through the hot and reeking mass Of men, I bored my desperate way. Within The barrier, panting as for life and death. And pasted o'er with black conglomerate dust And blood and foam, a steed stood riderless. While Victor, circled with a host of foes — With big gens d'armes, and burly halberdiers. Recovered of their fright, who hemmed him in. 278 THE WEIRWOLF. "With weight of numbers,, and authority. Reigned o'er them^ as a rocky island reigns O'er the mad froth and splutter of the sea. Upon his weaker arm he stoutly bore The fainting maid, but held his foes at bay, With sweeps and threatenings of his sword, but more With the fierce lightnings of his furious eyes. Whose glances flashed with concentrated death. I watched the contest, trembling, and in tears. A bloody ending seemed inevitable. While round about us raged, on every side. The passionate murmur of the multitude. Fermenting gradually to more distinct And fervid utterance, like the vague uproar That far off, simmering on the heated hills. Threatens the approach, and with indefinite din Preludes the louder music of the storm, When black-grey columns of collusive clouds, The big drops sweating from their moody brows. With frown of thunder wrinkle up the West, And droop their leaden bellies overhead In dropsical exuberance, prompt to pour Their pent-up moisture to the steely touch Of the operatiQg air. Praise be to God ! Who willed it otherwise. All my fears proved vain. For ere the strife such deadly climax reached, De Yardois, with a start— a sudden start — A TRAGEDY. 279 As if of instant recollection^ snatched A paper from his bosom, until then. It seemed, forgotten, and above his head. With vehement action thrusting it, impaled Upon the point of his unbloodied sword, '^ A Eoyal pardon " shouted. From his lips A thousand throats caught up the joyous sound, And echoed in vociferation wild '^ A Royal pardon" — from a thousand eyes Were mirrored joy and triumph. Then no more Stood opposition bristling in his way. But like a flight of birds in summer time, Scared by the saucy flutter of a rag. Hung by some careful gardener to secure His hoarded produce from their plundering bills — So from the flash of that uplifted scroll De Vardois' fierce assailants slunk away. Whereat the impatient people waxing bold. Curious to learn, and desperate to assist. With multitudinous crash accumulating. The barrier burst, and through the splintery breach Rolled in the human torrent, unrestrained, In indiscriminate flood. I saw no more. But came to make thee glad with what VS. seen. Clem. And look — they come' — joy from their orient eyes, Like sunbeams dawning. 280 THE WEIRWOLF. F. Simon. To be clouded o'er Again with a new grief. 'Tis ever thus. We stumble into darkness out of light, And grief treads swiftly on the heels of joy. Enter Victor de Vardois. Fran^oise Thilouze, Pierre Bloui, and others following. Victor. Alas ! my love. Look there ! Fran. Is it possible ? Have I been saved for this ? Victor. The petty spite Of vanquished fortune. Fran. More than half my joy Is now wrenched from me. F. Simon. Oh ! the feebleness Of human faith ! My children ! murmur not At God's decree. Victor. Forbid her not to weep. Had she not wept, I could have hated her. Fran. Now first I feel how terrible is death. LuD. Alas ! my child ! Fran. "What voice, so phantom-like. And so familiar, comes to trouble us And interrupt our sorrow ? LuD. Ye but mock Who claim the privileges of misery A TRAGEDY. 281 For sucli as you, the young and happy — you Who flutter in the fervid flush of dawn — You, to whom lifers light miseries are no more, Than far-ofi" tempests, whose diminished breaths, Upon the shining surface of your joy. Write feeble ripples, but can never reach The silent depths below. Ye're young. Ye're young. Shipwrecked, ye fling your treasures overboard. Hope buoys you on to hospitable shores Where soon ye pick up others. 'Tis, in age That utter desolation bows us down. Then— then — we find no later landing place. Nor home, nor household deities — any more. Fran. Dear uncle ! Let me be thy daughter now. LuD. ^Twixt thee and me a fatal shadow lowers. Fran. She sacrificed her life, alas ! for me. LuD. She sacrificed her life for thee in vain. Victor. A noble deed is never done in vain. Like bread upon the waters it returns And future tides shall carry it to use. Come take her hence. To see her sepulchred, Be mine, old man ! the melancholy charge ! And by my knightly honour, she shall want No fitting rites — no funeral obsequies. Brave but unfortunate maiden ! on her tomb '282 THE WEIEWOLF. The figure of a wolf in marble carved. Shall stand a record to succeeding times. How by a generous and heroic death She wrought her expiation ! Bear her hence !. But with a soft and reverent gentleness Befitting how she died. PiEEEE. That task be mine. It is my right, mine only. Once indeed I thought to lead her to far other rites. But she was wilful — wilful to the last, And died ^twould seem to cheat me of a bride. Oh ! woful end of all my fondest hopes ! One truth alone by Reynard^s lying lips. One truth at least ! I recollect was told. For truly Pierre is disenchanted now. The wonder and the witchery of his life Are past away for ever. Give me room Good fellows ! IVe no further business here. \_Exit bearing the hody, crowd foUoivmg. Shouts outside. Enter peasants, male and female, dragging Reynaed with a rope round his neck. 1st Pea. Drag him along. Vile rascal ! 2nd Pea. There's a tree Will serve our purpose. 1 ST Pea. Reynard ! thou shalt dance A measure in the air. A TRAGEDY. 283 3rd Pea. Come up with him. A base informer ! Victor. Fellows ! What's aU this ? Fran. Oh ! save him, Victor ! save their simple souls From, the commission of so dire a crime. Victor. Forbear ! I say, forbear ! 1st Pea. Who speaks ? how now ? Victor. This must not be, good friends ! 2nd Pea. Trouble us not. 3rd Pea. We brook no interruption. 4th Pea. Stand aside. 5th Pea. There swing him — swing him up. Victor. The man who lays A finger on him, let him know 'tis done On peril of his life. 1st Pea. This looks not well In thee, de Vardois ! 3rd Pea. Wherefore stand between The wretch and what he merits ? Several. 'Tis not welk 1st Pea. Why 'tis mere justice. Victor. Leave him to the laws. 1st Pea. For such as he the laws were made in vain. 'Tis by the laws he works. His mischiefs thrive Out of their weakness and inefficacy, 284 THE WEIKWOLP. If we release him now he^ll quite escape, AlthougL. in trutli a murderer. Victor. Leave him then To Ms avenging conscience and to God. Jacq. Think you I sorrow then for what I did ? For this alone I sorrow — your success — My futile and defeated purposes. Such is the quality of my remorse. In childhood, once perhaps, like other fools I had a conscience. 2nd Pea. Up with him at once, Inhuman monster ! Jacques. ^Tis not possible To make you understand me, ye dull brutes ! I cannot clothe in words, or well express. The loathing and contempt I feel for you — Ye base — ignoble rabble — scum of earth ! Garbage and dregs and refuse of mankind ! Beasts ! — beasts ! ye're nothing better — nothing higher — Like beasts ye prowl about in coward packs — Like beasts delight in blood. — 1st Pea. Ye hear him, friends ! Shall such a wretch be suffered ? Victor. Have a care. {To Jacques.) Be silent on your life. Be silent, else Shall this volcano overboil its bounds, And merge us both in ruin. A TRAGEDY. 285 Jacques. Let it come. The fate I share with thee, however hard, I welcome it with joy. Fran. Thy life he saved. Is this thy gratitude ? Jacques. The life he saved Let him surrender. Ah ! too well thou knowest Why I no longer care to live. 1st Pea. Eush in And seize de Yardois. Victor. Am I then asleep, That thus ye talk of seizing ? Come my friends ! Ye know de Yardois better. Here I stand And vouch, as surety for this wretch's life — The man who lays a finger on him dies. Fran. In happy time, here come the hal- berdiers. Enter Police, gens d'armes. YiCTOR, I charge you, see him safe. They seek his life. No doubt 'tis due to justice and the laws. But not to their blind rage. So make him safe. [Exeunt Police, gens d'armes with Jacq. Reynard. YiCTOR. How to accost thee Clemence ! in what words Solicit thy forgiveness, and confess My deep contrition and unworthiness — I could not hope to satisfy myself. 286 THE WEIRWOLF. Or make discovery, choked and paralyzed With sense of the ineradicable past. And burdened with unexpiated wrongs — But that I know thee made of nobleness, Instinct with heavenly pity, capable From spheres sublime of high and holy scorn, Of looking down compassionately on sins. Wherewith thy saintly spirit was never soiled — Thy pure conception never caught the stain of. Not then in self-sufficient recklessness — Not puffed with arrogance or presuming pride, Not in light scoffing or irreverent mood — But with such self-abasement as befits When earth looks up to heaven, I kneel and pray, Thou wilt with no severe conditions clog The pardon I solicit and require. {Kneels.) Clem. I will not have it — Victor ! — Victor ! — Rise. Shall sinners thus to sinners bend the knee ? Indeed, Fve nought to pardon — I insist Thou'st never done me wrong. But let the past Be past — the dead bury their dead. There's one Beside thee leaning on thy loving arm Writes out thy pardon for thee with her eyes. Go. Love her. Make her happy. There, that's all The price I set on my forgiveness — And this the sole condition I desire. A TRAGEDY. 287 Victor. Is she not heaven itself? What said I, love ! Fran. Thy love for me was earth preferred to heaven. Victor. Yet are there many mansions even in heaven. Fran. I would not now resign thee even to heaven. Victor. Oh Clemence ! where thy footsteps light is heaven. Clem. Heaven is where God makes Himself manifest. For what has happened God alone be praised ! Victor. May He encircle thee with favour — shower On thy sweet head all earthly happiness ! Clem. No doubt 'tis He directs my present choice. This moment Clemence from the world retires To pass her future life in holy shades^ With holy men and women^ and therein Safe to enjoy sublimer happiness Than ever will be yours^ ye happy pair ! Remember me a little both of you. Remember me a little in your prayers — Remember me a little in your loves — Remember me as much as either can. You, be assured, I never shall forget. 288 THE WEIKWOLF. My constant prayers shall follow you unseen. And watch like ministering angels over you. Farewell ! On me at least the curtain falls. [Exit. The rest remain in groups and gradually follow. Procession passes over the stage. Pieere Bloui at head of hearers, with tody of Manon. Victor, FRAN901SE, and others. Chorus of peasant girls. Chorus of Peasants. Farewell ! Thou hast done with the world, and we bear thee adorned and drest For the road, in thy travelling garments, and clad for the realms of rest. Farewell ! 'Tis a sudden parting, and fresh jfrom the font to the sod, We bear thee in tender duty, and give thee to rest with God. With sanctions solemn and holy — with mingled gladness and grief — Befitting thy death so noble — befitting thy life so brief. We mourn thee with smiling faces, and mourning we still rejoice — And thy requiem chant with choking of breath, and with faltering voice. A TRAGEDY. 289 We mourn for thine early promise bereft of its blooming years — Rejoice that though taken from us, so brilliant thy dawn appears. For few does so fair a story, break out through the parting breath — Few blaze with immortal glory just over the verge of death. Like a blossom that's early blighted, in season of scented bloom. By frosts of untimely winter, we bear thee away to the tomb. True hearts at thy tale shall kindle — young breasts with thy name shall glow — And the fame thou hast earned this morning with the growth of the years shall grow. And the music and songs of ages, from the lips of the brave and just, Shall out of the mazy future, make sacred thy mouldering dust. Yet never let tongue bewail thee, nor voices lamenting say — ^' Too early her fate pursued her — too soon was she called away.'' 'Twere vain to have lingered after thy work was so bravely done — 'Twas well to go out in glory, as a comet that sets in the sun. 19 290 THE WEIRWOLF. When the wrong thou had'st dona was atoned for and merged in that matchless strife — 'Twas well from thy spirit thus chastened to dash the cold embers of life — To fling off the coil and the chain from thy spirit thus chastened and purged, And out of that fiery ordeal in bridal whiteness emerged. Oh God ! when my time has come may thy mercy vouchsafe me this — By a fate like hers to summon my soul to the realms of bliss ! Ere the burden and dust and heat of the blinding and dreary day Shall clog and encumber my parting soul on its heavenward way — While the skies are fair and cloudless, and the dawn is undimmed and bright — Ere the shadows of evening thicken and close in abiding night. Farewell ! then never with fury of tears, or with selfish sighs, We^ll fondly delay thy journey, or hold thee back from the skies. Farewell ! shall this pathway often by reverent steps be trod — And we give thy name to its deathless fame — and thy spirit to rest with God. ^ONNETS, ETC ELEGY L. F. And the weary strife is over and won from a weeping throng. Has that dear wan face deserted the home that she loved so long ? The terrible shapes of slumber with slumber itself pass o^er. But ah ! from this dream of anguish our hearts shall awake no more. How thought by the stroke confounded swirls round like an eddying stream ! And the Past is a torturing memory — the Future a ghastly dream. And a sound as of phantoms wailing, whose burden by night and day Is — gone — gone for ever — for ever gone away. And her seat at the board left vacant so silent and sad appears — And her books and her plants untended we water with idle tears. FooHsh but fond memorials ! Could they but only know How much with their mute communion they rankle the wounds of woe ! 294 ELEGY. Oh ! for some ray from heaven to illumine our dark despair_, When the dear familiar voices shall mingle in household prayer — And the cruel thought shall smite us like a blast of the desert's breath. One voice of that long-linked chorus for ever lies hushed in death. Cold are all words of counsel — high reason but seems to rave — Could reason herself be tearless beside the beloved one's grave ? Ye friends ! that so wisely warn us our grief is too fond and wild — Ah ! ye have not lost a sister — ye do not mourn a child ! Who doubts that immortal beauty shall crown her beyond the sun ? But 'twas cruel in her to leave us though heaven was the bribe she won. For us — for us — that have lost her, where in those empty skies — Where are her smiles to greet us — where are her answering eyes ? ELEGY. 295 But the pitiless sentence spoken — our clamours have no control To call from its long — long — ^journey the light of her vanished soul. And the weakness of human wailing dies out in the vaults above — Yes vain — vain — is our sorrow — but still more vain was our love. Where are the hues of morning — the dreams that around her grew ? They've mocked us like gifts of fairies that trial has proved untrue. Gone like the gleams of Eden, extinguished in angels' tears — Never again to kindle under our darkening spheres. Why — why — did we love her — why did our fond hearts glow With hopes, like abortive blossoms, to wither away in woe ? Was it for this we cherished, to lose her in realms afar — Her path with the wandering meteor — ^her rest with the lonely star ? 296 ELEGY. So dismal tlie train of spectres that cumber the parting breath. — So shadows on shadows crowding deepen the gloom of death ! Till grief into frenzy failing lifts upwards its aimless cry. Like an infant left deser.ted under the lonely sky. But sunshine was born of darkness, and often in gloomiest night Shall the far horizon kindle with gleams of return^ ing light. And faith has its froward fancies, and sorrow in shipwreck clings To fragments of wrenched affection, and forms of familiar things. As the midnight wanderer gazes where his distant hearthfire burns So to heaven, of all hope forsaken, the heart of affiction turns. With the pangs of hell upon us — in the darkest of dark despair — The finger of God shall steer us — the wind of His breath be fair. ELEGY. 297 Bright be the stars above her — solemn the steps that tread — Tender and gentle memories dwelling around the dead ! And grief as it grows shall soften, the sadness of tears subside. As the fury of mountain .torrents expands to the peaceful tide. And love ! let thy light pursue her to the world which death has given — A world of night and silence, of mystery and of heaven. There 'mid the thick star-clusters, where system on system rolls, She has met with a smiling welcome from a sister- band of souls. And there into glorious being in beauty and light she warms. Girded with starry natures, circled with shining forms. And the fulness of angel-presence is the air she inhales above. Where sight is absorbed in beauty, and feeling resolved in love. 298 ELEGY. But nor moon nor stars they wot of — they reck not of skies or suns — Like a self -illumining river their radiant existence runs. And the spirit-life that fills them is to them for days and times — For the courses of years and ages — for changes of scenes and climes. And when earth as a smoke shall vanish — the heavens as a skin be shed — And the all- enfolding ages drop like a blossom, dead — ^Mid glory and light eternal they still shall revolve and move. Like rays from the living centre and infinite heart of love. Sprinkle her grave with blossoms — sweeten the air with song. And call on her happy spirit with tones that she loved so long — And in mystic gleams and breezes vouchsafed from that awful shore — Believe that her love is wafted — her presence in- haled once more. SERENADE. 299 And often on Sabbath mornings when the heaven- ward hymn shall swell. Her spirit may hovering hear us beside where her ashes dwell, And mingled with virgin voices, and the thunder their organ rolls, Pour forth a mysterious answer heard in our inmost souls. SEEENADE. From thy warm niche where like a saint in glory, ^Mid snow-white cerements you serenely sleep. Come down through midnight mist and moonlight hoary. Where I with steps forlorn Love's vigil keep — Like some rapt Magian priest with weary eyes. Who watches till the star he worships shall arise. Oh come ! Oh come ! with footsteps light and airy That make sweet music with the murmuring flowers — With soft, swift flutterings, like some Paphian fairy, Whom Love's deep spells have summoned from her bowers — 300 SERENADE. With witching ways to set the night on fire, And thrill the enamoured spheres with throbs of sad desire. Come — atmosphered in Love and breathing Beauty, With odours of warm motion round thee shed. Fresh soul infusing through my barren duty. And hallowing where you touch with dainty tread — Into my circling arms with kisses grow. As into the mad sea the passionate rivers flow. Here let our mutual lives so fondly mingle, Till your whole being shall seem a part of mine — Till nerve to nerve — till pulse to pulse — shall tingle. And from our eyes no separate senses shine — Till everything around us drown and die And nothing but ourselves we feel beneath the sky- Till the pale stars shall envy our embraces. And paler planets flame with jealous fire — Till the yellow moonlight glimmering in our faces Confess the fond confusion of desire — SEEENADE. 301 Till written on the skies our raptures glow In characters of light, reflected from below. Come — thy long promises at last fulfilling. And into warmer life my life unfold. That I no more may doubt thee kind and willing, To be that angel thy bright face foretold, When its first glance with prophecies divine, And message fresh from heaven, flashed on this life of mine. Come— answering my familiar invocation. And through the summer skies with radiant stream Pour effluence bright, and soft illumination. As when some fire-fraught meteor's golden gleam Descending, scatters round in arrowy flight. Gay motes, and feathery sparks, and coruscating light. And anxious angels from heaven's windows lean- ing, Shall track thee from afar with starry eyes, Following thy footsteps with immortal meaning. And quickening smiles, and splendours of the skies. And raining round thy head propitious prayers. And holy guardianship, and paradisal airs. 302 SERENADE. Smile — and tlie faint raj^s on tlie front of morn- ing WLicli, as they spread, the affrighted stars dis- place. May mock the crescent hues that cheek adorning, When overflowing from thy consummate face, Shall penetrate through midnight's black eclipse The tinted tenderness of thy transfiguring lips. Oh ! speak, and music tunefully unsheathing Her viewless wings upon thy voice shall die, And night winds amorous of thy fragrant breath- ing, Beside thy parted lips shall fondly sigh. And seeming to disperse, shall linger round, Feed on the balmy air, and echo the sweet sound. Oh ! happy winds ! that on her forehead playing With the rich hair your wanton fingers twine — Or 'mid her bosom's sacred depths delaying — Or quivering on her cheek with kisses fine — Happier — if subject to so sweet a spell. Thus waiting on her ways ye might for ever dwell ! But if my passion have no power to woo thee. And my waste worship fail to win thee near, I'll breathe a thousand kisses up unto thee. That shall infect that fruitless atmosphere SONNETS, ETC. 303 With soft compunctions, and against thy will. Contagions tenderness through thy proud soul instil. But come or come not — be thou kind or cruel — My lips shall breathe nor murmur nor regret. Since always thy dear image, like a jewel, Shall in the centre of my life be set, And even as the unseen sun the world obeys. Shall rule my universe with its unrisen rays. BARRATTI IN SYDNEY. I sat emparadised in a dream of song From that fair silver-throated siren caught Who lately to Australian ears has taught Strains which of right to the older lands belong — Who still, night after night, to some rapt throng Held mute as death by cunning utterance, pours Her bird-notes, blazoned from Italian shores — I sat, as if Vd passed away among The gods of music, whose habitual tongue 304 SONNETS^ ETC. Was music ever — lifted to the spheres Where the souPs gate is through the pas- sionate ears, And on ^oHan waves Hfe floats along — Nor wist how long I dwelt in trance profound And arching atmosphere of empyrean sound. ON LANDING IN ENGLAND. White cliffs of Albion ! Have we met at last ? But after all these miles of land and sea In what hard fashion dost thou welcome me. Old mother ! careless of my perils past ? With heavy lowering nights — with days overcast — With lurid livery of mistempered skies, A¥herein we strain our melancholy eyes As searching for a sun that's gone astray — Sad trees that, sorrowing for his absent ray. Or stiU in mourning for the buried years. Stand, black as beadles on a funeral day. Or widows, who in church for comfort pray — And, dripping — dripping — with continual tears^ As if they'd weep their wintry lives away. SONNETS, ETC. 305 SIX SONNETS ON THE CRIMEAN WAR. PUBLISHED IN THE "SYDNEY EMPIRE/^ ABOUT THE TIME OF THE PEACE. Above their graves shall future travellers pause, And wondering ages on their story dwell — To think, how little from a barren cause True worth of ridicule or dishonour draws, Since warring round that sea-girt citadel, To glut the rabid avarice and the pride Of priests and despots, they sublimely died And made the ground immortal where they fell. Brave souls ! No dream of gains or losses, tied To a perplexing purpose, mystified Their clear endeavour. But they still could bleed And fling away their lives — their country's need Their only argument. So their dust distils From foreign soils. The world their glory fills. 20 306 SONNETS, ETC. II. Ye kites and eagles of Crimean plains ! Long gorged and pampered witli heroic blood ! Ye terrible epicures ! Whose awful food Was British flesh, or sucked from British veins ! True types ye seem of kingdoms and of thrones. For whom the red inheritance remains, Of all their bleeding nations have endured. The selfish ends of sovereignty secured — Like you, the despots count their ghastly gains. Supreme in bloated state above the groans Of Europe, resting from her seven-years' toil They sit and share the profit and the spoil. Like you, from gory fields they seem to spread Their cruel feasts, and fatten on the dead. III. Ah me ! The world's a vault that history paves With buried nations. Egypt's awful bones Spread blanched in deserts. Hark ! the dulcet tones Of Asian winds come whispering over graves. Greece only melts us as with odorous breath Of churchyard flowers that make a friend of <3eath. SONNETS, ETC. 307 Fair Italy in hollow accents raves_, Mingling reproach with anguish as a ghost Complains amid the scenes she loved the most. And Poland like a prisoned spirit sighs. Far off how many a dusky nation lies Deep hid in woods, or in oblivion lost ! Oh Heaven ! The end ! Shall this be ever so ? And whither these have gone must England go ? IV. Sebastopol ! That on the Sable Sea Sitt'st with the blood of many nations bathed Now that war^s waning tempest leaves thee free, How proudly, frowning from thy craggy steep. With haggard looks thou dost survey the deep, Sublime though shattered — terrible though scathed ! Oh ! more enduring monument than brass Or marble shape, stern city ! thou shalt pass From memory never — privileged to bear The horrid brand and character of war Imprinted on thy forehead, as a scar Adorns a warrior. Oh ! for ever wear Thy glory so. When noble foes are crowned By our own hands, we make ourselves renowned. 20* 308 SONNETS, ETC. V. Why shout ye thus, unthinking multitude ? Why thus with sulphurous stars, and fiery glare^, Disturb the quiet night ? Why vex the air With idle pasans ? Look you. Peace is good, And therefore to rejoice in sober mood, We owe to God, who blesseth us thereby. But why — I ask you, giddy people ! — why Need freedom's sons with heartless mirth insult Their brothers in affliction — why exult, When tyrants only chuckle ? Still the sky Looks down on nations trampled in the dust. Still Poland yields her myriads to the lust Of foreign wars. Still Italy depressed By hopeless anguish tears her bleeding breast. VI. ^Twixt East and West a giant shape she grew To both akin, and making both afraid — Casting a lurid shadow on the new And ancient world, her greedy eyes betrayed The tiger's heart, and ominously surveyed The peoples destined for her future prey. From polar steppes, and ice-encumbered seas, To where the warm and blue Symplegades SONNETS, ETC. 309 Perplex the splendour of a Grecian day, Slie stretched her long grasp, conquering by degrees, And when at length the banded nations rose In armed resistance, their combined array With equal arms she shrank not to oppose. But bravely stood where still she stands at bay. I think me none the worse that I submit To be her subject, minister, and slave — That whatsoever she may deign to crave. To the world's end I'd go to fetch her it. Beneath her empire I'm content to sit For ever, to the extreme of mortal days — And pour out pgeans of perpetual praise That for her service I'm not found unfit — Though governed, as it were, with rein and bit — Or treated as a fool, that's only wise By full reflection of her favouring eyes. And if I chance to make a happy hit In word or action, ^tis the light they shed Draws music from the stone — pours Hfe into the dead. 310 SONNETS_, ETC. Ricli wine of Capri ! Thou — ^how many a time — Hast the stern soul of grim Tiberius soothed ! Mellowing the monster, till, with bristles smoothed. And saturated by thy juice sublime, Saved was the ungainly despot from a crime. And haply set some innocent victim free From his imperial claws. Who, tasting thee. But feels the infusion of that genial clime. And softens to a mood more apt to chime In harmony with nature and mankind ? Oh ! grand old days when thou wert in thy prime. Ere modern purists could thy right divest Of solace for the sad, and succour for the oppressed ! Can freedom save a nation from decay ? Shall states by democratic suffrage miss The doom of that inevitable abyss Where our progenitors all have passed away ? Ah ! might not Italy at this moment say — " Where are my great names which overawed the world — My flags in many a famous fight unfurled — Rome — Venice — Genoa — Florence — where are they ? SONNETS, ETC. 311 For orators wlio prate, and priests who pray — Where are the men of might — the men of mind — Who wrote with pens or swords upon mankind Immortal History ? — Give me back the day When proud patricians sat in civic chairs. And noble blood and birth had sway in state affairs.^' PUBLISHED IN THE "SYDNEY ATHEN^UM/^ To love, being all unable to express How much, nor ever make our meaning clear — To mask affection with perpetual fear. And stifle feehng in its own excess — Made dumb by inarticulate tenderness — Who this has never felt, has never loved. Nor owned what true love is, nor ever proved Its deep extremity of divine distress. 312 SONNETS^ ETC. Happy, whose hearts love burdens but to bless With that deep mystery — with a sacred store Of thoughts unutterable — like priceless ore Safe-shrined from miners' search — in measureless Abysses of the soul — beyond all reach Of hard inquisitiveness, and cold imperfect speech ! In Ellen^s bright imperious eyes I saw the gates of Paradise, But in the scornful glance they poured. The angel of the flaming sword. Me ! — more than Adam's race unblest Who once their happy place possessed ! This fact fills up the eternal void — They ate their apple and enjoyed. Happy, for whom through present pains. Their past indelible remains. Nor darkest night, nor deepest dole, Can quench that twilight of the soul. SONNETS^ ETC. 313 Thus memory^s necromancy fine Througli sorrow sheds a sense divine — Thus forms of unforgotten years Rise up, transfigured in our tears. The dead — the absent — thus embrace — Lip clings to lip — face presses face. And love rekindles with a kiss ' The long-extinguished fires of bliss. But I for pleasures vainly pine Which never were, nor will be, mine — Progenitor as of births unborn — Of memory, and of hope, forlorn. To worlds of life will never grow This chaos of my formless woe — My past a blank — my future bare With dread prevision of despair. Ah ! might I too, like Adam, earn. The sorrow I by suffering learn ! And bear what punishment he bore. To taste the penal bliss before. 314* SONNETS; ETC. SONNET TO W. B. D. UPON HIS WEDDING-DAY, WITH ONE WEITTEN BY De. BaDHAM UPON THE same occasion, in the ^' Sydney Morning Herald." Following tlie track — alas ! how far behind — And inspiration of our classic friend, I venture with this votive gift to blend A votive verse, whose humble flowers entwined With richer wreaths, and flowers of brighter kind. Fall round, to greet thee, on thy bridal day. And may the unfashioned thoughts these lines convey — Far less to be apprehended than divined — In thy quick sympathetic spirit find Such aid, as shall, like rain from genial skies. Enrich with hues of happy prophecies The pale prefigurations of the mind. And in poetic form and vision show What love for thee and thine, unspoken, sleeps below. SONNETS^ ETC. 315 ITALY. Oh ! land of ruins and of memories ! Gone — Gone are thy days of glory ! — Gone the crowd Of conquering squadrons in thy streets — the loud Acclaim of tongues for deeds no longer done. A Queen upon a desecrated throne Thou sitt'st. Men haunt to wonder or deride Thy ghostly shores. The same sea flows beside Which once thy navies ruled — the same bright sun Looks down indifferent from his azure zone. But thou fair land ! art shrunk into a song. To Fame — the World — the indefinite Past belong Thy noblest names — no longer now thine own — Bards — warriors — sages — fading,, till they seem Forms of fantastic thought and creatures of a dream. 316 SONNETS^ ETC. VENICE. Immortal Venice ! Wedded to tlie sea — Wedded ! Alas ! — Though thine indifferent spouse Fools thee with utterance of fantastic «vows Such as men waste in mock idolatry On symbols from which Time hath set them free — Though still some fretful serenade he pours On thy lone havens and deserted shores, As in the glorious olden days, when he Was slave, and subject, and all else, to thee — Yet now for other mistresses or brides. He pours rich treasures from his plastic tides. Fickle as any man could hope to be. And thou forlorn and desolate art left Proud city ! of all except thine ancient fame bereft. SONNETSj ETC. 317 THE POOK OF LOJSTDON. Lift up, ye poor ! your everlasting prayer ! We have you with us always, as foretold By the great Teacher, in the times of old — We have you with us always — everywhere. Your spectral faces haunt us through the glare Of this great city — from its storied stones In chorus rise your immemorial groans — Your rags and misery taint the turbid air — Lift up your million voices, and prepare The prosperous thousands for that ominous day, When your grim choirs, grown ghastlier by delay. And sick with hope deferred, from every lair Issuing, shall seize the citadels of power. And brandish vested rights to pillage and devour. 318 SONNETS, ETC. CONSOLATION. There are good people in tlie world despite The embittering competitions, and the strife. Which make us rivals in the race of life — Which breed confusion betwixt wrong and right. And turn the ^^ milk of human kindness^^ sour. Thank God for this, in darkness or in light, Though troubles multiply — though tempests lower — Though human nature is crushed out of sight. And deaths are heaped for eagles to devour — Thank God for this, that in the darkest hour, We still have friends upon our side to fight. Who shine like stars, made welcomer by night. And come by chance, as if from God they came — Whom honest hearts can love, without regret or shame. SONNETS, ETC. 319 LOYE HAS EYES, Dear friend ! Believe me. Lovers not always blind. But as an idiot's spiritual nigL.t, By sudden inspiration set alight. May teach mysterious wisdom to mankind, So amorous insight flashes on the mind. And shows your naked soul — even as you are With all your womanly faults, yet lovelier far Than any perfect creature I can find In this imperfect world by God designed — Faults, that like spots upon the peerless sun^ Into unexpected light and beauty run — Gazing whereon methinks I leave behind Earth's vapid shows, and my delighted eyes Throb as with beams intense, and splendour of the skies. y 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. RENEWALS ONLY— TEL. NO. 642^405 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on die date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. INTER-HBRARV LOAN ^4^ 45t&- -mt- APR 181976 mm NVivTB .T 02 2001 AmaoiscQCTics'go LD21A-60m-3,'70 (N5382sl0)476-A-32 General Library University of Californi' Berkeley GENERAL LIBRARY UX. BERKELEY B000b7a21i2 i