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The evil spirit of a bitter love,

And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
From my first years, my soul was filled with thee:
I saw thee, midst the flowers the lowly boy
Tended, unmarked by thee-a spirit of bloom,
And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee! and the passionate heart of man
Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy;
And from that hour I grew-what to the last
I shall be-thine adorer! Well! this love,
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope:

I thought of tales that by the winter hearth

Old gossips tell-how maidens, sprung from kings,

Have stooped from their high sphere: how Love, like Death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook

Beside the scepter. Thus I made my home

In the soft palace of a fairy Future!

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Was my own lord.

Then did I seek to rise

Out of the prison of my mean estate;

And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind

Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin jailers of the daring heart—
Low Birth and iron Fortune. The bright image,
Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters man! For thee I grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages:
For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace,
And every Muse, such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
And passion taught me Poesy-of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Of beauty!-Art became the shadow
Of the dear star-light of thy haunting eyes!
Men called me vain-some mad: I heeded not,
But still toiled on-hoped on-for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee!

Pauline. Has he a magic to exorcise hate?
Melnotte. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,

And sent them to thee,-such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name-appended by the burning heart
That longed to show its idol what bright things
It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name

That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn!
That very hour,-when passion, turned to wrath,
Resembled hatred most-when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos,—in that hour
The tempters found me a revengeful tool

For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-
It turned and stung thee!

Pauline.

Love, Sir, hath no sting.

What was the slight of a poor powerless girl

To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge ?

Oh, how I loved this man !—a serf!—a slave!

Melnotte. Hold, lady!-No, not slave! Despair is free.
I will not tell thee of the throes-the struggles-
The anguish the remorse. No-let it pass!
And let me come to such most poor atonement
Yet in my power. Pauline !-

Pauline.

[Approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand. No, touch me not!

I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;
And I-O Heaven!-a peasant's wife! I'll work,
Toil, drudge: do what thou wilt; but touch me not:
Let my wrongs make me sacred!

Melnotte.
Do not fear me.
Thou dost not know me, Madame: at the altar
My vengeance ceased-my guilty oath expired!
Henceforth, no image of some marble saint,
Niched in cathedral's aisles, is hallowed more
From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.

I am thy husband-nay, thou need'st not shudder;—
Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.

A marriage thus unholy-unfulfilled

A bond of fraud-is, by the laws of France,

Made void and null. To-night, then, sleep-in peace.
To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn

I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the altar,
Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.
The law shall do thee justice, and restore
Thy right to bless another with thy love,

And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot
Him who so loved-so wronged thee, think at least
Heaven left some remnant of the angel still

In that poor peasant's nature!-Ho! my mother!
Enter WIDOW.

Conduct this lady (she is not my wife

She is our guest, our honored guest, my mother!)
To the poor chamber where the sleep of virtue
Never beneath my father's roof

E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now,
I think thou wilt believe me. Go, my mother!
Widow. She is not thy wife!

Melnotte.

Speak not, but go.

Hush! hush! for mercy sake:

[WIDOW ascends the stairs: PAULINE follows weeping-turns to look back.

Melnotte [sinking down.] All angels bless and guard her!

CCIII. THE SENSITIVE AUTHOR.

R. B. SHERIDAN.

[In this dialogue from "The Critic, or a Tragedy Rehearsed," Sheridan caricatured the peculiarities of Richard Cumberland, a vain and sensitive, but good man, a writer of several plays, who died in 1811.]

Characters-DANGLE, SNEER, SIR FRETFUL PLagiary.

Dangle. Ah, my dear friend! We were just speaking of your tragedy. Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable! Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful, never in your life.

Sir F. Sincerely then, do you like the piece?

Sneer. Wonderfully!

Sir F. But come now, there must be something that you think might be mended, hey ?—Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck you?

Dan. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing, for the most part, to

Sir F. With most authors it is just so indeed: they are in general strangely tenacious! But, for my part, I am never so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect in me; for what is the purpose of showing a

work to a friend, if you don't mean to profit by his opinion?

Sneer. Very true. Why, then, though I seriously admire the piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection; which, if you'll give me leave, I'll mention.

Sir F. Sir, you can't oblige me more.
Sneer. I think it wants incident.

Sir F. You surprise me!—wants incident?

Sneer. Yes: I own, I think the incidents are too few. Sir F. Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no person for whose judgment I have a more implicit deference. But I protest to you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded. My dear Dangle, how does it strike you?

Dan. Really, I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think the plot quite sufficient; and the first four acts by many degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that the interest rather falls off in the fifth.

Sir F. Rises, I believe, you mean, sir

Dan. No: I don't upon my word.

Sir F. Yes, yes, you do, upon my word,-it certainly don't fall off, I assure you. No, no, it don't fall off.

Dan. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours. Sir F. The newspapers!-Sir, they are the most villainous-licentious-abominable-infernal-Not that I ever read them! No! I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper.

Dan. You are quite right,-for it certainly must hurt an author of delicate feelings to see the liberties they take.

Sir F. No!-quite the contrary: their abuse is, in fact, the best panegyric-I like it of all things. An author's reputation is only in danger from their support.

Sneer. Why, that's true, and that attack now on you the other day

Sir F. What? where?

Dan. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday: it was completely ill-natured, to be sure.

Sir F. O, so much the better-Ha! ha! ha!—I wouldn't have it otherwise.

Dan. Certainly, it's only to be laughed at: for

Sir F. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow said, do you?

Sneer. Pray, Dangle-Sir Fretful seems a little anxious

Sir F. O no!-anxious,—not I,-not the least. I— But one may as well hear, you know.

Dan. Sneer, do you recollect?-[Aside to SNEER.] Make out something.

Sneer. [Aside to DANGLE.] I will. [Aloud.] Yes, yes, I remember perfectly.

Sir F. Well, and pray now-not that it signifies—what might the gentleman say?

Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest invention or original genius whatever; though you are the greatest traducer of all other authors living. Sir F. Ha! ha! ha! Very good!

Sneer. That, as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own, he believes, even in your commonplace-book, where stray jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger of the Lost and Stolen Office. Sir F. Ha! ha! ha! Very pleasant!

Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill even to steal with taste; but that you glean from the refuse of obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been before you; so that the body of your work is a composition of dregs and sediments,—like a bad tavern's worst wine.

Sir F. Ha! ha!

Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast would be less intolerable, if the thoughts were ever suited to the expression; but the homeliness of the sentiment stares through the fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in one of the new uniforms!

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