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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/sybiltragedyinfiOOsava 
 
Sy the same Author. 
 
 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 1 Vol., 12mo. 
 
 EVA, 
 
 A GOBLIN EOMANCE, 
 In Five Parts. 
 
 1 Vol., 12mo. 
 
SYBIL: 
 
 A TKAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS, 
 
 7 
 
 JOHN SAYAGE 
 
 /.^ 
 
 ■»*» 
 
 ^&', . 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 JAMES B. KIRKER, 
 
 (Late EDWARD DUNIGAN & BROTHER,) 
 
 599 Broadway, (up stairs,) 
 
 1865. 
 

 A^ 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S5S, 
 
 Bt JOHN SAVAGE, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of 
 Columbia. 
 
 KENNIE, SHEA & LINDSAY, 
 Steeeottpers & Electeotypers, 
 
 81, 83 & 85 Ccntre-st., K. Craighead, Peintek. 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
TO 
 
 THOMAS SEATOX DONOHO, 
 
 Author of '* Ivywall," "Cromwell, a Tragedy," etc. 
 
 ]My Dear Friend- 
 It is now eight years since " Sybil" was written, and six 
 since it was put upon the stage. In committing it to the press 
 I desire to dedicate it to you to mark my regard for you as a 
 poet — though you will persist in keeping your light under a 
 bushel — and my affection for you as the almost daily com- 
 panion of over four years' residence in Washington. On whom 
 could I more becomingly inflict the dedication of the drama ? 
 You were the first to mention it in the public press, even be- 
 fore its production ; and the sympathetic sharer in its earlier 
 successes, when the newspapers brought us accounts of the en- 
 thusiasm created by the young and brilliant tragic actress — 
 Miss Avonia Jones — then representhig the heroine. 
 
 I have never seen Miss Jones in the part, but can well 
 imagine how greatly her powerful acting, superadded to her 
 admirable presence, tended to kindle the public to a generous 
 reception of the piece. 
 
 It is needless now to recall in detail the too flattering recog- 
 nition of a majority of the critics — inspired, doubtless, more by 
 enthusiasm for the actress than any knowledge of the author 
 — or the equally unmerited severity of a minor branch of the 
 fraternity. Leaving the latter in the hands of the audiences, I 
 offer sincere acknowledgments to the former. In this connec- 
 tion my thanks are especially due to that fine poet and -wdt, 
 George D. Prentice, who, unknown to me save by reputation, 
 
6 DEDICATION. 
 
 acted as mediator on behalf of Authors' Rights, on an exciting- 
 occasion, to which the following letter, addressed to a New 
 York journal, refers : — 
 
 " Washington, Oct. 31, 1858. 
 " In your paper of yesterday's date the article on the drama 
 contained the following : 
 
 "'John Savage's play of "Sybil," after running with great 
 enthusiasm, has been withdrawn in consequence of the remon- 
 strances of the family where the chief incident occurred. It is 
 not, perhaps, known that it is founded on an event which hap- 
 pened in Kentucky. Its dramatic success, however, will, no 
 doubt, induce Mr, Savage to try again on a less dangerous 
 subject.' 
 
 '" Permit me to say that ' Sybil' has not been withdrawn. 
 The acting of it was postponed one night in Louisville, out of 
 respect to the request of the Governor of Kentucky, and for 
 reasons which the leading journals of Louisville then thought 
 sufficient. Owing to certain criticisms having preceded the 
 play, and to the probably injudicious announcement of it by the 
 manager in Louisville, it was thought by some persons to re- 
 flect upon a respectable family in that State, some incidents of 
 the play having been suggested by a notable passage in the 
 criminal and domestic history of Kentucky. Ui)on this suppo- 
 sition the play was, after some negotiation, suppressed on the 
 night for which it was first announced in Louisville. Upon its 
 representation, however, ' Sybil' was declared to be a fiction. 
 The Louisville Courier, while paying it such compliments as I 
 would blush to reproduce, repudiated the idea that it was a 
 representation of facts, and said : / Let it rather be called 
 " Sybil," with no attempt to invest it with the terrors of a 
 local incident, which it does not attempt to portray according 
 to history or tradition.' I willingly accept the proposition of 
 the Courier, for as Mr. G. D. Prentice previously said in his 
 
 Journal, ' The author, , knew nothing, and sought to 
 
 know nothing, as to the life and death of , except from 
 
 tradition, and he relied partly upon these, but far more upon 
 his own fancy and invention, in the composition of the piece, 
 his whole purpose being to render the play, both in incident 
 and in language, as effective as he ];!0ssibly could.' 
 
 " The representation of * Sybil' was attended by a most re- 
 markable success (as the papers testify). Miss Avonia Jones 
 Avas re-engaged for three nights, and performed it each night 
 with great enthusiasm on the part of the audience, and in- 
 creased honor to herself as an actress of wonderful original 
 X^owers. The details of the ' excitement' I omit, but submit 
 
DEDICATION. *l 
 
 the above facts in explanation and correction of your para- 
 graph, which was, no doubt, based upon the articles announc- 
 ing the temporary postponement of ' Sybil' in Louisville. 
 
 " Yours respectfully, 
 
 "Joh:n^ Savage." 
 
 This letter is reprinted in justice to myself, especially as 
 lengthy " Statements" were put forth suggesting an imputation 
 on my motives in using the material which furnished the key 
 note of the drama. William Gilmore Simms wrote two novels 
 on the subject ; Charles Fenno Hoffman, I learn, also made it 
 the theme of a novel. Our friend, Clifton W. Tajdeure, drew 
 a melodrama from it, and the excitement jointly produced 
 by the representation of " Sybil" and the Statements against it 
 made me acquainted with the fact that other dramas and sto- 
 ries had been fo-unded upon it. With much more justice 
 might the motives of these authors be impugned, if any such 
 imputation be warranted by the use of facts which have gone 
 into history. The late distinguished author of the " Blithedale 
 Romance," in his preface to that work— fearful lest readers 
 might confound his romance with the persons and scenes of a 
 certain community— stated, that while availing himself of act- 
 ual reminiscences to give a more life-like tint to the creation 
 of his fancy, he so used scenes, incidents, and persons, that 
 " the creatures of his brain might play their phantasmagorical 
 antics without exposing them to too close a comparison with 
 the actual events of real lives." The same, in a still greater 
 degree, is true of the use of material in " Sybil." 
 
 I would not wilMngly wound the feelings of any one, much 
 less those already seared by tender connection with the Aictim 
 of a foul deed. It does not follow, that because a dramatist, or 
 other writer, takes certain incidents as the basis of a work, he 
 may not produce them by the means of claaracters totally dif- 
 ferent from those concerned in their actual perpetration. ' Na- 
 tures of a directly opposite stamp may, for all dramatic, poetic, 
 and moral purposes, be most suitable to heighten the effect of 
 such acts or incidents. It is so in the present instance. Be 
 tween the chief Statement, by its own showing, and the storv aa 
 
8 DEDICATION. 
 
 conveyed in this piece, there is but one point of similarity — the 
 fact of an assassination. There is no resemblance between the 
 contrivers and perpetrators, as respectively drawn ; the charac- 
 ter of the victim in the one, is as opposite to that of the other 
 as noonday and midnight : and the attempt to create an iden- 
 tity between them is as nnjnst to the memory of the actual, as 
 to the dramatist who now presents the acted, character. The 
 unfortunate use of a name found in a stray newspaper article, 
 which first suggested the theme, and retained in Simms' 
 novel — the only one on the subject I was then aware of — and 
 to which I was further indebted, gave a clue to a supposed 
 identity not to be found on even a casual examination. 
 This name has been changed ; and I would not now allude to 
 the matter at all, but that when represented, the critics, other- 
 wise but too kind, taking their cue from the original " excite- 
 ment," as menti'oned above, constantly refer to it; and on giv- 
 ing it to the press, I could not run the risk of having my 
 silence construed into even a remote acquiescence in the injus- 
 tice of the Statements, so far as they refer to " Sybil" or its 
 author. 
 
 After such an mipleasant, though necessary digression, I 
 may be permitted to refresh myself with memories more suit- 
 able to my nature — thoughts conjured up by reminiscences of 
 our homes in Washington, and of days spent with you on the 
 hills of Maryland and Virginia and along the then delightful 
 banks of the Potomac. The mention of Washington evokes 
 memories of an eventful and instructive, even if laborious 
 period of my life, and the social and generous companionship 
 of many dear friends : it calls np the hospitable and brilliant 
 board of John F. Coyle ; the serene enjoyment and unflagging 
 interest of the statesmen-groups gathered around our benign 
 host of Strawberry Knoll, Mr. Kingman ; the trusty good na- 
 ture of my friend of many years, Dr. Thomas Antisell ; the 
 pleasant hours in the artistic saUn of J. C. McGuire ; besides, 
 a host, out of which it would be ungracious to individualize, 
 many of whom have since gone forth from rival camps, and 
 found a resting-place, once again, side by side — in death. You 
 know my sense of duty to my country — and I will not dwell 
 on that theme here lest the passions, which morta,lity cannot 
 
DEDICATION. 9 
 
 shake off, might arise to crush out the beauty of the past. lu 
 dedicating this little book to you, I could not repress a tribute 
 to days past, and to the friends who contributed so much to 
 make them joyous and happy. 
 
 With great esteem, 
 
 I beg to subscribe myself, 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 John Savage. 
 
 New Okleans, Sept. 14, 1S64. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 -»♦♦>- 
 
 Eustace Clifden. 
 
 RuFDS Wolfe. 
 
 Old Acton. 
 
 "William Acton. 
 
 Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Baenabas. 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer. 
 
 Gentlemen, 
 
 Sybil Hardy. 
 Mrs. Hardy. 
 Maude Clifden. 
 Janette. 
 
 Scene. — In the State of Kentucky. 
 
 Time. — First decade of the Nineteenth Century. 
 
SYBIL. 
 
 4"«-> 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Cluh-roam, handsomely furnished. 
 
 RuFUS Wolfe, Barnabas, Mr. Lowe, and several gen- 
 tlemen, reading papers, &c. 
 
 Wolfe. Our new member is not stirring yet. 
 
 \st Gent. No — thanks to your sleight of hand last 
 night. I should not be surprised if he didn't stir for a 
 month. 
 
 2d Gent. I never saw a jollier initiation ! 
 
 Bar. He may not be so jolly when he's sober. 
 
 Wolfe. Oh, be won't remember his assaults on our 
 friend Lowe : eh, Cardinal ? 
 
 Lowe. But I'll take care he shall. 
 
 Wolfe. He's young and inexperienced ; and the deeds 
 of wine evaporate with its effects. 
 
 Bar. I never saw a wilder fellow in his cups. 
 
 Wolfe, /thought him rather serious. Did not you. 
 Cardinal? {To Lowe.) 
 
 Loioe. I tell you what, gentlemen, I'll resign my 
 presidency of this club, if I'm not protected against 
 every dare-devil, who, inspired by Wolfe's mad humors, 
 plays off his di'unken jokes on me — I will. 
 
 2 
 
14 SYBIL. [ACT I. 
 
 All. No — no. Ha 1 ha ! 
 
 Lowe. I will, gentlemen, — I do protest I will, — if it 
 even shatters the unity of the society — I will. 
 Several. Oh, no. 
 
 Entei- Eustace Clifden. 
 
 \st Gent. Our new member I 
 
 Wolfe. Good morning, Clifden. 
 
 Several. Good morning. {Salute him.) 
 
 Clif. Good morning, gentlemen. [Goes to Lowe.) Mr. 
 Lowe, I am very glad to see you here ; it saves me the 
 necessity of calling upon you. 
 
 Wolfe. Bravo, Clifden ! 
 
 Loice. CaUing upon me, sir I for what, Mr. Clifden ? 
 
 Wolfe. For what ? Oh, innocent Cardinal — for satis- 
 faction, to be sure. 
 
 Lowe. Sir, I'll resign this moment. 
 
 Clif. Allow me, Mr. Lowe, to apologize for my rude- 
 ness to you last night. I was not conscious of it, I as- 
 sure you ; and I am indebted to the kindness of some 
 friends for the information this morning. 
 
 Lowe. You were rude, sir, that you were. 
 
 CHf. I am sorry for it, Mr. Lowe ; sorry that I 
 should, without cause, affront any man, but more espe- 
 cially one whose position should be sufficient protection 
 against insult. I sincerely apologize. 
 
 \st Gent. I should think an apology from any membei 
 of the club, for any reason, decidedly inexcusable. 
 
 Several. Decidedly — decidedly. 
 
 Clif. {calmly) It was, sir, thoroughly unwarrantable 
 on my part to offer a rudeness to you ; and I say again, 
 I apologize. 
 
 Lowe. It was unwarrantable ; but, sh*, smee you have 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 15 
 
 the manliness to apologize, I give you my band {Lowe 
 and Clifden shake hands), and I hope you have safely 
 survived the pains of initiation. 
 
 Wolfe. Does the head ache still ? 
 
 Bar. Are the nerves disordered ? 
 
 1st Gent. Hand shaky ? 
 
 Lowe. In a word, my good sir, are you washed out ? 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Clif. 'No, but to say truth, I feel inexpressibly 
 ashamed. 
 
 Bar. and 1st and 2d Gent. Ha ! ha ! he ! 
 
 Wolfe. Nonsense, man. 
 
 Clf. I am very sorry you persuaded me to join your 
 club. 
 
 Wolfe. Persuade ! ^Twas scarcely possible to avoid 
 it. Every young lawyer, to be recognized, must go 
 through it. 
 
 Bar. Your regrets are treasonable. 
 
 Clif. I feel them, nevertheless. I must have been 
 wild, if what I hear be true. 
 
 1st Gent. Slightly elevated, that's all. 
 
 Clif I never was slightly elevated before, and, club 
 or no club, I never will be again. 
 
 Wolfe. We have all said the same thing once. 
 
 Clif. I cannot, even now, understand it. I drank but 
 little wine. 
 
 Lowe. Precious little. Ha I ha I But you may thank 
 Wolfe's adroitness in mingling the liquors. 
 
 Clif What ! 
 
 Wolfe. Pshaw, Clifden, you were never born for a 
 Puritan. You are a fellow for fun, high frolic, and the 
 enjoyment of the earth. 
 
 1st Gent. Certainly, and if a man may forget himself 
 
16 SYBIL. [ACT. I. 
 
 and be mad for a night, it is that night when he is ad- 
 mitted to the Temple of Anacreon. Don't take it so 
 seriously. 
 
 Bar. All over now, you know. 
 
 Lowe. You are young, sir, and likely to be abused ; 
 take the advice of an older man — these gay fellows are 
 making fun of you, Mr. Clifden. 
 
 Several. Ha ! ha ! Good I 
 
 1st Gent. Yery good, your reverence I 
 
 Lowe. He ! he ! he ! you puppies, I shall leave you 
 to your politics. {Going) I see young Acton is in the 
 field against you {to Wolfe) ; take care lest you force me 
 into the opposition. {Exit, followed hy the gents.) 
 
 Wolfe. Yes, Acton is in the field agamst me, and I 
 need the services of all my friends. I count on you, 
 Clifden. 
 
 Glif. Whatever I can, I will do ; but — 
 
 Wolfe. No huts. You are already popular, and the 
 time is auspicious. The life of a man almost depends on 
 his first marked effort. You are just admitted to the 
 bar, and with your reputation as a speaker here, some- 
 thing is expected of you. There could not be a better 
 opportunity to distinguish yourself. You must meet 
 Acton in discussion. 
 
 Glif. Me ? He will need a stronger opponent. Why 
 not do this yourself? 
 
 Wolfe. I long for nothing better, but I cannot be 
 everywhere. I'll seek him in time. When do you leave 
 town ? 
 
 Glif. To-day ; within the hour. 
 
 Bar. So soon? 
 
 Wolfe. Why, I expected you to dinner ; Mrs. Wolfe 
 will be disappointed. 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 11 
 
 Clif. I am sorry to deny myself the pleasure, but 
 urgent matters — very urgent indeed — demand my pres- 
 ence. 
 
 Bar. But a day or two ? 
 
 Clif. I wrote to — to — my sister — 
 
 Wolfe. What of that. A little delay will make you 
 the more welcome. Let the gii-ls wait ; don't be a boy 
 always. You will meet some excellent fellows, see how 
 we commence the campaign, and so forth. 
 
 Bar. Strong temptations. 
 
 Clif. Yes, but I confess to my boyhood, and will 
 prove my manhood by resisting your temptations. 
 
 Wolfe. Stubborn. Well, I will write to you then. 
 I have a strong desire — apart from my own interests — to 
 see you in the field. 
 
 Clif Thank you, I shall hear from you. Adieu. 
 
 Wolfe. ] 
 
 p ^ > Adieu. [Shake hands.) [Exit Clif. 
 
 Wolfe. He does not know his own powers. We must 
 bring him fully out. 
 
 Bar. 'Tis not so easy to meet Acton. What is there 
 against him ? 
 
 Wolfe. His pamphlet. Every line a man writes is 
 poHtical capital for his enemies. Then, he is obscure, 
 that's certain. Little known among the masses, and for 
 a good reason — he does not mix with them ; he is a 
 haughty aristocrat, a man who only knows the people 
 when he wants their votes. 
 
 Bar. Is that actually the case ? 
 
 Wolfe. Simpleton ! We must make it so. 
 
 Bar. Oh — ah — yes. 
 
 Wolfe. It may be, or may not be, what is the differ- 
 ence to us. That he is shy and reserved is, I understand, 
 
 2* 
 
18 SYBILo [ACT I. 
 
 a fact. Well, it is just as likely he is so from pride as 
 any thing else, do you see ? Perhaps he's a fellow of 
 delicate feelings ! So much the better. People don't 
 like fellows of delicate feelings. Ha ! ha ! Delicate 
 feelings are very unpopular things. They alone would 
 go hard against him. If we could have him persuaded 
 to wear kid gloves it would save us a few thousand. 
 Kid gloves are not popular ; if any thing, they are more 
 ruinous than the feelino-s aforesaid. Then he is cautious 
 of taverns. Couldn't the poj^ular eye discover a demi- 
 john in his study — ay, could it ! Ha I ha ! Pride, ten- 
 der feelings, kid gloves, private demijohn — political 
 death, certain. Come along, Barnabas, old boy, we 
 must let the people know of these things. 
 
 [Exit Wolfe and Bar. 
 
 Scene Ih—On the skirt of a wood overlooking the ruined village 
 of Eaylemont. 
 
 Enter Old Acton and William Acton. 
 
 Old A. {contemplating the scene). We are here 
 again, William ; here, without a single companion of all 
 those old ones who were associated with that once dear 
 village ; and yet we are not without some of the old 
 friends — the old trees and rocks and hills are about us. 
 Bless me, I feel the former life, if not the old feelings ; 
 yet, what a change. Pive years have done it all. Five 
 years only, yet what an eternity it seems. 
 
 Acton. I see no sign of human life. 
 
 Old A. Indeed, it looks as if there were none. Shall 
 we descend into the valley and inquire further ? 
 
 Acton. Why, sir, further? Here, it seems to me, we 
 can 
 
SCENE n.] SYBIL. 19 
 
 Behold enough for melancholy thought. 
 See — yonder ruins of my father's home ; 
 There I first wak'd to this now weary world ; 
 There was a child ; there sprang from youth to man, 
 Beneath the touch of Love's delicious hopes — 
 Hopes which, alas, that same old roof saw blasted. 
 Old A. And there my school-house stands, as years 
 ago, 
 Save that it glooms with age and loneliness. 
 I could embrace my dear old fav'rite oaks ! 
 They seem to welcome me with outstretched arms ; 
 Or, it may be, they wave me from the scene. 
 How much do they recall I Their shapes have grown 
 Into my heart with the old books I've read 
 Beneath their patriarchal shelter. 
 
 Acton (musing). How brief a tenn makes life deso- 
 lation ? 
 Why shall we wonder that no vestige marks 
 The spots where stood the cities of the past ; 
 When here, what was, a few short years ago, 
 A thriving, robust village, is but now 
 A bundle of old gables ? 
 
 Old A. Discontent 
 
 Between a couple of families, my son, 
 Has sundered towns more populous than this. 
 This very cause made you the first to leave. 
 
 Acton. Yes, but not willingly I left my home— 
 A loving heart, a cruel, brutal fate 
 Drove me from out my native sanctuary. 
 
 Old A. Well, I rejoice that it was so. The necessity 
 which expelled you was the mother of a glorious future. 
 It brought out the manhood that was in you, and will 
 crown your name with honor. 
 
20 SYBIL. [ACT I. 
 
 Acton, Yet, sir, I would gladly exchange all — 
 All that I am, all that I hope to be, 
 For the dear dreams that fill'd my boyhood's home. 
 
 Old A. No, no. To-morrow, when you return to the 
 political action you have entered upon, you will feel 
 how idle was the sentiment, seeming so natural to you 
 now. What ? If this was the scene of your sports and 
 love, was it not also the theatre of your denial, your 
 strife, and bitter humiliation : would you feel those pangs 
 anew? 
 
 Acton. 'No, no ; do not remind me. See there — see ! 
 {Catching Old Actoii^s arm.) Dost not descry a female 
 
 fio'ure ? There — 
 Below the copse : 'Tis lost now. There, again, 
 Anear the margin of the lake it stands. 
 It looks like her ! Could it be Margaret ! 
 
 Old A. 1 see. 
 
 Acton. Stay, father — I would speak with her. (Going, 
 Old A. detains him.) 
 
 Old A. Why should ye speak — have you any thing 
 pleasant to communicate to each other ? You are un- 
 reasonable, my son. ( William subdued.) And tell me, 
 William, is it still in your mind to marry Margaret 
 Cooper. 
 
 Acton. Oh no, sir — no ! How could you suppose it ! 
 
 Old A. I do not suppose it ; therefore I say you are 
 unkind, cruel, my son, in your attempt to see that woman 
 you believed to be her. You have no business with her. 
 
 Acton. Father — my more than father, you are right. I 
 deserve reproof. 'Twas a blind impulse. I am a boy 
 still. Let us leave this place. 
 
 Old A. Forget these dreams. All your thoughts 
 need other direction now. Your antagonist if less able, 
 
SCENE in.] SYBIL. 21 
 
 is a more practised politician, and works upon a very 
 perfect organization. 
 
 Acton. I was not made for political strife. 
 
 Old A. It is the very sphere of action that will at- 
 tract you from the chimeras of fancy and boyhood. 
 When you have a seat in Congress you will, m the ex- 
 pansive field before you, forget that such a little village 
 as this beneath us has ever been on a map. Come, Wil- 
 liam, to-morrow will see us harnessed for the fight. 
 [Exit Old Actox, leading William Actox. 
 
 Scene III. — A Room in Clif den's Country Cottage, neatly 
 
 furnished. 
 
 Maude Clifdex, Jaxette, seated. 
 
 Maude. Brother Eustace is outstaying his time. I 
 am the more anxious for his return, because I thought 
 he left us in rather a melancholy mood. Did you not 
 think so ? 
 
 Jan. Do not fear but he will keep his appointment. 
 Even if he would disappoint us, there are other at.trac- 
 tions in this neighborhood from which he would not wil- 
 lingly remain distant. {Talcing a book from the table.) 
 See there, Maude. 
 
 Maude {reading from fly-leaf). "Sybil Hardy.'' 
 Why, what a rogue — he never mentioned he had met her. 
 
 Jan. Which only proves the truth of what I say. 
 
 Maude. Where did you find this ? 
 
 Jan. On his dressing-table. 
 
 Maude. Ah, Eustace, we have found you out. Well, 
 I'm gjad of it — ain't you ? There will be some reason 
 for his staying with us now — we have scarcely seen him 
 since he went studying that stupid law. 
 
22 SYBIL. [ACT I. 
 
 Jan. I would it were some other than our melancholy 
 neighbor. 
 
 Maude. Why, Janette, I do beheve you are jealous. 
 
 Jan. If I were I would not show it, Maude. 
 
 Maude. Ha ! ha ! why 'twas but yesterday you said 
 jealousy was the only thing a woman could not hide. 
 
 Jan. Well — yes, a woman who was in love. 
 
 Maude. Of course, a woman could not be jealous 
 without being in love. 
 
 Jan. But she might love without being jealous. 
 
 Maude. And that is what my cousin could not do. 
 
 Jan. {who has retired towards the window.) Here 
 he is. Look how he steals along, as though he were 
 going to a friend's funeral ; and now he stops, and dal- 
 lies, and looks behind him, as if expecting some one. 
 
 Maiide. Does he not look handsome — so tall and 
 graceful. 
 
 Jan. There's a cloud upon his brow. 
 
 Maude. We will dispel it. Here he comes. 
 
 Enter Eustace Clifden. 
 
 Welcome, brother. {Embraces him.) 
 
 Clif. Ah — dear Maude. Has Cousin Janette no wel- 
 come for me ? She forgets the customs of our childhood, 
 when she would cling to me as a vine round the treUis. 
 
 Jan. And Eustace then told all his secrets to his lit- 
 tle cousm. 
 
 Maude. Yes, indeed. Ah, ha ! brother, we have 
 found you out. {GUf den puzzled.) 
 
 Jan. {Showing the hook.) Eh, Master Cunning ! 
 
 Clif. So, Miss Pry-about. Well, Coz, kiss me and I'll 
 tell you all about it. 
 
 Maude. There now, make up. {Pulling them togeth- 
 
SCENE in.] SYBIL. 23 
 
 67% GUfden kisses Janette, who offers coy resistance — 
 they all sit.) 
 
 Jan. You did not tell us of your visits to Miss Hardy. 
 
 Clif. You did not tell me that such a beauty adorned 
 the vicinity. 
 
 Jan. Do you think her a beauty ? 
 
 Ilaude. Of course he does. (To him.) Well, how 
 did you meet her ? ♦ 
 
 Clif. Well, when home last week I went out shoot- 
 ing— 
 
 Jan. And was struck yourself. 
 
 Maude. Now, Janette. 
 
 Clif. I went out shooting, or to shoot ; and, toiling 
 after game in the wood, started, by a lucky shot, a 
 young lady from the thicket : common courtesy com- 
 mandecl me to apologize — 
 
 Maude. Of course. 
 
 Clif. And see that the frighted creature was not hurt — 
 
 Jan. Or pierced through the heart. 
 
 Clif. She, however, avoided me. 
 
 Jan. Of course, to drag you after her. 
 
 Maude. Oh, Janette, how can you. 
 
 Clif She hastened, with becoming delicacy, to the 
 open path. I followed, and though she declined my ser- 
 vice as escort, I continued, gently insisting, until she 
 came within sight of her cottage. 
 
 Jan. Did you not go home with her ? 
 
 Clif. No ; but on my return through the wood I 
 found — fortunate discovery — ^her veil, which I restored 
 next day ; and made bold to borrow that book— and 
 that's all. 
 
 Maude. Quite an adventure ; how could you keep it 
 from us ? 
 
24 SYBIL. [act I. 
 
 Jan. It was too charming for expression. Why, he's 
 blushing, as I live. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Glif. Tut, tut, Janette — nonsense ! — -just heated with 
 walking. 
 
 Jan. Heated, indeed, at a snail's pace. You saunter- 
 ed along, and looked from side to side, as though think- 
 ing whether you'd go over to Miss Hardy's or come here ; 
 and sighed — oh, dear ! you could be heard half a mile 
 away. 
 
 CUf. Sigh — oh, ridiculous. (Sighs.) What do you 
 know of the lady — eh, Maude ? Janette, who is she ? 
 
 Jan. She's a mystery of some sort or another. May- 
 be an exiled queen, good lack, or she wants to be thought 
 one. 
 
 Maude. Oh, Janette ! 
 
 Jan. Well, is it not true ? Does she not carry herself 
 like a queen, and is she not as proud and stately as if 
 she would remind us all we were beneath her. 
 Giif. She certainly does look queenly. 
 Jan. A tragedy-queen! 
 Maude. I'm sure she is unhappy. 
 Jan. I don't believe in her unhappiness at all. She 
 is too proud to be so unhappy as you think. 
 
 Glif. Might not pride itself be the very cause or the 
 effect of unhappiness ? 
 
 Jan. But are we to sympathize with it ? 
 Glif. (to Maude). How long has she resided here- 
 about ? 
 
 Maude. She and her mother came some two years 
 ago — ^just after you left us to study law. They bought 
 the Widow Davis's cottage, and fixed themselves and a 
 few servants very comfortably. Mrs. Hardy is a good- 
 natured body. 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL. 25 
 
 Jan. And very silly. I don't believe she is the mother 
 of our queen at all. 
 
 Clif. (to Maude). And the daughter ? — 
 
 Maude. She is not very sociable. She is seldom seen 
 by casual visitors ; and, indeed, has not been here more 
 than four or five times. Janette thinks her proud, but I 
 do not. Her manners are dignified ; but there is such a 
 look of sadness in her eyes, that I cannot help thinking 
 her unhappy. Probably she has been disappointed in 
 love. 
 
 Jan. Maude is making a heroine of her. One day 
 she is a recluse ; another, she has been engaged, and her 
 lover played false and deserted her — 
 
 Maude. No, I said he might have been killed in a 
 duel, as any man might be for such a woman. 
 
 Clif. Bravo— bravo — Maude ! 
 
 Jan. 'Tis well you're not a man, Maude, or our trage- 
 dy-queen vrould help to kill our cousin. 
 
 Maude. Is she not beautiful? Is she not, brother? 
 They say, too, that she is intellectual and learned. 
 
 Clif. Who says ? 
 
 Jan. Who, but old Mrs. Fisher, and solely because 
 she saw her fixing a basketful of books on her shelves. 
 
 Maude. Why, Judge Weldon told me he spoke with 
 her, and that he never believed a woman could be so 
 sensible before. 
 
 Ja}i. That only shows what a poor judge he is. 
 
 Maude. But Miss Hardy is sensible. I have spoken 
 with her myself. 
 
 Jan. Well, she's old enough to have the sense of two 
 young women at least. 
 
 Clif Old ? the lady I mean is certainly not old. 
 
 Maude. Cousin Janette is only teaziug, thinking that 
 
 3 
 
26 SYBIL. [ACT I. 
 
 our lovely, but melancholy friend, has beAYitched you. 
 She is not old, cannot be more than one or two and 
 twenty. 
 
 Jan. And is not that old ? you are but sixteen, 
 Maude, and I'm not eighteen — I'm sure Miss Hardy is 
 twenty^five if she's a day, 
 
 Maude. Come, come, Janette, if you stay another 
 minute you'll have Miss Hardy a gaunt old lady, with a 
 few teeth and a pair of spectacles. 
 
 \_Exit Maude and Janette, laughing. 
 
 Clif. Maude is right — Sybil's truly beautiful ! 
 Oh, why have I not known her before now. 
 The moment I but glanced into her eyes 
 I read my destiny. I look'd and loved. 
 From the creative heaven of her face 
 A whole new world leaped into my heart ; 
 A world teeming with a thousand hopes, 
 Each taking inspiration from that face. 
 I've heard, but never felt its truth till now, 
 That persons of congenial souls exchange 
 Themselves on first collision of theu' eyes. 
 She has my being, and to win her not 
 Is to abandon and forsake myself. 
 How much I've lived within a week, and yet, 
 My very strength of feeling calls up fears 
 That goad me with a reckless speed to know, 
 If I may not in her heart's empire dwell. 
 As she fills up the whole domain of mine. 
 
 \_Music as act drop falls. 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 2t 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ScTENS I. — A wood. A 'paper mark on trunk of a tree. Sybil 
 Hardy discovered in the foreground firing at the mark with 
 a pistol. After firing, Sybil looks with calm eagerness at the 
 effect. 
 
 Sybil. Thank heaven, I fail not ; each unerring shot 
 Is certain intimation of reveno-e, 
 And daily gives me courage to live on. [Moves) 
 Without this all-sustaining, grateful hope, 
 The solitude I breathe were death : and death 
 That might have been a heav'nly gift, ere fled 
 My happy childhood trembling from my heart 
 (As though affrighted by its haughty blood). 
 Would now be that most unforgiving curse 
 This wilful, woful, wretched brain could bear, 
 rive years, like monumental marbles rise 
 Above my girlish beauty, and record 
 The gnawing consciousness of coarse deceit. 
 The bitter anguish of defrauded hopes. 
 Mocked aims ; the loss of name, position, love ; 
 The loss of all those dear amenities 
 That should have been the guerdon and the guide, 
 The hfe itself of the proud, withered youth beneath. 
 
 {Weeps.) 
 'Tis strange these maddening, these blighting years 
 Have left untouched one corner of my brain : 
 That here, far distant from the village where 
 I ruled, already in my youth a queen ; 
 Far from my friends' condole, my foes' contempt, 
 That here unknown, unfriended — save by one, 
 
28 SYBIL. [ACT II. 
 
 A doting mother, whose unwavering heart 
 Still dulls her ears to censure, and whose eyes 
 Still fling a tearful glory round her child — 
 I teach the woman in her pallid prime 
 T' avenge my girlhood's blushing trustfulness. 
 (Starts.) Here is my neighbor whom I fear to meet. 
 And yet there is a restless sympathy, 
 Some dread, electric chain that brings us close. 
 I would avoid him : would that he would me. 
 Oh heaven ! that I were younger by five years. {Co7i- 
 . ceals the ijidol.) 
 
 Enter Eustace Clifden. 
 
 Glifden, Ah, Miss Hardy, pardon my intrusion. It 
 was unintentional. 
 
 Sybil. Your presence is pardonable, Mr. Clifden, but 
 scarcely your excuse. 
 
 Clif. I feared my presence would but awaken a dis- 
 dain, that one of us, at least, should bear unanswered. 
 
 Sybil. Sir, I fear you understand yourself less than 
 you even understand me. I shall relieve your feelings 
 by withdrawing. [Going.) 
 
 Clif. Stay, Miss Hardy. {Goes after her.) 
 Sybil, dear Sybil, do not leave me thus : 
 Hear me but for a moment. Well I know. 
 After what has transpired, that I am 
 Bound to your pity, mercy, or contempt. 
 But an absorbing love like mine fearS not 
 The self-reproaches of a callous pride, 
 That tames the blood of those who think they love. 
 Love is a slave, yet those who think they have 
 Timely control of all its dang'rous ecstasies 
 
SCENE l] sybil. 29 
 
 Have never loved — or have no power to love. 
 You bid me go, but / dare not depart. 
 
 Sybil. Clifden, 'twere wrong to listen jet again, 
 To what 'twere better I had never heard. 
 I must not — better for us both I should not. 
 You found me here in solitude. To me 
 Y"ou were a stranger. Strangers each to each. 
 Y'ou nothing know of me : — of you, I nothing. 
 Let us be friends as neighbors : — seek no more : 
 If not, then let us part. 
 
 Glif. Know nothing of you I 
 
 Sybil, ask your heart. 
 
 Sybil {energetically). Ha! sir! what mean you ? 
 What can you know of me ? 
 
 Clif. {Sybil betrays much anxiety,) Much ! 
 These solemn cloistered woods are witnesses — 
 These oaks that eloquently stretch their arms 
 To heaven, and bless you in their sheltermg calm — 
 These my loved rivals for affection, feel 
 In thy dear presence what I proudly know ; 
 That you among earth's fairest are alone — 
 Alone in beauty, in intellect alone ! 
 This do I know and feel ; and is not this 
 All that I ever wish to know. 
 
 Sybil {staggering and faint). Thank heaven ! {Aside.) 
 
 Clif. {supporting her). You are ill — 
 
 Sybil. Do not be alarmed, I {regains her position) — 
 I am better now {disengages herself) ; I am subject to 
 such attacks, and they form a sufficient reason, Mr. Clif- 
 den, why I should not distress strangers with them. 
 
 Clif. Strangers ! but I to whom love makes you all — 
 To whom the hope — 
 
 3* 
 
30 SYBIL. [ACT II. 
 
 SyW. Hope ! — hope notMng from me. 
 
 I would not have you hope in vain. 
 
 Clif. That kind desire assures me that I may not. 
 
 Sybil. You deceive yourself Do not question me, 
 
 This meeting has awakened in my brain 
 Many a dreary thought. Again I say, 
 As, Eustace Clifden, I before have said, 
 I am divided, cut off from the world. 
 How or why it matters not : it is so. 
 
 Clif. Your destiny, dim as you paint its path, 
 But throbs my heart with willingness to share 
 And soothe it. 
 
 Sybil. That can never be. 
 
 Clif. If you but knew my heart — 
 Sybil. Enough that I do know my own ; and it 
 Has but one prayer, for peace ; one passion, and that — 
 
 Clif. Is — relieve me, Sybil — but say not you love 
 Another. 
 
 Sybil {scornfully). Love ! no sir, I do not love. 
 Happily I am free from such a weakness. 
 
 Clif Is that a weakness which inspires all strength, 
 And gives the only purpose life possesses ? 
 
 Sybil. When we met I hoped I had met a friend. 
 And now I grieve that we have ever met. 
 
 Clif I pray, thee, Sybil, do not wrong me in this 
 
 decision. 
 Sybil. I do not. Your worth, your generous soul 
 And loving nature well I know. 
 You've offered me far more than I deserve ; 
 More than I dare accept — 
 
 Clif. Then you would — 
 
 Sijbil. Ay : 
 
 Were it possible I could ever wed, 
 
SYBIL. 31 
 
 I do not know a mortal unto whom 
 I could so well my best affections trust, 
 As to you, Eustace : but that cannot be. 
 There is between us a broad barrier — 
 
 Clif. What barrier can come between us 
 That we ourselves will not ! Here face to face, 
 Before the smiling face of heaven, what 
 Can separate us. This barrier, Sybil, 
 Is but some gloomy mountain of the mind, 
 Which I can speedily surmount. Whatever 
 Stout heart and willing hand can do, I'll do. 
 What is it ? 
 
 Sybil. The very question deeper makes the gulf 
 And lifts the barrier higher : it opes 
 A breach that might an angry ocean bed. 
 Reveal it ! Powers of Innocence and Truth {aside) 
 I cannot, dare not. 'Tis enough I ne'er 
 Can listen to your prayer — or be your wife. 
 
 Clif. Sybil— 
 
 Sybil. Nor the wife of any man. 
 I entreat thee ask no more : — you'll drive me mad. 
 Farewell, Eustace, farewell. {Going, he follows.) Do 
 
 not follow 
 If you love me. We must not meet af^ain. 
 {He droops and kisses her hand.) Farewell. 
 
 [Exit Sybil. 
 
 ScEXE ll.—Strect. 
 Enter Rufus Wolfe, Barnabas, and Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Wolfe. But, Lowe, my dear friend, you do not mean 
 to come out for Acton, eh ? I really cannot do without 
 your services. 
 
 3 
 
 % 
 
32 SYBIL. [ACTH. 
 
 Lowe. Well, the fact is, I have no settled political 
 opinions : I have not made up my mind on the one 
 hand, and on the other I believe young Mr. Acton, 
 whom I have met sometimes, to be a very good and 
 clever fellow. Indeed, I think he would be a very seri- 
 ous addition to our club. 
 
 Bar. A very serious addition, no doubt. 
 
 Loice. Well, I've been thinking, Wolfe, if I had two 
 votes I would give you one each ; but as I have only 
 one, I have almost determined not to hurt either of my 
 friends by using it. 
 
 Wolfe. A most unpatriotic speech — 
 
 Bar. And opposed to the best interests of the com- 
 munity ; for if you are not wholly with us, you are 
 against us. Besides, every one should know the right 
 side and use the privilege of citizenship. 
 
 Lowe. But, my gay fellows, I really do not know the 
 points at issue, if any, between the parties. 
 
 Bar. Pshaw ! go for your friends, and hang the 
 points at issue. You know our friend Wolfe. Every- 
 body knows him ; while Acton, on the contrary, is but 
 of a few years' growth amongst us. It is nothing but 
 personal ambition with him. 
 
 Lowe. I thmk you mistake the young man, or I do. 
 
 Wolfe (motioning to Barnabas). Our worthy presi- 
 dent is right, but he will pledge us his silence ; for next 
 to his aid for us, is his silence for om' antagonist. 
 
 Loive. Ah, Colonel, very graceful, I assure you, but 
 you overrate me as much as Barnabas underrates Acton. 
 
 Wolfe. Acton's address is written well and artfully. 
 
 Bar. Rather puritanical. 
 
 Wolfe. You must admit. Cardinal, my good friend, 
 that he comes rather disadvantageously into the field 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL. 33 
 
 just now. A few years hence and he might have an 
 opeuing. 
 
 Lowe. Well, well, to be sure ; but a man may as well 
 commence some time, you know. By the way, have you 
 any objection to meet him ? 
 
 Wolfe. Not at all, but quite the contrary. It is no 
 reason, because we are poUtical rivals, why we should 
 not be personal friends. 
 
 Lowe. I meet the old gentleman this evening, at his 
 lodgings at the Red Heifer. If you agree to call for 
 me, I will be happy to prepare him for an introduction. 
 
 Wofe. Certainly — what say you, Barnabas ? 
 
 Bar. I am agreed. 
 
 Lowe. At eight [going). 
 
 Both. Eight. \^Exit Lowe. 
 
 Wolfe. Then we can the better see the mettle of this 
 stripling, and judge what strength we must put forth. 
 
 Bar. His friends are enthusiastic, and busy every- 
 where. 
 
 Wofe. And mine are nearly asleep. We must arouse 
 them. Come. \_Exeunt, 
 
 ScEXE in. — Room in the Red Heifer Lin. 
 William Actox seated thoughtfully at a table. 
 
 Acton. Five years of what the world calls success 
 Have passed ; yet still my rustic memories cling 
 About my honors with a saddening gloom. 
 'Tis only action makes the present light ; 
 Each resting moment brings the weighty past. 
 Her image ever pleads before my thought 
 With strange prophetic feeling — now bright as dawn, 
 Pure in the opening bounty of its light ; 
 
34 SYBIL. [ACT II. 
 
 And then, as dismal as a shadow cast 
 Across some ravine where a hidden stream 
 Grurgles and moans with wretched energy. 
 Two images of one, and how unUke each other. 
 One, Uke the eagle soaring in the sun, 
 Its brave soul bounding with the air of heaven ; 
 And proud eye looking down a scorn on earth. 
 The other, gloomy as the great bird, caged, 
 Tattered in plumage and with broken wing, 
 Fettered in spirit, and its eyes grown weak - 
 With madly gazing at obscurity. 
 
 Enter Old Acton. 
 
 Old A. {aside). Pondering still, ever on the sad old 
 theme — 
 {Slaps him on the back.) Dreaming of fame and fortune 
 in your grasp ? 
 
 Acton. {Sighs.) The scene we witnessed yesterday has 
 dragg'd 
 All the old associations up. 
 They crowd the glories of the present out. 
 
 Old A. But you must leave the past where it left you 
 I tell thee, William, that your loss in youth 
 Was the most fortunate of all your gains. 
 Great as they have been. 
 
 Acton. My gain was great, indeed. 
 
 In having you adopt me as your son. 
 
 Old A. Your own strong character has been your 
 crown. 
 Had your wild passions won a tame success 
 You'd soon have sunk into the dull routine 
 And healthy torpor of the farmer's life. 
 The subtle knowledge of yourself were lost, 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 35 
 
 Which only disappointment made you find. 
 The raging troubles of a blighted heart 
 Comfort themselves in the disguise of pride, 
 Which with the insight into life love breeds, 
 Gives talent concentration, and makes man 
 Strong to bear up 'gainst nature's keen delusions. 
 The time will come you'll wonder this girl e'er 
 Could have been dear to you. 
 
 Acton. Never, never. 
 
 Old. A. The passion of the boy, is but a boy passion. 
 
 Acton. My mind had not then reached the easy width 
 Which yields an entrance to the grosser thoughts 
 Of years. My heart alone was living then ; 
 And lived but in the thought of her. 
 
 Old A. Years bring grossness only to the gross. 
 Had you your rival's knowledge of the world 
 You might have been successful. Simply he 
 Held up the mirror to her vanity 
 And pleased her with herself. He fed her with 
 Her own ambition ; little troubling him 
 With her afifections, which he soon found were 
 All bonded to her brain. This made her bold 
 And confident in fancied strength that proved 
 Her total weakness. He knew her nature. 
 
 Acton. It maddens me to hear the villain's name. 
 I'd freely give up all — all I have won, 
 All that you fondly hope I'll win, to know. 
 Where at this moment I could place my hand 
 Upon his throat. 
 
 Old A. Would that restore her 
 
 To her peace of mind, or obliterate 
 Your memories ? 
 
 Acton. No, but it would drag 
 
36 SYBIL. [ACT II. 
 
 The libertine from bold obscurity, 
 To public retribution and disgrace. 
 
 Old A. Which would with equal scandal fall upon 
 His wretched victim. See what you would do. 
 
 Acton. 'Tis true. Father, I yield to you, my best, 
 My wisest, and most loving counsellor. 
 
 Old A. 'Tis sad, and false in spirit as in deed, 
 To know and feel society's so formed, 
 That we must often chain the tongue to save 
 That very one, whose wrongs the loudest call 
 For honest vindication. 
 
 Enter Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Welcome, Mr. Lowe, welcome. 
 
 Acton. I feared you had forgotten us. 
 
 Lowe. Not so ; indeed, my dear sir, I remembered 
 you so well that I refused to take any side in politics lest 
 I might injure your prospects. 
 
 Acton. How so ? 
 
 Lowe. Well, by taking part with Wolfe, or by adopt- 
 ing your side, in not being able to expound it. 
 
 Old A. Could you expound the opposition ? 
 
 Lowe, By my word, I did not think of that : but 
 you can have an opportunity of hearing an authority on 
 that head if you so desire. 
 
 Acton. The more we know of it the better shall we be 
 able to refute it. 
 
 Lowe. You have never met your opponent Colonel 
 Wolfe ? 
 
 Acton. Not to my knowledge. 
 
 Loive. He knows your reputation ; and as you are 
 both lawyers, and understand the courtesy due to rivalry, 
 I asked him to stop here for me as he was passing. 
 
SCENE HI.] SYBIL, 37 
 
 Old A. You did well, friend Lowe, to initiate the con- 
 test with a friendly feeling. 
 
 Enter Landlord of Red Heifer, 
 
 Landlord [uneasily). Squire— 
 
 Old A. What's the matter ? 
 
 Land. The place is a' most besieged with . a gang of 
 fellows belonging to the t'other side. They'll ruin me 
 'fore election day comes on. There won't be left a tod- 
 dy in the town. {Hurrahs outside.) There they go, and 
 Colonel Wolfe himself's at the head of them. 
 
 Old A. Colonel Wolfe — Mr. Lowe's friend — show 
 him up. 
 
 Land. Wolfe ! [in amazement) up here ! 
 
 Old A. Yes, up here ; and give his friends good wel- 
 come down below. [^Exit Landlord.] Ha ! ha ! the 
 landlord, who's an ardent partisan of oure, can scarcely 
 reconcile Wolfe's presence in the enemy's headquarters. 
 
 Enter Rufus Wolfe and Barnabas. 
 
 Lowe {meeting them). Up to time, sirs. {Addressing 
 all parties.) Now, gentlemen, introduce yourselves as 
 fearless rivals ought. 
 
 Barnabas smirkingly approaches Old Acton, loho ex- 
 tends his hand. 
 
 Old A. Welcome, gentlemen. 
 
 Wofe {advancing to Wm. Acton). Mr. William Ac- 
 ton, I believe ; I am Colonel Wolfe. 
 
 Acton, {suddenly loithdrawing his extended hand 
 and peering steadfastly at Wolfe). You, sir, Rufus 
 Wolfe ? — You ? {General siayrise.) 
 
 Wolfe. What is this ? 
 
 4 
 
38 SYBIL. . [ACT II. 
 
 I am Colonel Wolfe ; and you, sir — 
 Are yon not Mr. William Acton ? 
 
 Acton. Ay, sir, 
 
 And Acton cannot know Colonel Wolfe. 
 
 Old A. (coming to Acton, aside). What do you 
 mean, my son — why this strange anger ? 
 
 Acton (to old A.). Do you not see? Do you not 
 recognize ? (Pi-esses his forehead. Wolfe and Barna- 
 bas confer aside.) 
 
 Lowe. What the deuce is this ? I surely am not in 
 the club. 
 
 Wolfe (to Loioe). I demand an explanation. 
 
 Bar. (to Acton). Yes, sir, you must explain why you 
 cannot 
 Know my friend. 
 
 Acton. For the simple reason that 
 
 I know him far too well already. 
 
 Wolfe. Know me ? 
 
 Acton. As a villain — a base, consummate villain. 
 ( Wolfe furiously gra,pples with Acton, who flings 
 him off. The parties present interfere.) 
 
 Wolfe. Unhand me, Barnabas : shall I submit . 
 To a blow — 
 
 Bar. No ; but this is not the way — 
 
 Wolfe. You are right — there must be blood : see 
 to it. 
 
 Bar. (to Wolfe). Stand back. We must have an 
 apology, or a meeting. Sir, an ample apology. 
 
 Acton. Apology ! To that worthless scoundrel ? 
 You much mistake me, sir. 'Twould seem, likewise, 
 You equally mistake your friend. He will 
 Scarcely demand one when he knows me. 
 
 (Wolfe tries to distinguish Acton.) 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 39 
 
 Lowe. What does all this mean ! 
 
 Bar. Who, then, are yon, sir ? 
 
 Acton. Nay, sir, speak for your friend ; who has I 
 deem, 
 As many aliases as any rogue 
 Of London. Let Colonel Wolfe, if such be 
 In truth his name — 
 
 Lowe. It is his name. 
 
 Bar. Why do you doubt it ? 
 
 Acton. I have known him by 
 
 Another — one associated with 
 The foulest infamy. 
 
 Wolfe (aside). Ha ! 
 
 Acton [looking full at Wolfe). Look at me, Alfred 
 Stevens, 
 For such I still must call you : — look on me. 
 Behold one who is ready to avenge 
 Margaret Cooper's bold and deep betrayal. 
 Ha ! villain, do you start ! Do you shrink ? 
 Do you remember the smooth-spoken knave 
 Who, thus to doubly foul all moral law, 
 In the staid garment of a preacher sought 
 The home of innocence to wreck its peace, 
 And its young inmate ruin. Once before 
 We met in strife. Your hellish purpose then 
 Had not been consummated. Would to heaven 
 I had slain you on the spot. 'Tis not too late 
 For vengeance. (Wolfe recovers his self-jjossession.) 
 
 Wolfe. The man is mad. I know not what he means. 
 
 Acton. Liar ! This will not serve you. You shall not 
 'scape me. 
 You can't deceive the eye of honesty. 
 The trembling eddies of your secret soul, 
 
40 SYBIL. [acth. 
 
 If such dark conscience hath a hving soul, 
 Break on your face and accent, and aloud 
 Proclaim the wretch I have pronounced you. 
 
 Bar. This is very strange {aside). 
 
 Wolfe. Sheer madness : 
 
 Or 'tis a low, political design. 
 To undermine by an unmanly fraud, 
 The reputation you can't fairly shake : 
 A poor, base trick — but let the sland'rer know 
 The people understand these things too well. 
 
 Acton. They shall know thee better. Alfred Stevens, 
 The charge I utter you dare not deny. 
 
 Wolfe. It is as false as hell I 
 
 Acto7i. 'Tis true as heav'n ; 
 
 And atonement craves — blood only will suffice. 
 
 Lowe. Dear me ! My dear friend, you are a young 
 man ; 
 Perchance you are mistaken : let me beg, 
 Just for your own sake, you admit so much, — 
 And shake hands on it. 
 
 Acton. Sir ! 
 
 Bar. I am sorry you persist in this unhappy business. 
 
 Wolfe. Pshaw ! The fellow is a madman or a fool ; 
 Why trouble yourself further. Let him have 
 Whate'er he wishes. 
 
 Bar. My friend will withdraw. 
 
 I shall wait on you immediately. 
 
 (Bar. and Wolfe 7^etire up.) 
 
 Acton. I shall await you {going). 
 
 Lowe. My dear friends, I regret — {to Acton) 
 
 Acton {going). No apology : 
 
 You have, sir, unintentionally done 
 The greatest favor you could have conferr'd 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 41 
 
 Upon me — j^^^cing that bad. man within. 
 My grasp. 
 
 Lowe. I am a most unfortunate man, to be a cause of 
 bloodshed. 
 
 Acton. Fortunate rather, 
 
 In being even the unknowing means 
 Of avenging a woman's honor. [^Exit Acton. 
 
 Old A. Let me request a pledge of secrecy, Mr. Lowe, 
 as to what you have witnessed. 
 
 Loive. Certainly, my good sir, I have no desire to 
 make myself responsible for any thing not belonging to 
 me. I'm as secret as the grave. 
 
 [Exit Old A. and Mr, Lowe. 
 
 Ba7\ I saw at once the fellow's tale was true. It was 
 so like you. 
 
 Wolfe. How if I deny it ? 
 
 Bar. I wouldn't believe you. Where's the girl now ? 
 
 Wolfe. That is a mystery I should not mind 
 Paying to find out. A splendid creature ! 
 
 Bar. 1 reckon this fellow loved her. 
 
 Wofe. He did. 
 
 A rude, half-witted sort of rustic he, 
 At Eaglemont. Margaret despised him. 
 'Tis true, we almost fought for her before. 
 Ashley, if I remember, was his name. 
 Could I have dreamt, that in him I^d behold 
 The now quite noted Acton. Barnabas, 
 Look you ! We did not think the pistol might 
 Aid us to level our young orator. 
 Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bar. And will you do it ? 
 
 Wolfe. There's no alternative. He will have none : 
 And should he blab — 
 
 4* 
 
42 SYBIL. [ACTii. 
 
 Bar. Wing Mm I that will be enough. 
 
 Wolfe. Curse him ! Who made him Margaret's cham- 
 pion ? 
 Were he her husband I might let him off 
 With moderate chastisement, but he must pay 
 The penalty of upstart insolence. 
 I owe him an old grudge^ too. He struck me 
 On that day at Eaglemont. 
 
 Bar. He did ! 
 
 Wolfe. I feel it now. I will kill him. 
 Ev'n if I had not ground most personal, 
 Think what a stroke of policy it were 
 To get him from the field. 
 
 Bar, But what if he shoots ? 
 
 Wolfe. Ah ! {thinking) secure my distance, a little 
 adroitness will give me the advantage. 
 
 Bar, And you will commission the bullet — 
 You will kill him ? 
 
 Wolfe. I must. [Exeunt, 
 
 Re-enter Old Acton and William Acton. 
 
 Old A. Do not be downcast. I know not hoi^ you 
 could have acted otherwise ; and yet the affair is very 
 shocking. 
 
 Acton. It is ; but crime is shocking, and so are 
 The thousand deeds that hourly rack man's life, 
 Though hourly, death admonishes to good. 
 Therefore the best philosophy is that 
 Which girds us up with resolution 
 To meet what seems as unavoidable, 
 As though we were prepared for death. 
 
 Old A. It may be death, my son. 
 
 Acton. And if it were, 
 
scEKEin.] SYBIL. 43 
 
 And brought a siglit of vengeance with it, then 
 
 I could feei happy. When I think of her — 
 
 So beautiful, so proud, so bright, so dear 
 
 Then to this heart — so dear to me, ev'n now 
 
 I feel the worthlessness of my life's laurels. ( Weeps.) 
 
 Old A. Give way not thus, my son. Be a man. 
 
 Acton. Am I not ? What have I not endured — what 
 Have I not o'ercome. Will you not suffer 
 A little moment's weakness, in exchange 
 For those dread years' convulsive silence. 
 
 Old A. It is worse than useless to brood, my son, 
 Upon those days. 
 
 Acton. What might they not have been. 
 
 And now, I see her as an angel fall'n ; 
 And in this wretch the arch-fiend. Oh ! surely, 
 To slay him cannot be an endless crime. 
 
 Enter Barnabas. 
 
 Ba7\ Yery awkward business, Mr. Acton — no adjust- 
 ing it now. May I have the pleasure of knowing your 
 friend ? (Acton 6oms' and hands him a card.) 
 
 Bar, {Beads aloud.) Major Randolph. 
 
 Old A. {coming forward takes the card from Bar.^s 
 hand), /will act for you, William. 
 
 Acton. You, sir? 
 
 Bar. You, old gentleman ? 
 
 Old A. Yes. Shall I be more reluctant than you to 
 serve a friend. This, sir, is my adopted son. I love him 
 as if he were my own. I love him better than life. 
 Shall I leave him at the very time his life is perilled I 
 No, sir. I am sorry for this affair, but will stand by 
 him to the last. Let us see to the arrangements. 
 
 Bar. You have seen service before, old gentleman. 
 
44 SYBIL. [ACTH. 
 
 Old A. I have been young. 
 
 Bar. True blue, still. Though I regret equally with 
 yourself the sad duty, yet it gives me pleasure to^deal 
 with a gentleman of the right spirit. I trust your son 
 is a shot. 
 
 Old A. He has nerve and eye. 
 
 Bar. Good things enough — very necessary — but a 
 spice of practice does no harm. Now, Wolfe has a 
 knack with a pistol that makes it curious to see him, if 
 you be only a looker on. 
 
 Old A. Let me stop you, sir. When I was a young 
 man, such a remark would have been held an imperti- 
 nent intimidation. 
 
 Bar. Egad, you have me ! Are we agreed on the 
 weapons — shall it be pistols ? 
 
 Old A. Yes — at sunrise to-morrow. 
 
 Bar. Good. 
 
 Old A. Place— Red Grange. Distance — 
 
 Bar. Twelve, I suppose — usual thing. 
 
 Old A. {after a momentai^y pause). We will settle 
 that on the ground. 
 
 Bar. {Bites his Up.) Well, to-morrow morning- 
 Red Grange — 
 
 Old A. At sunrise. 
 
 {Picture. Barnabas in the doorway.) 
 
8CEXE I.] SYBIL. 15 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 ScEXE I. — Exteii^rr of the Bed Heifer Inn. 
 
 Enter Mr. Lowe //-om Inn. 
 
 Lowe. Bad business, by Jove ! and may be a sad 
 business, too. Acton is too wild and Wolfe too wary 
 for good to come of it. So much for my leaving the 
 town, and becoming political mediator in the heat of a 
 raging election. But my conscience is clear as to my 
 good intentions. How could I tell that Wolfe was such 
 a scapegrace, and Acton such a perfect wildcat. I gave 
 sound advice, too, but it was well I was not eaten up 
 alive. I'll make back to town as expeditiously as possi- 
 ble, and if any of these fire-eaters get me in their trail, 
 under any pretence whatsoever, again, my name is not 
 Lafayette Hancock Lowe. Something is done by this, 
 for here comes Barnabas, and alone. What if Wolfe is 
 kiUed ? 
 
 Enter Barnabas.. 
 
 What news, Barnabas ? 
 
 Bar. Good news. 
 
 Lowe. Is Wolfe killed ? 
 
 Bar. Would that be good news ? 
 
 Lowe. Well, there might be worse and there might 
 be better. What is your good news ? 
 
 Bar. Here it is — [^^^y stand aside. 
 
 Enter Old Acton and Surgeon supporting William 
 AcTox, w'ho is pale and feeble. 
 
 Acton. I am better — the cloud has s:one from my 
 
46 SYBIL. [ACT HI. 
 
 eyes. Forgive me, father, if in this I have gone against 
 your will. I deeply deplore the pain I inflict on you, 
 which I know is more acute than what I feel — forgive 
 me. 
 
 Old A. Bless you, my son ; you have acted as became 
 a man. ( With great offection) Let us go in. 
 
 Surgeon. The sooner he is completely at ease the bet- 
 ter. The wound, though not mortal, is of a delicate and 
 perhaps tedious nature. 
 
 [Exit Old A., Acton, and Surgeon, into Inn. 
 
 Lowe. Is that your good news ? 
 
 Bar. It is better than I expected to have. But for 
 the old fellow's pluck the young one would have been a 
 dead man. 
 
 Lowe. Ha ! How so ? 
 
 Bar. Why, at ten paces Wolfe is sudden death ; but 
 Old Acton had the choice of distance, and insisted on 
 five paces, back to back, wheel and fire. 
 
 Loiue. Oh, the old blunderbuss — a most murderous 
 affair. 
 
 Bar. The suddenness of the proposition rather irri- 
 tated Wolfe, who- counted on ten ; but for that the 
 news might have been much worse. 
 
 Loive. And Wolfe ? 
 
 Ba?'. Had a very narrow escape — Acton's ball took 
 the brim off his hat, just over the ear — he's gone across 
 the country to Clifden's. 
 
 Lowe. I'm off in the other direction — to town — after 
 I congratulate my friends. 
 
 Ba7\ If this affair is mentioned, just stop all conjec- 
 tures on the matter, by alluding to it as a pohtical dif- 
 ference. 
 
 Loive. I assure you I will not make the slightest allu- 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 4t 
 
 sion to it — none at all, whatever. I will not make my- 
 self responsible to either party by telling any of their 
 stories. Just think of my meeting Old Acton, at five 
 paces, with double-shotted howitzers. No, no — good- 
 day — adieu. 
 
 [Exit into Inn. Exit Barxabas opposite side. 
 
 Scene II. — Room in Eustace Clifden's house. 
 
 Clifden, seated. 
 
 CUf. If she could marry, she would marry me : 
 She will not — cannot — yet she would. 
 She loves no other : I love her alone — 
 And yet between us as between two banks 
 Of some wide stream, the throbbing tide of life 
 Rolls on, and fretfully on either shore 
 Splashes fond discord, that in echoes mock 
 The restless pleadings at the distant side. 
 Must it be thus ? It cannot. I must solve 
 The mystery in which she is enwrapped. 
 To go, a prey to mad conjecture, were 
 A living death, less torturous only 
 Than this undying love. 
 The clouds must part, and I the barrier see 
 That dims my path, and keeps my sun from me. {Going) 
 
 Enter Rufus Wolfe, Maude, aiid Jaxette. 
 
 Maude. Whither, brother? We have been seeking 
 
 you. 
 CUf. {disconcerted). Why, my friend, I did not dream 
 
 you were 
 Within a dozen miles of us. 
 
 Wolfe. While you 
 
48 SYBIL. [act in. 
 
 Were rusticating I have been at work ; 
 And just rode over to confer upon 
 Our prospects ; but, instead of finding you 
 In mood for council, strong with healthy wit, 
 Such as these glorious country scenes inspire, 
 I meet you moody and weighed down as 'twere 
 With premonitions of defeat. Cheer up, 
 Clifden, the prospect brightens day by day. 
 
 Clif. (musingly). Indeed. 
 
 Jan. {mimicking him). Indeed — why yes — and so 
 it is. 
 {To Wolfe.) Ah, Colonel, Love and Politics cannot dwell 
 With harmony in that frail tenement. 
 Love is sweet music, full of pettish airs, 
 And thoughtful pain, and pleasures without thought ; 
 While Politics is selfishness grown bold, 
 And for its ends confusing all things else. 
 Love is the heart, and Politics the head, 
 And when there's strife between them, I well know 
 Which side good Cousin Eustace takes. 
 
 Ifaude. Ah, he has seen his goddess of the Wood — 
 (To Clifden, playfully) — Have you not, brother ? 
 
 Jan. To be sure he has ; 
 
 Naught else could make him look so cheerful. 
 
 Maude. Janette, you vex Eustace. 
 
 Wolfe. I did not dream such sweet allurement 'twas 
 That held our brilliant Clifden from the town. 
 Who, may I ask, is she that, hath this magic wrought ? 
 
 Maude. Had you but seen her you would wonder not 
 That he^s possessed with sudden passion for 
 The air she breathes — indeed, she's beautiful ! 
 
 Clif {abstractedly). Yery beautiful, Maude ! 
 
 Jan. Yes, a thunder-storm sort of beauty ; 
 
SCENE n.] SYBIL. 49 
 
 A dark and dismal grandeur, that outflashes, 
 Dazzling and terrifying one's poor heart. 
 
 Clif. Ha ! neither over nor under drawn. 
 
 Jan, To be sure not. Why, Colonel, when we first 
 Were left together, I felt crumpled up 
 With very fear. 
 
 Maude. Now, cousin, 'tis unkind 
 
 To harrow thus the mind of our dear Eustace. 
 A different likeness of fair Sybil, I 
 Can show. True, she is sad, and grave betimes, 
 And wrapt in volumes that we can but name. 
 But then she's kind, and from her gloomiest moods 
 Wakes into gentle radiance, like4he moon. 
 Dispelling doubt that only came when we 
 Were in the dark. 
 
 Clif. (aside). Dear sister I 
 
 Wolfe. Can we not see the fair one ? You have roused 
 My curiosity almost to envy. 
 Is the fair soUtary's grot remote ? 
 
 Ja?i. About a mile — a tassle as it were 
 Upon the fringe of the forest. 
 
 Clif. The lady 
 
 Is engaged to-day, and— 
 
 Wolfe. So am I : 
 
 Nor would I mar the sweet seclusion which 
 Hath the chief eloquence when lovers meet. 
 But, Clifden, I would speak to you of what 
 Our merry-hearted friends take little heed. 
 
 Jan. What's that ? 
 
 Wolfe. Myself. 
 
 Jan. Had you said one of us, we both might feel 
 A cause of quarrel o'er the pleasant doubt : 
 But as you made our heedlessness all one — 
 
 5 
 
50 SYBIL. . [ACT III. 
 
 Maude. Why, then, we'll take notes quietly to solve 
 Whose careless tongue has most distracted 
 His to such a speech. Ha ! ha ! Come, cousin, 
 Come. 
 
 Wolfe. And may I hear the court's decision ? 
 
 Jan. If we can decide. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Exit Maude and Janette. 
 
 Clif. You will excuse my bluntness, if I pray 
 That you postpone — 
 
 Wolfe. I see impatience writ 
 
 On every movement, Clifden. I will not 
 Waste a word ; but, as I leave within the hour, 
 Would fain impress you with the duty which 
 We owe— not to ourselves, for that were base 
 In its seljfish ends — but to our country. 
 We much depend on you : your gift of speech. 
 Your crowd-controlling phrases, ready wit ; 
 Your mastery of passion, that great drug 
 Which gives the secrets of the populace 
 A flavor of the heart ; and makes each man 
 Of all the wondering multitude believe 
 The speaker spoke for him alone ; — with you 
 To fling these quick'ning seeds broadcast into 
 The ready hotbed of the people's hearts. 
 Success is certain. Acton now is powerless. 
 
 Glif. You've never heard him speak, or you would feel 
 What baseless praises you have heaped on me. 
 
 Wolfe. I have heard him once, and had Fate been 
 kind 
 As she has been, he never would be heard ao^ain. 
 
 Glf. I do not understand jou — 
 
 Wolfe. Simply this ; 
 
 We met last night, and he, in violation 
 
SCENE n.] SYBIL. 51 
 
 Of even plebeian hospitality, 
 
 Huiif^ a base fabrication to my name : 
 
 We met this morning', and I shot him. 
 
 Glif. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Wolfe. Yes, that I did not kill him. 
 
 Clif. Thank heaven, he is not dead ! — 
 
 Wolfe. He is, however, beyond all usefulness ; 
 And if you but leave your forest beauty — 
 Pardon me — for a few days, the game is ours. 
 
 Clif. As I promised, I shall do : but I grieve 
 This early bloodshed on our side. 
 
 Wolfe. Pshaw ! 
 
 All you lovers grow so tame in cooing 
 Dehcate fantasies to maiden ears, 
 That oft I wonder how the maiden bends 
 To such unmanly chirpings. 
 
 Glf. {satirically). To-morrow 
 
 I shall feel stronger of voice : strong enough, 
 Mayhap, to drug the crowd, as you infer. 
 To-day, you see I have a fantasy 
 Most delicate for other ears. Adieu ! [Exit. 
 
 Wolfe. Touchy and stubborn, as all lovers are ; 
 Or, as they think they must l)e unto all 
 Who will not mount with them the airy stilts 
 On which they poise unsteady phrases 
 Of devotion and what not ; all of which 
 But tempt the exercise of woman's power : 
 These women, who, like all great victors, live 
 On the weak homage of their pris'ner's praise. 
 Who can she be that holds his heart ? Methinks 
 Its heat will burn her fingers and exhaust 
 Itself. His nature runs into extremes. 
 Frantic a day — a month melancholy — 
 
52 SYBIL. [ACTm. 
 
 An hour's passion, and a season's pain. 
 His passion's up to-day, but, too ripe fruit, 
 To-morrow's sun will melt it to the earth. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — A plain, but neatly furnished room in Mrs. Hardy's 
 cottage. Book-case, table, c&c. 
 
 Sybil seated, her head buried in her hands. 
 
 Sybil {rising). Why do I weep ? Have I not said the 
 
 word 
 That should dry up these fountains of the eye 
 Which are the tender emblems of affection ! 
 Tears ! What right have I with tears ? I whose lone 
 
 hope 
 Eeeds on the sparks that iron destiny 
 Strikes from the heart that's hardened into flint. 
 
 woman ! image of all feebleness 
 
 Art thou. These garments are its badges. How long 
 
 Must I still crave for retribution ? 
 
 A day, an hour w^ould have given to a man 
 
 That prompt revenge which I have sought for years. 
 
 {Muses.) Fool that I was to have denied his suit. 
 
 Why did I not, at least, accept his hayid — 
 
 The hand of man ! He is an avenger 
 
 Sent from heaven, and I have cast him off. 
 
 What is love, life, or fear, or joy to me. 
 
 That I should weigh distinctions ? 
 
 What is his love to me, that I should fear 
 
 To use it for my hate ? He still is mine 
 
 If I but say it ; and not to say it, 
 
 Is to fling away the weapon heaven sent. 
 
 1 cannot doubt his love ! His love — ha ! ha I ha ! 
 Man's love ! that brilliant shroud for infamy. 
 
scEXEm.] SYBIL. 53 
 
 (Pauses.) Eustace Clifden, thoa art mine : I take thy 
 hand 
 
 And place within it all my woes, my wrongs, 
 
 My pent-up, silent-growing rage of years. 
 
 I take thy hand as Judith took the sword 
 
 That freed her from the hbertine. 
 
 Oh, how near losing, by a word, was I, 
 
 The means of making vengeance perfect. 
 
 Yet wliile I plan perchance he flies the place, 
 
 And leaveth nothing but his heart behind. 
 
 I claim his hand — his hand is all 1 need. 
 
 {Bushes to the door, opens it quietly, and falters 
 on the threshold. Her arm drops. She re- 
 turns, wearing an expression of remorse.) 
 
 Oh Sybil, Sybil, thou'rt indeed debased. 
 
 What ? Would'st thou send to shame, perdition, death, 
 
 This youth, whose onlv crime is loTins; thee : 
 
 And who, if he had never seen thy face, 
 
 Would mount to honor in the face of earth. 
 
 What ? Would'st thou fling thine arms about his heart, 
 
 And dupe his ardent nature to thy hate 
 
 With wanton kisses, weiii:htv in deceit ; 
 
 Decoy his soul from out himself, and guage it 
 
 To the dim path where moans thy wrathful fate ? 
 
 Oh, no — no — no — I must not wrong him thus : 
 
 So young, so generous, so full of truth, 
 
 And lovmgness, and manly speech. Away 
 
 Ye fiends that wait on woman's doubts, to make 
 
 Her less than woman. {Falls, weeping.) 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardy. Goes to Sybil and raises her. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Why, daughter, will you drive yourself into 
 These paroxysms. Why waste your strength upon 
 
54 SYBIL. [ACT III. 
 
 The arid past, when it is needed for . 
 The present and the future. 
 
 Sybil. The present ? 
 
 I have no present ; and with such a past, 
 Can have no future. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Oh, must we ne'er, 
 
 Ne'er rid us of that past. Must you still cry — 
 Shame, shame, aloud, at thy poor self, now that 
 You have not the loud world to do it ? Shame ! 
 The past ! Have you not expiated it ? 
 Have you not made me suffer for it ? Oh, 
 There are other things to live for now. 
 
 Sybil. True, 
 
 There are ; and if there were not, then, indeed. 
 Should I be desperate. 
 
 Mrs. Har. You have, my child. 
 
 Much, I hope, to live for yet ; new life of joy : 
 With our long sohtude and altered name 
 The girl of Eaglemont's forgotten quite. 
 Ay, you will yet as good a husband have 
 As any girl in the land. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, mother. 
 
 Mother ! for the sake of heaven, none of this. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Why not ? Should brain and beauty, such 
 as yours. 
 Be buried here for ever ? ^ 
 
 Sybil. Peace, mother ! 
 
 Peace — you will drive me mad. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Well, daughter, well, 
 
 I know not how to jilease you, but I'm sure 
 I only want to cheer and lift your heart ; 
 Your hopes are not so bad as you would think — 
 {Sybil waves her hand impatiently.) 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 55 
 
 No, indeed, uot near so bad. Is there not 
 
 Young Clifden fairly dying for your love ? 
 
 Why will you not wed him ? A better mate 
 
 No woman need desire — handsome, young, and good. 
 
 Sybil. Mother, you have deeply suffer'd for your child — 
 Torn from the homestead that w^as sacred made 
 By my dear father's love — torn from the scenes 
 Of your bright wedded days — scenes that hold thoughts 
 Which are the dearest solace of old age. 
 For in such scenes we live our love anew. 
 Torn you have been from those tried hearts and eyes 
 That weave a glory round deserved success ; 
 Y^ou have forsaken every thing to prop 
 The tottering youth of your once haughty child. 
 These wrongs, which have upon yaur waning years, 
 In their chill weight anticipated age, , 
 
 Not less than those I've suffer'd, make me quake 
 To hear you talk as you have done. Marry ? 
 Clifden ? 
 
 3frs. Har. Y^es, daughter : think not of my wrongs ; 
 I cannot long be with you on the earth, 
 And ere I go 'twould glad my heart to see 
 You wed to one who in his noble love 
 Would crown with joy the trials you've endur'd. 
 
 Sijhil. In ev'ry quality of sense and heart 
 Is Clifden nobly gifted ; but could I 
 So sacrilegious be as link his fate 
 And spotless gifts with my unsettled soul ! 
 
 Mrs. Har. If you were married unto such a man, 
 Your life would have a purpose in his life. 
 DOxiestic duties would exalt your mind 
 Above the wilful dreams of horror, which 
 You cherish now. Life would have purpose then. 
 
56 SYBIL. [ACTnr 
 
 Sybil. And has it not a purpose now I A great, 
 A holy, soiil-absorbmg purpose. 
 
 > 3Irs. Ear. Daughter, do not look so wild (jputs her 
 arm around her). 
 
 Sybil. Purpose — 
 
 Have I not that oath to fulfil — ■ 
 
 JIj's. Ear. Margaret — 
 
 Oh Sybil, dear, — you fright me with these oaths. 
 What's done cannot be helped. You frighten me. 
 Be calm — there's some one at the wicket. See, 
 Chfden's coming up the path. 
 
 Sybil. I cannot 
 
 Meet him. {Going) 
 
 Mrs. Ear. For my sake ! 
 
 Sybil. Mother, mother — place 
 
 On my affection some more worthy test — 
 I cannot, cannot marry. 
 
 Enter Clifden. 
 
 Mrs. Ear. Good day, Mr. Clifden. 
 
 GUf. Ladies, good day : 
 
 Pardon, I pray, this lack of ceremony. 
 Finding the wicket open, I thus far 
 Intruded, on a neighbor's privilege, 
 As to enter — 
 
 Mrs. Ear. Your bright face brings its welcome, 
 The sunshine comes unbidden in, and why 
 Should you not — 
 
 GUf. Madam, you are kind, but while 
 
 Your daughter's here, there is, I'd say, no need 
 Of other light. 
 
 Sybil. Ah, Clifden, you are more 
 
 Polite than usual. 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL 5t 
 
 Clif. A just rebuke 
 
 For previous want of manners. 
 
 3Irs. Hai\ Sybil is not quite well ; you must not pit 
 your ready wit against her. Be seated, Mr. Clifden ; I 
 will leave you to enliven her, if you are not otherwise 
 engaged (Clifden boivs), while I make my domestic 
 rounds. (Sybil exhibits uneasiness and anger at her' 
 mother^s leaving.) [Exit Mrs. Hardy. 
 
 Clif. (approaching). Miss Hardy — 
 
 Sybil (rising, and raising her hands as if to com- 
 mand silence). Clifden, I supplicate you — 
 Speak not I For your own sake and mine do not. 
 
 Clif But— 
 
 Sybil (bitterly). Why will you, sir, pursue me thus? 
 
 Glif No rest I'll find 'till I the barrier know, 
 That either in thy self-denying brain, 
 Or, in the actual fact, divides us. 
 I love you deeply, passionately I 
 As I ne'er fancied man could mortal love. 
 This passion rends my frame, distracts my mind, 
 And doubtful makes the tenure e'en of life. 
 I have seen you only to worship you. 
 Lost to me, I lose my divinities, 
 My faith. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, Clifden, spare me, and preserve yourself : 
 You woo destruction. 
 
 Clif. I can see there is 
 
 A deepening mystery about you. 
 
 Sybil. Ay, the mystery of a passion which 
 Controls all others. 
 
 Clif Then but a pretext 
 
 Was your wide, blighting, though deceiving scorn. 
 For th' all-controlling passion — Love. 
 
58 SYBIL. [ACT III. 
 
 Sybil. A pretext ? Would it were. Love makes no 
 part 
 Of my existence, which now feeds alone 
 On the heart-hard'ning rival passion — Hate I 
 
 Clif. You hate ? 
 
 Sybil. Ay, sir. Hate is my passion, 
 
 And dwells not here alone, since it commands 
 A slave of its own likeness — 
 
 Clif. And that? 
 
 Sybil. Is Revenge. 
 Ask thyself, then, with these within my breast, 
 Whether there can be room for aught else there. 
 
 Clif. {pacing to and fro, muttering). Revenge, Sybil, 
 revenge (stops) I Something of this 
 I understand [cogitates). Your culture, loveliness, 
 This solitude. These do not balance well. 
 [To her.) Some ruthless knave, perchance, in usury 
 
 steeped. 
 Taking advantage of thy mother's weeds. 
 Thy orphanage, has levell'd all your gods. 
 Has torn the splendor from your household heav'n, 
 And revels in the starry wealth once yours. 
 Mayhap the plunderer would barter it 
 For that bright beauty he could not enslave. 
 Your dignity and learning are cramp' d here, 
 They are not natural to this house or sphere. 
 You have an enemy — Sybil, I will be 
 Your greedy champion 'gainst the world. Give me 
 Your hate, and I will crush what bred it. 
 
 Sybil {with eager for getfulness). Will you indeed do 
 this I But what do I say. 
 No, no — you cannot, must not avenge me. 
 No, no. 
 
SCENE in, J SYBIL. 59 
 
 Clif. I will — I can. Your enemy shall be mine — 
 I will pursue him to the ends of earth, 
 
 Sybil {aside). Sustain me, heaven. {To G.) No, no — 
 you shall not — 
 I will not wrong your generosity, 
 Your daring love, by yielding to your pray'r. 
 Deeply, sincerely, do I feel for thee — 
 But (aside) — Oh, my brain — my heart will burst {weeps 
 aside). 
 
 Clif. Tears I 
 
 The words that vainly struggle to the tongue, 
 Break from the eye in liquid eloquence. 
 Sybil, I must and shall be your life's shield. 
 My own heart, in its lack of comfort, prompts 
 What's due to one, like thine, in agony. 
 I cannot leave you here alone, a prey 
 To this revenge, which worketh 'gainst thyself 
 More than its object, whatsoe'er it be. 
 
 Sybil. You rush upon a fate I'd give my hfe 
 To save you fx'om. 
 
 Clif. Then why not link our Uves 
 
 Upon it I It is all I crave. 
 
 Sybil. Heaven is witness how I've striven for you, 
 And against myself. You seek to fathom 
 The thoughts that hang like night about my heart. 
 You love me, Clifden ! I believe you. 
 You love me, but the sepret of my soul 
 Will be the death-blow to that love. 
 
 Clif. Speak, dearest, speak ! Your anxious fears but 
 prove 
 The tender majesty of woman's soul. 
 Speak I I am your bondman. 
 
 ^ybil But the world's mock— 
 
60 SYBIL. [ACT. III. 
 
 To see it, in tlie inner vision, point 
 Its skinny finger at my tale of woe. 
 
 Glif. Declare my service. Your possession 
 Will give me deeper purpose on the earth. 
 You have been wronged, I care not to know more. 
 My eyes but see you to adore, my ears 
 But hear your words of virgin purity ; 
 And in this faith I claim thy hand, thy cause, 
 Thy wrongs, thy vengeance. Make them mine alone, 
 That I a bright memorial may raise 
 Of virtuous revenge, which in the minds 
 Of men will live when we are in the dust. 
 
 Sybil {aside). How I could love this man. [Aloud) \ 
 beg thee — go. 
 The fountains of my life are welling up — 
 My heart, like some weak swimmer, vainly breasts 
 The tide — it struggles, but it will not save 
 Itself to risk thy heart a sacrifice. 
 
 Glif. Oh, noblest hearted — let my strength bear thee. 
 Let our young hearts rest on the other's strength, 
 And like the 'butments of a bridge, bear up 
 The single arch of our existence. 
 
 Syhil {abstractedly). What fate is driving me to this. 
 Can it be 
 My mind at last has fallen from its throne I 
 Do I dream ? Oh, Clifden, wilt thou not go — • 
 
 Glif. And leave thee victim to thy fantasies, 
 Or the grim echoes solitude evokes 
 Prom old misfortune's crabbed voice ? 
 
 Sybil {looking imploringly to heaven). Give aid, that 
 I may drive my heart away ; 
 For sure no love of man — the man of all I love — 
 Can stand the ordeal I conjure up. 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 61 
 
 (To Ch'fden.) The hand jou woo was by another won — 
 
 Peace — you shall know all. 'Twas in life's early spring. 
 
 He found me sparkling in my native hills, 
 
 As pure, if wayward, as the young cascades, 
 
 That pant to spring out from the yawning glooms. 
 
 He found me proudly innocent, and vain 
 
 Of girlish triumphs, that not envy's tongue 
 
 Could lessen in our happy village. 
 
 He reached above my rustic haughtiness 
 
 With all the city's legacy of ease, 
 
 With bright audacity and subtle force. 
 
 With ardor passionately robed in words 
 
 Stolen from The Book of Everlastino- Love : 
 
 And thus, as 'twere with wizard energy, 
 
 My pride, my vanities, my hopes, my life 
 
 Of life, under the magic spell-word — marriage — 
 
 Were surrounded ; and — 
 
 Clif. You loved ! — ay, love him yet. 
 
 (Sybil goes to the book-case and returns ivith aj^istol.) 
 
 Sybil. Daily, for five long years, I've practised with 
 This instrument of death. Here, in these woods, 
 I've daily held a calm devotion, where 
 Hate is the deity and vengeance dark 
 The officiating votaress. Love yet ! — ha ! 
 For years I've toiled with this delusive dream — 
 Retribution ! But what can woman do — 
 Where seek — how find her victim ? Ah, think you, 
 Eustace Clifden, could I have met my foe 
 I would divide the glory of this work 
 Of gnawing vengeance ! — No ! this eye and hand 
 Are strangers to a woman's fears. 
 
 Clif. (Taking hold of the hand with pistol). Give me 
 the hand — 
 
 G 
 
62 SYBIL. [ACTin. 
 
 Sybil. Stay — be warned — 
 
 JSTever was man to such conditions brought, 
 As you to those by which you claim my love. 
 
 Clif. Hear me, thou just, imjDartial heaven ! 
 To stand between this woman and her wrongs — 
 To take her heart and shrive it of its hate — 
 To make her woes my own — . 
 
 Sybil. Do not mock me. 
 
 The barrier cannot, must not be o'erstepped. 
 
 Clif. I swear by this fair hand — 
 
 Sybil. Swear not, and be free : 
 
 The hand you clasp is a dishonored hand ! 
 
 Clif den (recoils and drops her hand). 
 
 Sybil {with calm jjasdon). Who takes my hand must 
 take the weapon from it. 
 My husband must avenge his wife's dishonor. 
 
 Clif. {clasping her hand). Thy hand, thy hate is mine. 
 
 Sybil The oath ! 
 
 Clif. I swear ! 
 
 {Sybil, overcome, hysterically falls into Clif den's 
 arms.) 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 63 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I, — Boom in CUfden's House. 
 Eustace Clifdex. Rufus Wolfe. Baknabas. 
 
 Wolfe. Truly, Clifden, I congratulate you. 
 Your wife's a noble woman : and her mind 
 As richly gifted as her beauty's rare. 
 
 Glif. I'm proud to think my best friends all agree^ 
 I'm right in love as sound in politics. 
 
 Wolfe. Fortunate fellow ! I should say no man 
 Was ever more so. But your happiness 
 Will quickly end the reigni of bachelors — 
 They'll want to rival your good fortune. 
 Shall we not give him a certificate, 
 On the unusual wisdom of his choice, 
 Making him free of all Club penalties 
 Made against those who wed -without its leave? 
 
 Bar. I suppose so, if you say it. I judge 
 Only of Mistress Clifden's lovely mien, 
 For you her conversation all engross'd. 
 I'll certify she's noble to the eye. 
 And take your measure of her mental worth. 
 
 Wolfe. You will be safe in doing so. 
 
 Clif My friends, she's noble and as eloquent 
 Ev'n as she looks. Could 1 say more — 
 
 Wolfe. Or less ! 
 
 Glif. But come, had we not best be on the road. 
 
 Wolfe. I fear my horse will not carry me. The brute 
 is snagged, or has a nail in his foot ; the quick is touch- 
 ed ; and indeed, but for the brute's sake, I'm not sorry. 
 
64 . SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 We roused too late last night, and I have — a slight 
 headache. I'll nurse myself this mornmg. 
 
 Clif. Shall we break up our excursion, Barnabas ? 
 
 Bar. No, by Jove ! I need fresh air after exhausting 
 all my breath in taverns for the public good. 
 
 Clif. Come, then : make yourself at home {to Wolfe), 
 you will find 
 Some books about the house. 
 
 Wolfe. Thanks, my dear boy ! — I feel myself at home. 
 (Detains Barnabas.) 
 
 Clif {to Bar.). I shall await you at the stables. [Exit. 
 
 Bar. What's the matter ? 
 
 Wolfe. The strangest in the world. 
 Would you believe it, that girl, about whom 
 I fought with Acton, and young Clifden's wife, 
 Are one and the same person I 
 
 Bar. {gives a long ivhistle). The devil they are ! 
 
 Wolfe. True ! I have spoken with her as Margaret : 
 The recognition is complete. 
 
 Bar. Heavens ! 
 
 How awkward. 
 
 Wolfe. Awkward ! On the contrary, 
 
 This meeting I regard as fortunate. 
 Most fortunate : I ne'er was satisfied 
 With having lost her as I did ; and now 
 To find her, is like finding a rich prize 
 I thought forever lost. 
 
 Bar. Do you not fear — ■ 
 
 Might she not hint it to her husband ? 
 
 Wolfe. She's not the fool you show yourself to be. 
 What wife would do it ? or what woman ? No — 
 She kept her secret when she married him, 
 And will not blab it now. 
 
scKNEi.] SYBIL. G5 
 
 Bar. But the affair 
 
 With Acton has from Clifden's ears been kept, 
 Only because he had no ear for aught 
 Save love. He soon must hear of it. 
 
 Wolfe. No mischief can it work. Did you not hear 
 Me ask him on our last niglit's rouse the name — 
 The maiden name of Mistress Clifden. Ha ! 
 Forsooth the maiden name — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bar. Yes ; her name, he said, was Hardy. 
 
 Wolfe. Sybil Hardy— /iis SybU ! Ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 Bar. Do not laugh so loud — 
 
 WoJfB. You are as timid 
 
 As a hare in December. Don't you see 
 She has imposed upon him a false name. 
 What matters it to him, then, should he hear 
 Of Margaret Cooper and myself from this 
 Till doomsday. Clifden's safe in ignorance, 
 As in its knowledge are his wife and I. 
 At the same time, however, 'twill seem well 
 You give him true account of Acton's brawl — 
 All politics, all politics vqu know : 
 High words, and, to sum .p the argument. 
 When reason failed and passion was supreme, 
 Exchange of shots, and so forth — do you see ? 
 
 Bar. That may be very well — but, Jupiter I 
 I'd rather we were safely from this house. 
 Yes, yes — I will be off to-morrow. 
 
 Wofe. Then, by Yenus ! you will start alone 
 Having beheld her, I'm convulsed with joy I 
 I see her now ! 
 
 Those wild, bright, almost fierce, dilating eyes ; 
 Those lips, that brow, that full and heaving breast — 
 
 Bar. Hush, you are mad. You say you spoke with her ; 
 
 6* 
 
66 . SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 And did slie calmly listen, nor abuse 
 Your wild audacity. 
 
 Wolfe. Pah ! Simpleton, 
 
 You ne'er could understand her. You must not 
 Think of this glorious creature as you would 
 Of ordinary and weak-soul'd women. 
 Abuse ? She is too proudly built for that — 
 She threatened me. Ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 Bar. And you — 
 
 Wolfe. I laughed, of course ; and but your cursed return 
 With her boy-husband baulked me, should have met, 
 And silenced her brave threats with kisses. 
 
 Bar. You'll have your throat cut one day or other 
 By some husband. 
 
 Wolfe. Ah ! Barnabas, you know 
 
 Little of husbands as you do of wives. 
 But in her love I've good security ; 
 Better even than in your stupidity. 
 
 Bar. Take care ! 
 
 Wolfe. She loves me — 
 
 Bar. ' The deuce she does ! 
 
 You're a conceited fellow, 
 
 Wolfe. I know she does. 
 
 The strongest passion is youth's mem'ried love : 
 Its freshness, bloom, and fragrance, never fades. 
 Think you a woman like her can forget 
 The lips that first within her bosom blew 
 The spark of love into a passionate fiame ? 
 
 Bar. Under the circumstances, she'd be less 
 Than woman if she could forget you ; but 
 She seems so proud and cold : at times almost 
 So fiendish, I should not care to jog 
 Her memory about such days. 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 67 
 
 Wolfe. Masks, glorious masks — indignant virtue, ha ! 
 Now, in the morning neither of us leave. 
 Fortune favors me — you'll not be less kind. 
 You to my aid must come, good Barnabas. 
 
 Bar, What ? to carry off our hostess ! May I be^ 
 
 Wolfe. Don't — indeed, you will. 
 
 Bar. To have that fellow, 
 
 Who is a perfect Mohawk when aroused — 
 What ? Clifden in my war-path — on my trail — 
 To slit my carotid — not I — never. 
 
 Wolfe. I say there is no cause of fear to you : 
 Keep out of sight, by keeping him away. 
 You wish to ramble, I do not. He knows 
 I've no great relish for horse-exercise. 
 For you he'll start an elk-hunt, any thing : 
 To go, I naturally will decline ; 
 And if you both could only break your necks, 
 It would be all the better. She won't miss 
 Either of you, I'll wager on't. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 But, seriously, you're not in danger's way. 
 I'm the offender — if offence there be ; 
 And surely, you'll oblige a friend. 
 
 Bar, I don't 
 
 Half like such test of friendship. 
 
 Wolfe. Paltry test- 
 
 There was a time you would not e'en have dared 
 To refuse me. 
 
 Bar. Ahem — Clifden awaits me {going). 
 
 Wolfe. Remember, while you're in his company 
 Keep out of mine and Margaret's. 
 Pleasant sport to you. Adieu 1 
 
 \_Exit at opposite sides. 
 
68 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Scene II. — Another room in Clifderts house. 
 Sybil Hardy. Maude. Janette. 
 
 Maude. Why sad, sister Sybil ? But three days ago 
 and you were so bright and lively, that even Cousin 
 Janette was dull in comparison. 
 
 Jan. Heigho ! Eustace is away, and young wives are 
 jealous of the magnets that draw husbands from their 
 eyes ; but, pet, he will be back soon. He is tearing 
 over the hills, thinking only of his enjoyment. Ha ! ha I 
 Heigho I / never will get married if I am to feel as 
 you do. 
 
 Sybil. You never will feel as I do. 
 
 Jan. What — have you a monopoly of affection ? 
 
 Maude. Do not mind the teaze. Cousin can return to 
 mother, and I will stay with you. 
 
 Sybil. Dear Maude, I will be well presently. I am 
 so unused to society — I live and love so much in soli- 
 tude — my household is so simple, that the very attention 
 due to our guests has excited me more than one might 
 dream of. 
 
 Jan. Ah, ha ! Maude. Our lovers love to be alone. 
 You could not comfort her more than by leaving. 
 
 Maude. But Eustace's sister — 
 
 Jan. Is a poor apology for Eustace himself. Come, 
 child, come. [To Sybil.) Am I not, Sybil, the best 
 comforter. {Sybil smiles.) Ah, I knew it. See that tell- 
 tale smile. Come, Maude. 
 
 Maude. I have a great mind to stay. But — 
 
 Jan. Come, coz, come. {Maude going, but returns 
 and kisses Sybil.) [Exit Maude and Jan, 
 
 Sybil {after a pause). Oh, what a fate this thirsting 
 for revenge 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. G9 
 
 Has brought upon us, Eustace. Bitterly 
 
 I feel my utter degradation. 
 
 But I was mad. When I swore thee, Clifden, 
 
 To slay this wretch, the woman I was not 
 
 Tiiat now I am. I did not know how much 
 
 I loved thee ; or what love thy love begot. 
 
 The secret I must keep — this bloodshed stop : 
 
 My husband's life is dearer than revenge. 
 
 Oh, had the years since last I saw this fiend 
 
 Been filled with prayers of penitence, not pride ; 
 
 Prayers for grace from heav'n, not for hate on earth. 
 
 Thy hand {kneels), great Father, were less heavy now. 
 
 Spare me, spare me ! Let the trial be light. 
 
 Oh, grant thy mercy on my husband's head, 
 
 And give me strength, composure, and resolve. 
 
 To meet this issue, as it must be met. 
 
 Once and forever. [Starts to her feet as she hears a noise.) 
 
 Enter Bufus Wolfe. 
 
 Wolfe {approaching ivith eagerness). Oh, for this 
 meeting how I've wept and pray'd — 
 With one so loved, so dearly loved — so long 
 And bitterly lamented. Margaret — 
 
 Sybil. Sir, you see the wife of Eustace Clifden. 
 
 Wolfe. It is my sad misfortune that you are 
 His wife, or wife of any heart but mine. 
 Turn not away — you think I have wrong'd you. 
 
 Sybil. Think, sir, think — it matters little unto you 
 What I may think. Remember you're a guest 
 Beneath my husband's roof. Remember, too. 
 Thy life is forfeit, as thy love was sworn 
 To me and mine ; — that in his ignorance 
 
TO SYBIL. [ACTiY. 
 
 Of your black crime, your safety only lies. 
 One word from me — 
 
 Wolfe. You will not speak that word. 
 
 Maro-aret — 
 
 Sybil [with satiric scorn). Will I not ! 
 
 Wolfe. For the sake of the dear past you will not. 
 
 Sybil. The past ! Ah, were the past alone my guide, 
 I should not for my vengeance think of him. 
 An injure,d woman has a twofold strength. 
 Proud in the memory tliat she once was pure, 
 She holds the woman's nature still ; besides 
 The fallen angel that informs her hate, 
 A never absent Lucifer : both strong 
 To nerve the arm and unsex the brain. 
 If the dread past alone did beckon me. 
 
 Wolfe. If you the cruel necessity but knew 
 That kept me from you. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, false, false — and not more false than fooHsh. 
 I heard all — I know all. I know that I 
 The credulous victim of your subtle arts 
 Have been ; and you, successful coward, boasted 
 Over the conquest of a trustful girl. 
 
 Wolfe. The villain lied who told you this. 
 
 Sybil. Then, your own acts that lying villain j^rove. 
 If you were true, you had no need to shroud 
 Your purposes within a name as false. 
 Why fly ? Why not have kept the word to which 
 I fell a sacrifice ? Why for long years 
 Leave me the miserable mock of those 
 Who once were even proud of my contempt — 
 Living, desperately weak, insanely sane, 
 Verging on madness, that from day to day 
 Kept in my hand an instant means of death, ^ 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 71 
 
 "Which I did only not use on myself, 
 
 In the wild hope that I should meet with you. 
 
 Wolfe. I am here now. If needful be my death 
 To your sweet peace, command it, in love's name. 
 
 Sybil. A month ago I needed no such offer — 
 That time has changed me. Nature has succumbed 
 To the great bliss of being truly loved. 
 Go — live ! Let not the morrow find you here : 
 Forget that you have ever known me ; 
 Forget, if possible, you Clifden know, 
 For whose dear sake, alone, I spare you. Go ! [Moves.) 
 
 Wolfe. For his sake, Margaret {smiling) — his sake ! 
 No, no (offers to take her hand) — 
 It is impossible this young man could 
 Fill up the radiant hopes of such a soul, 
 Or any thing to such a woman be. 
 As you, who must remember that first love — 
 
 Sybil. Man or devil, remind me not of crime 
 That still demands my sworn vengeance. 
 Hark ye, Alfred Stevens {almost in a whisper), you are 
 
 not wise — 
 You are in the very den of danger. 
 I tell thee, Stevens, that I spare your fife, 
 Though the weapon is shotted ; though the knife 
 Is whetted. I spare you, even though I feel 
 The thirst to slay you rising in my soul, 
 On one condition — that you do depart. 
 Wake not my slumbering fury. Linger 
 Longer, and you may ne'er depart again. 
 
 Wofe. Why, this is madness. 
 
 Sybil. I am mad ! 
 
 And otherwise than mad I cannot be 
 While you are here. 
 
12 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Wolfe. I cannot tliink you hate me. 
 Sybil. Can I think you ever loved me ? No, no. 
 Do not deceive yourself (Wolfe looks fawningly at 
 
 Sybil) ; provoke me not 
 With your defiling glances, and still less 
 With your dishonest tongue. Be warned in time ; 
 Another day, and the command I hold 
 Upon myself, may die through sheer excess 
 Of agony that keeps it strong to-day. 
 To destroy you would gratify the hate 
 I've lived for, but 'twould also overthrow 
 The peace of him I prize beyond my life. 
 I strive not 'gainst my vows, in your behalf ; 
 Not e'en in my own behalf the effort springs : 
 It is for him, who gave me love, new life, 
 A holy purpose with that name of names— 
 That name which, truly worn, is the richest gem 
 All earth can place on woman — name of wife. 
 It is for him alone, from out whose brain 
 I have regrown — for my husband, Clifden, 
 That I avert my vision from the past. 
 Beware — he comes ! {Sybil takes a seat at table. Wolfe, 
 
 snatching a book, reclines in an arm-chair, apart 
 
 from her.) 
 Wolfe {rather loudly). My dear madam, you are right ; 
 I wonder not you have a preference 
 For country life : such scenery around, 
 Such air, the body to invigorate, 
 Such books to bring the mind perennial strength ; 
 And, above all, with a companion such 
 As Clifden, my young, noble friend. Indeed, 
 I know not which to most congratulate, 
 You each have made such admirable choice. 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 73 
 
 Sybil (aside). Yillain ! 
 
 Enter Clifden^. 
 
 Wolfe. I perceive, madam, by these underscorings, you 
 are an appreciative student of the great moralist and 
 man. Ah ! Clifden, so soon returned, or is it that the 
 time sped quicker than I thought ? 
 
 Clif. Your doubt informs me you were not dull in 
 my absence. 
 
 Wolfe. Oh, not at all, thanks to Mrs. Clifden. I 
 took your advice, my dear boy, and made myself quite 
 at home. Did I not, my dear madam ? The sight of 
 these books reminded me of home. "We have discussed 
 the poets and all kinds of poetry, from the Paradise 
 Lost to the Loves of the Angels. (Sybil expresses sur- 
 prise, disgust, and scorn, during this speech.) 
 
 Clif And which have you decided for ? 
 
 Wolfe. Well, strange to say, Mrs. CKfden thinks 
 Paradise Regained preferable to either, which, you are 
 aware, is opposed to all critical opinion. 
 
 Sybil (aside). Audacious villain ! 
 
 Clif (evidently uneasy). Well, you know ladies will 
 differ with critics ; but you must have talked faster than 
 we galloped, to get over so much ground in the space of 
 time. 
 
 Wolfe. Then I was right — you hurried back. Ha ! 
 you rogue, I thought you would not extend your excur- 
 sion. Ha ! ha ! I was a young married man once myself. 
 
 Sybil (to Clif), You are with us for the evening, 
 dear ? 
 
 Clif Not yet, Sybil. Our friend Barnabas is dull to- 
 day, and dumb. I strove in vain to rouse him. Two 
 miles I jogged beside him for a word — 
 
74 SYBIL. [ACT IT 
 
 Wolfe, The timid blockliead (aside). 
 
 GUf. And then bethought me I'd return, run over to 
 GottaQ-eTille, brins: back Maude and Janette, and thus do 
 all our country life affords to make our city friends in 
 pleasant humor. Here comes dull Barnabas— 
 
 Enter Barxabas. 
 
 Bo.r. At your service. 
 
 Sybil, m strive and wear his dullness off till you re- 
 turn. 
 
 GUf. That were a difiacult task, Sybil. 
 
 Wolfe. Xot so to an enchantress — see her effect on 
 me. You are not jealous, Clifden ? 
 
 Syhil. Clifden has no need to be. 
 
 GUf Ha ! ha ! Colonel, you had best take care how 
 you break the wand of your enchantress. Come, Bar- 
 nabas. 
 
 Sybil. Perhaps, Eustace, Mr. Barnabas would rather 
 keep us company — he is tu'ed ; are you not (to Bar.) ? 
 You have failed to cheer him (to GUf.) — let us try. 
 (Wolfe motions to Barnabas, unobserved.) 
 
 Bar. I fear, madam, I could ill sustain the gallant 
 Colonel's banter. 
 
 Wolfe. Well, with permission of good madam, I will 
 accompany Clifden (moving), and you shall discuss the 
 poets. 
 
 GUf Ah, ha ! If so, instead of one duU j)erson now, 
 we'd have two on our return. ISo, Barnabas shall come 
 with me (exit Sybil) ; Maude and our witty Janette will 
 teaze him into gay humor on the way back, and then 
 we'll all be ready for a pleasant evening. Is not that 
 best, Sybil (looks round) ? 
 
 Wolfe. Your wife has an excellently organized mind, 
 
scE^Tzn.J SYBIL. t5 
 
 yery fine — original and well infonned, and gentle too, bat 
 a little melaucholv, I should say — I will strive to enter- 
 tain her in joar absence. 
 
 Clif. Do, Colonel, do. Xothing so pleases her as the 
 dear old books, and talks about them. 
 
 Wolfe. Had I your eloquence — 
 
 Clif. You are detennined to be complimentary. {To 
 Bar.) I will wait on you in a moment. [Exit. 
 
 Wolfe. How near mining all my hopes you were, by 
 your infernal dullness. 
 
 Bar. I tell you, TVolf^, this recklessness won't do. It 
 is tempting fortune too far. Besides, you owe your 
 election chiefly to Clifden. If he was idle before he 
 married, he certainly exerted himself greatly in your 
 cause since. 
 
 Wofe. How can I repay him better than by confer- 
 ring ail my love upon his wife. I'll get him a good 
 office, too, in the State. You are a dolt. Hear me — 
 take care that you do not betray me by your fears. 
 Could you not get sick at the cottage, and delay, or 
 maybe stay all night, and need his assistance, eh ? Do 
 any thing — but keep him out of my way. 
 
 Re-enter CurDEx. 
 
 CUf Come, Barnabas. 
 
 Wofe. He feels already much better at the prospect 
 of flirting with the girls. He is a great rogue, this Bar- 
 nabas. 
 
 Clf. I must see that he does not steal both their 
 hearts at once. [Exit Clif. and Bar. 
 
 Wolfe {seating himself). The game goes well. A 
 woman fallen once 
 Has no retreat. She was mine. She must be mine ; 
 
t6 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 A breath can drive her from her husband.'s arms. 
 Little he recks how she once worshipped me — 
 More wildly e'en than he now worships her. 
 Little he dreams the secrets that oppress 
 The pillow next his own. Little he knows 
 The bosom that he presses, such adepts 
 In smiles and strategy these women are. 
 She comes — with passion for her fear's defence, 
 But when threats end beseechings will commence. 
 She's here (rises to receive her). 
 
 Enter Sybil. 
 
 Syhil {repulsing him). Colonel Wolfe, I come to 
 warn you once more ; 
 Again to implore you, leave this dwelling. 
 You are trifling with your fate ! 
 
 Wolfe. Not trifling : 
 
 Say it not, my Margaret, you are my fate ; 
 But after such a painful separation 
 Your greeting's cruel and unnatural. 
 
 Sybil. I am your fate. That is the only truth 
 You utter. 
 
 Wolfe. Why should recrimination 
 Coldly invade the precious present. 
 For the past let my unceasing love atone. 
 If you e'er loved me as you said you did, 
 With all the burning fervor of your soul, 
 Hear me — 
 
 Syhil. I have no wish to let you add 
 A second perjury to the first. 
 
 Wolfe. It is not perjury : you must hear me 
 In justification. 
 
 Syhil. Justify yourself to heaven, not to me : 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. It 
 
 I will not hear you doubly curse your soul. 
 If you have yet a spark of manhood left, 
 The boon I ask has claims upon you now. 
 Having trampled me to the dust in shame, 
 Robbed my bright youth of pride and blissful peace. 
 Why should you persecute the homely joys 
 My broken hfe requires ? 
 
 Wol/e. Persecution ? 
 
 It is love ! You were my first love ; you shall be 
 My last. We were destined for each other. 
 
 Sybil. Peace ! I'm no longer blind and vain as when 
 My ears were flattered to dishonor. 
 
 Wolfe. Oh that the tongue, whose power you still ad- 
 mit, 
 Could plead its truth to that same ear that once 
 Delighted in its love. If you have grown 
 Insensible to admiration, 
 Your nature ne'er can grow insensible 
 To love. 
 
 Sijbil. Love — tjoiu^ love ! 
 
 Wolfe. Yes, Margaret, my Ioyq. It conjures up 
 Moments that were too precious to forget. 
 Where'er I've been, the memory of that time 
 Was with me. 'Tis impossible that you. 
 So full of wealthy nature, and who shared 
 With me your bosom's first emotions, 
 Can be so cold. Your tongue's hot passion proves 
 The struggle in your heart for its old love — 
 The sweeping down the trammels of the new. 
 Do I not know the duties, my beloved. 
 This new-linked chain imposes ? Have no fear 
 My sudden joy grim prudence will offend. 
 No, dearest, no, that self-same prudence will 
 
 7* 
 
18 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Weave round our lovinguess a secret bliss, 
 Whicli made the gods of old immortal. Ay, 
 The kiss that is not trammelled by men's laws 
 Hath a wild power no legal banns can grant. 
 Let us, dear Margaret, as when first we loved, 
 Feed on the stolen rapture of two hearts {attemjjts to 
 embrace her — she repulses him). 
 
 Sybil. I have heard you, hellish fiend, to the close : 
 Oh, would to heaven you had declared yourself 
 rive years ago as now. Could I have seen, 
 As now I see, the cloven foot, the tongue 
 Of serpent, I had been as pure as you 
 Were base ; nor would my palsied ear confront 
 These words accursed — this blasphemy 'gainst God 
 And man. 
 
 Wolfe. Margaret — 
 
 Sybil. Sir, I have heard you patiently. Once 
 
 more — 
 I hate you with the bitterest loathing ; 
 With scorn, behold you as the foulest fruit 
 Hell could bear in black contrast to heaven ; 
 Whose depth of blackness thwarts the daring scope 
 Of your atrocious schemes ; abhor you 
 As a coward below contempt — traitor 
 To your own sex, and infidel to mine. 
 Judge, then, the prospect you pursue. 
 
 Wolfe. Beware I Margaret, beware, lest you rouse 
 The unearthly terror that you picture. 
 'Tis you that trifle with your fate. Despise 
 My love — you cannot fly my power, 
 
 Sybil. Your power ? Do I rightly hear — Power ? 
 
 Wolfe. Ay, my. power : but I entreat you, believe me 
 your friend. 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. *19 
 
 Sybil. Yon are my enemy — my first, my worst ; 
 Heaven forbid that I conld think you friend again. 
 
 Wol/e. Yet still I am. I love you better far 
 Than I have ever loved a woman. 
 
 Si/hil. You have a wife, Rufus Wolfe ? 
 
 Wolfe. Yes ; but — 
 
 Sybil. And children ? 
 
 Wolfe. Well— 
 
 Sybil. For their sakes if not for mine — for her sake, 
 Whose dreams are bless'd because she b'lieves you true ; 
 For the pure babes, who're fed to health or woe 
 By her sweet peace of mind they mother call : 
 For their sakes, I implore you to forbear. 
 
 ( Wolfe seizes Sybil ; she escapes^ and catching up a 
 
 pistol from the bookcase^ turns quickly round and 
 
 presents it at him, just as he reaches within arm^s 
 
 length of her : p)CLUse and picture.) 
 
 Go {faltering, her arm drops to her side) — go ! I spare 
 
 you for the sake of that 
 Wife and mother you would disgrace. Go, go — 
 For you 'tis well that I remembered her. 
 
 Wolfe (aside). To be thus baited by a frantic woman. 
 (Aloud.) Margaret, this mockery must end. You talk 
 Of fear, of fate, of honor, and forget 
 The greater theme of apprehension, which 
 To a woman, wife, — and most of all to you — 
 Your husband — 
 
 Sybil. What of my husband ? 
 
 Wolfe. Take care — 
 
 A word from me, and where is all your peace I 
 Ha ! am I understood ? Do you not feel 
 That I have power with one word to give 
 That living death a proud soul most abhors. 
 
80 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, worthy thought, with baseness all com- 
 plete. 
 What a brave treachery, my friend ! 
 
 Wolfe. Nay, I do not threaten, but remind. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, you are moderate — very moderate ! 
 But know, that ere I wedded Eustace Clifden 
 I told the shame of this poor hand he wooed. 
 
 Wolfe. You did not — could not — dare not I 
 
 Sybil. By Him who knows 
 
 The secrets of all hearts, I did ; nor held 
 Aught from him, save the name, the public name 
 As now it doth appear, of my deceiver. 
 
 Wolfe. He would not have married you ! 
 
 Sybil. He did, and yet before he did, he swore 
 On Alfred Stevens to avenge my shame. 
 'Twas the condition of my hand, dowry. 
 Fortune, all I brought him — ay, it is true ! 
 
 Wolfe. Ha ! ha ! this tale lacks probability. 
 I am a lawyer, Margaret, and detect 
 Its inconsistencies. {Noise without) 
 
 Sybil. They have returned. 
 Hear me — you're doomed, unless you leave at once. 
 
 Wolfe. I am no child — (aside) and you a woman 
 are. 
 
 Sybil. Your blood, then, be on your own head. {Sits 
 at table and conceals the pistol in her dress.) 
 
 Wolfe [seating himself). Nothing by assault to be 
 done here ; however. 
 Doom, or no doom, to be affrighted I 
 Am not, fair Mistress Clifden (aside). 
 
 Enter Clifden, Barnabas, Maude, and Janette. 
 Wolfe. A welcome back. Good day, ladies, I hope 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 81 
 
 you have frightened Mr. Barnabas into something hke 
 pleasantry. 
 
 Jan. Oh, yes, he's merry as a sexton during healthy 
 weather. 
 
 CUf. I fear he'll need that functionary soon. 
 What think you, Sybil ; pining for his Club, 
 And vowing to be gone ere morrow's noon. 
 
 Wolfe. What a compliment to our fair hostess. 
 
 Maude and Janette. Oh, Mr. Barnabas ! 
 
 Bar. Really, ladies, two days out of town undoes my 
 constitution. The country is well enough for a day or 
 so, but — excuse me, ladies — to one like me it is a — a — a 
 bore. Yes, really, I must be off to-morrow. 
 
 Wolfe. To morrow I Will you not wait for me ? 
 
 CUf. Of course he will — {Sybil watching with great 
 anxiety) 
 
 Bar. How long ? • 
 
 Wolfe. I intended to have stayed but a day or two ; 
 but, bless me, it is so refreshing after our late excite- 
 ment — besides, the pleasant nature of the topics {to 
 Sybil) we have been discussing — that I am induced to 
 make a week of it with Clifden. 
 
 Maude and Janette. Bravo, Colonel ! 
 
 Sybil {with calm energy). Colonel Wolfe, that cannot 
 be. It is 
 Needful you keep unto your first resolve — 
 At once. No longer can my husband be 
 Your host, or in this dwelling wish you grace. {Astonish- 
 ment of all.) 
 
 CUf How, Mistress Clifden ! What does this mean — 
 to my friend, Sybil ? 
 
 Sybil. He is not your friend, 
 
82 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Clifden, nor thine or mine : but let me pass — 
 I cannot speak here. (Bushes out.) 
 
 Clif. Sybil ? {Exit after her.) 
 
 [Exit 3Iaude and Janette in consternation. 
 
 Bar. What's this, in the devil's name ? 
 
 Wolfe. In your name, coward. Can you not see it ? 
 Have you any weapons ? 
 
 Bar. My pistols are in the saddle-bags. 
 
 Wolfe. Curse the woman — who could have believed it ! 
 Barnabas, should it come unto the worst, - 
 We can but fly. Look you to the horses, 
 While I my coolness keep. ^ 
 
 Bar. You wouldn't take my advice ; if — 
 
 Wolfe. This is no time for lecturing. 
 Your wisdom's always at the eleventh hour. 
 Your base ingratitude 'tis brings all this. 
 But hencQ, if thou would'st not o'erpower'd be, 
 And slain remorseless in the trap you've made ; 
 Prepare thyself in haste. See to the steeds — 
 If she explain, our start can't be too quick. 
 
 [Exit hurriedly. 
 
 Re-enter Clifden, Sybil clinging to him, both having 
 hold of the pistol. 
 
 Sybil. The wrong is mine. Oh, go not, Eustace, 
 My hand shall avenge it. I am sworn to it. 
 If still the victim, let me victor be. 
 Your life is precious to me, husband dear, 
 More precious than the past — or hope, or name. 
 
 Clif 'No, Sybil, you are mine, your wrongs are mine : 
 Before just heaven I renew my oath. 
 
 Sybil. Leave me to shame, despair, to any thing ; 
 But, Eustace, for the love you bear me, hear ; 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 83 
 
 For the dear sake of that new-borii blessing 
 Your love has given my nature, hear me. 
 In the name of every tie that heaven 
 Welds in the undistinguishable flames 
 That leap from mutually enkindled souls — 
 In the name of all such union can inspire, 
 I here revoke the oath. When I proposed it 
 I was not thy wife, but a mad, heartless, 
 Yengeance-seeking slave. Nor wife, nor woman 
 Was I, but am both through thee, and as both, 
 Revoke that withering and peace-crushing oath. 
 
 Clif. Sybil, you're my hfe : but though you and I 
 Could in the narrowest corner of the earth 
 Find untold regions for our happy love. 
 All land and sea, the huge round globe itself 
 Hath not extent and verge enough to hold 
 Thy husband's hand and thy betrayer's heart 
 Together on it. While he's upon it 
 Earth's too confined for me. While he doth breathe, 
 I suffocate ; ay, though I stood upon 
 The healthy heights o' the Alleghanies, 
 And he on Himalaya's frozen roof. 
 With toiling nations and big seas between. 
 While his heart beats, congestion crushes mine. 
 I must have air. Which may usurp the earth ? 
 Either must perish that the other live. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, husband. 
 
 Clif. It must be so ; but, Sybil, 
 
 Whatever happens, to the last thou'rt mine. {.Kisses her 
 and dashes out.) 
 
 Sybil. Thine, Clifden, thine — only thine, ever thine — 
 To the last — the last — the last. {Pause, Sybil looks 
 about, screams.) 
 
84 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 He is gone, gone — gone for what ? 
 
 Ha ! I have sent him on this bloody work. 
 
 Surely it is a madness that doth move me. 
 
 Why should he slay Alfred Stevens ? Why ? {Presses 
 
 her head.) 
 What good will come of it ? What safety ? What ? 
 (Pause) But why should he not I Miserable fate. 
 Are we never to be free ? Must he e'er 
 Thrust his fiend's visage in our happy homes ; 
 And blast our hopes, our peace, our love for ever ? 
 'No, no — ha ! ha ! ha ! Better he should die ! 
 Better we should all die. Strike him, Clifden — 
 Strike, and fear nothing I Strike for dear virtue 
 And immortal love ! Husband, strike deep — 
 Strike to the very heart ! Strike I Strike I Strike ! 
 
 {Falls overcome.) 
 
SCENE 1.1 SYBIL. 85 
 
 ACT Y. 
 
 Scene I. — Dungeon. 
 Clifden. Sybil, Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Sybil. There can be no cause for fear — I have none. 
 You did not strike for me alone. The wives, 
 The mothers, daughters of the State, are all 
 Your debtors for the deed. And who that bears 
 The lordly title, man, will honor risk 
 To slay a brother for defending woman ? ' 
 
 No, I fear not. If law o'er justice vaunts 
 I'll go myself into the open court, 
 And, as 'fore heaven, will the story tell, 
 In all its plain and foul deformity ; 
 No fear, no shame, shall pale or tinge my cheek, 
 Or wither, by a fluctuating doubt. 
 The fact's full force upon the jury's ear. 
 They must believe me when they hear. 
 
 Cilf. My life— 
 
 It cannot be. 
 
 Loiue. Will you not be persuaded, my good sir, even 
 now, at almost the last day, to employ the services of 
 Acton ? Young though he be, he's skilled, as well you 
 know, in law ; has no superior with a jury, is popular, 
 and strange to say, likewise pure. Let me entreat — 
 
 Clif. Did you not say last night he fought with Wolfe 
 On my account ? What was't ? My senses grow 
 Dull as these granite walls. 
 
 Lowe. It is well known they quarrelled and fought at 
 their first meeting, upon political grounds 'twas given 
 out — 
 
 8 
 
86 SYBIL. [ACTV. 
 
 CUf. Yes, I remember — I heard that from Barnabas. 
 
 Lo'we. But Barnabas, who was present, told me they 
 quarrelled on account of Mrs. Clifden {looking round), 
 whose name he said was Margaret. 
 
 Clif. Mrs. Clifden ! [Sybil looks up. Clifden motions 
 her to retire. Exit Sybil.) 
 
 Lowe. Pardon me, my young friend, I did not mean to 
 hurt your feelings ; but — 
 
 Clif. It was some natural lie of Wolfe's. 
 It could not be. Some foul invention 
 To aid his black designs. I never heard 
 Of Acton from my wife. 
 
 Loive. A rumor is abroad which seems to back the as- 
 sertion. [Clifden listens eagerly.) However, whether true 
 or not, Acton must be the man for your defence. Wolfe's 
 friends are very powerful, and will strain every nerve to 
 effect your ruin. 
 
 «i Clif. Well, let them triumph ; they but mimic me : 
 I've had my triumph. Of a truth, I feel 
 That I have done the great deed of my life. 
 Death to me now brings no such agony 
 As it would bring had I not done this deed. 
 And yet — to live for Sybil's sake ? Oh heart ! 
 The thought of losing her brings many deaths, 
 With deeper pangs than the mere loss of life. 
 
 Lowe. Allow me to see Acton. 
 
 Clif. [eagerly). Should I defend myself? Declare the 
 act 
 And justify it ? [Pause) No : to my own soul — 
 To God 'tis justified ; but men who judge. 
 Must know my secret ere 'tis so to them. 
 The damned tale of Sybil's overthrow. 
 The serpent progress of the venomous head 
 
SCENE!.] SYBIL. 81 
 
 
 
 I've crushed forever, they must hear. How — how 
 Cau /tell that'? It is impossible. 
 
 Lowe. If you do not decide quickly your friends must 
 act for you. Be advised now — do, Clifden, do. His 
 friends raust act for him (aside, and going). 
 
 Clif. I thank you sincerely, indeed I do. 
 I will think of what you say. I will — I will. \_Exit Lowe. 
 
 Re-enter Sybil. 
 
 Sybil {she comes to him and puts her arm about him). 
 You never told me your acquaintance with Acton. 
 
 Sijhil. Acton — 
 
 Clif. Whom we defeated. 
 
 Sybil. Dear, I know him not. Let me see — Acton ? 
 'Tis hke a waif from my dream-haunted youth. 
 [Thinks) I once did know a person of that name — 
 An old man — schoolmaster at Eaglemont ; 
 I have nor seen nor heard of him for years. 
 
 Clif. An old man — how old ? 
 
 Sybil. Some five-and-sixty years. 
 
 Clif. It is not the same. Perhaps he had a son? 
 
 Sybil. He had no son : was never married. 
 
 Clif. It is strange. 
 
 Sybil. What, Eustace — what is strange ? 
 
 Clif. Nothing, — nothing. 
 
 jSybil [aside), I fear he wanders. (He gazes fondly on 
 and kisses her.) Eustace, will you not 
 Advised be, and give your holy cause 
 To Acton's hands ? To him your friends all point 
 As one above the jealousies that rise 
 In selfish minds from zeal-distempered politics. 
 I've heard you laud his talents to the skies. 
 
88 SYBIL. [ACTV 
 
 Clif. I liave. All true ! but, Sybil, my blood chills 
 To think of making a defence. 
 
 Sybil. Why this strange callousness. 
 
 Clif. I killed him ; and evasion would not seek 
 From the confronted dangers of an act 
 Deliberate ; and one I'd do again. 
 Evasion or suggestion cannot come 
 From me, or any interested in me. 
 It must not come. Truth will condemn me, and 
 I knew it with the weapon in my grasp. 
 
 Sybil. What — the ivhole truth condemn us ? 
 
 Clif. Perhaps not ; but how to get the whole truth 
 out : 
 And if it could be done, / could not do it. 
 
 Sybil. Why not, my husband ? Shame now's gone 
 from us ; 
 We are above the world or beneath it. 
 It gives our hearts no sustenance. It may 
 Scorn me, the miserable victim of its ways, 
 But can it, dare it, call me harlot ? No I 
 I did not plunge, but fell into the gulf — 
 Fell through vain weakness which relied on man : 
 And, oh, if spirit ever felt remorse 
 That doth denote wronged virtue's penitence, 
 Believe me, Clifden, it was mine. 
 
 Clif. Do I not know it, dearest [fondling her) \ 
 
 Sybil. I believe you feel it, which conviction gives 
 Strength to my soul to face a Vv^orld. Let it 
 Know all, if all will any thing avail. 
 With my own tongue would I declare the facts 
 Before I'd see thee dragged unto the gallows. 
 
 Clif. And I would mount the scaffold a thousand 
 times. 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 89 
 
 Had I a thousand lives, than suffer you 
 To work such cruel wrong against thyself. 
 Live, dearest, live ; and living, daily read 
 The boast I carve upon my tomb — I died 
 For thee ! I wed thee for that purpose : 
 I am true to it. 
 
 Sybil. You said you loved me ! 
 
 Clif. And do I not ? 
 
 Sybil. Eustace, the more one loves 
 
 The more he loves to live. ^Tis easier 
 To die than live ; which makes life beautiful 
 And grand to those who love ; for love's true tests 
 Are not so much in overmastering hearts. 
 As that grim world which makes the bright heart black. 
 Let us o'ercome this world with the truth ! 
 It may frown, but that vn[\ only roughen 
 Its own face, and never ruffle ours. 
 
 Clif. You make me chide myself. 
 
 Sybil. Have we no resource but sorrow, husband ? 
 Who will meet these judges if not you or I ? 
 Your friends all point to Acton — why delay ? 
 Oh, Clifden, husband, let no coward shame 
 Hide from all ears the tale of your brave blow. 
 If you or I can't speak, let us heap up 
 Our two hearts' histories on Acton's soul, 
 Until he, heated with the treble fires 
 Of wrong, death, eloquence,— hate, love, and fame, 
 Shall drive the doubtful demon from men's hearts, 
 And make them strong for deeds of mercy. 
 They say he's brave, well-versed, high-minded, pure— 
 Your lesser self !— What would you more ? 
 
 Clif. No more may be expected of a man. 
 But wait, wife — wait — to-morrow — 
 
 8* 
 
90 SYBIL. [ACTV. 
 
 SyML To-morrow ! 
 
 {Aside.) To-morrow, and the chance is lost ; yet I 
 Stand here as though unwed to my avenger, 
 Seeing him fade before my rery eyes, 
 Dragging lore, life, all hopes of earth and heaven 
 With him. I'U see this Acton. [Takes a basket and is 
 
 going — looks at Clifden — returns. 
 Kiss me, Eustace {kisses). Be cheerful as the day 
 That saw us wedded {going). 'Twas for life and death. 
 \_Exit^ Clifden looking fondly after her. 
 
 Scene n. — Room in Acton's Twuse. 
 Enter Old Aciox and William: Actox. 
 
 Acton. How little could I think that Clifden, he 
 To whom I owe so much of my defeat, 
 Was married to this girl. What a wild fate 
 At once has prompted and waylaid her life — 
 More wi'etched ev'n in her triumphal hour 
 Of vengeance, than in all her days of shame. 
 
 Old A. As dreadful, too, the retribution on 
 Alfred Stevens. Little could you have thought 
 Your boyhood's rival for the village girl 
 Would be your victor on the wider field 
 Of pontics : Or that his fastest friend 
 And ablest advocate, in slaying him, 
 Would by the blow avenge thy youthful wrongs. 
 This woman's mission has been one of woe ; 
 My son, 'twas well ye parted in your youth. 
 
 Acton. Had she been mine, this dreadfulest of tales 
 Would never chill men's veins. 
 
 Old A. It is a tale 
 
 Which future mothers will rehearse, to teach 
 
scEisEii.] SYBIL. 91 
 
 The heads, if not to touch the hearts, of proud 
 And wilful daughters. 
 
 Acton, Can we not aid them ? 
 
 Clifden's devotion, if not Margaret's wrongs, 
 Should fire with eloquence some honest Toice. 
 Can we not aid them, father ? 
 
 Old A. How, my son ? 
 
 Clifden hath aU resources of the law ; 
 He hath, besides, a worthy pride of brain. 
 Our interference might be misconstrued, 
 If not by him, at least by tetchy friends. 
 So high the flame of party spjirit runs, 
 As an assumption of superior skill : 
 And then your duel for the woman's sake. 
 When her identity is fully known, 
 Perhaps might only, 'stead of mercy, build 
 In the censorious such conjecture as 
 Would act against her. 
 
 Acton. I loTed her — she refused me. That is all — 
 Is easily told ; and I am not the man, 
 Xor you to teach me, to allow my pride 
 Kise in rel>eUion 'gainst a mortal's life. 
 I loved her — she refused me. (Muses — turns aside and 
 leans his head on his hand.) 
 
 Enter Sybil. 
 
 Old A. {recognizing her as she ajyj^roaches). Miss 
 Cooper I 
 Can it be [in a low voice) ? 
 
 Sybil. It is. (Aiide.) Old Acton of Eaglemont. 
 Go where I will, some ghost of that dread spot 
 Haunts me in human form. 
 
92 SYBIL. [ACTV. 
 
 There's some mistake, sir, I seek the lawyer, 
 Mr. William Acton. 
 
 Old A. My son — no mistake. 
 
 Sybil. Your son, sir ! 
 
 Old A. Yes, my son, and your old friend. 
 He is here — William. 
 
 [Sybil approaches a few steps toivards William 
 Acton, he turns round — they recognize?) 
 
 Sybil {aside). William Ashley I (To him) You know 
 me, Mr. Acton, 
 I see you know me. 
 
 Acton. Could I forget you ! 
 
 Sybil. Not forget, perhaps : but — but — 
 Of course you know my person ; — who I was, 
 But — not who I am. 
 
 Acton. Yes, that I know. 
 
 Sybil. Thank heaven I Something then is spared 
 me I 
 
 Acton. I know the whole sad story, Margaret — 
 Mistress Clifden. Can /do thee service {with emotion) ? 
 Is it for this you seek me ! 
 
 Sybil. It is. 
 
 Acton. I'm ready. All that lies within my power 
 You can command. Most necessary 'tis 
 That I immediately your husband see. 
 
 Sybil. Cannot that be avoided — I know all. 
 
 Acton. Your husband's danger I'll not hide from you. 
 Society is sick of deeds of blood. 
 And will, I fear, exact law's coldest rigor. 
 
 Sybil {eagerly). But the provocation of the villain 
 Whom he slew — what have I said ! 
 
 Acton. What you have said, you have in secret said : 
 Your husband well doth know the lawyer's need, 
 
SCENE n.] SYBIL. 93 
 
 To do him justice I must see himself : 
 
 To meet the worst, his friends must know the worst. 
 
 And I will see him — I'm thy friend and his. 
 
 Si/bil (aside). Eustace cannot refuse me when he's 
 there. 
 'Tis best. I thank thee deeply, William Ashley — 
 I feel I don't deserve this at thy hands. 
 Thou art avenged for all the past. ( Weeps.) 
 
 Acton, Margaret, 
 
 I need no such atonement. To see thee thus 
 Brings me no feelings but of stubborn pain, 
 Which cannot in thy misery be tamed. 
 Oh, such a youth — such pride of promise. 
 
 Sybil. Ay, indeed, such pride !— Such pride, and such 
 a fall. 
 
 Acton. But is there not hope still — 
 
 Si/bil. For Am ? You will save him ? 
 
 Acton. I will try. 
 
 Si/hil. I know you will — you must I But even then 
 I sometimes think there is no hope on earth. 
 I am a wreck. If I outlive this storm, 
 'Twill be as a craft hereafter useless. 
 These storms have shattered me. I fear my brain 
 Will, like the hurricane, sweep wildly out, 
 And leave my head as empty as the space 
 'Twixt earth and sky, to either not allied — 
 Or filled with fathomless wild clouds, that give 
 Terror to earth below, in shutting out 
 All hopeful specks of heaven above. 
 
 [Old Acton., loho has been a quiet sj^ectator, ivipes 
 away a tear, and exits silently. 
 
 Acton. Hope is the sustenance of youth, and you 
 Are young. 
 
94 SYBIL. [ACTV. 
 
 Syhil. I've faith in you. I always had 
 Reliance on your truth. 
 
 Acton. Had you believed so then — ■ 
 
 Sybil. I did believe so. 
 
 Acton. Could you have thought — 
 
 Syhil {tremhling). No more — say no more. 
 
 Acton [half mil sin ff). Could it have been, there had 
 been now no wreck. 
 
 Sybil (with stem frenzy). Speak not thus. The past 
 is past. 
 It could not have been otherwise. There was 
 A fate to humble me, and I am humbled. 
 I am here to sue, to beg yom^ succor. 
 'Tis best so. You have nothing to deplore. 
 Oh, William — :William (seizes him) ! forget the past — 
 Or, if you still will cling unto those days, 
 Remember them to save him, for my sake. 
 Save him — my life, my husband. Come — come — come— 
 Each moment from him is a lifetime now. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — Dungeon, as before. 
 
 Enter Clifden, Sybil, and Jailer. Jailer exit, and 
 closes the door u'pon them. Noise of bolts. 
 
 Clif (^embraces Sybil). The ordeal's past that I most 
 feared to meet. 
 The trial than the sentence has more dread, 
 To one who fears death less than scrutiny. 
 To be the gaze of every sottish boor 
 Who hiccoughs jeers and damns me for a fool ; 
 The criticised of cold and upright knaves 
 Who knit their brows in reverence of laws 
 They daily break, and say " how bold he looks — 
 
SCENE III. J SYBIL. 95 
 
 The murderer ;" the fashionable chat 
 
 Of fellows whose weak lives are lust, whose dreams 
 
 Are drunken echoes of their days, and who 
 
 In self-defence must say '' he looks a villain j" 
 
 The topic for those philanthropic dogs 
 
 Who bark at every thing, and never bite. 
 
 Who'd let the vilest progeny of hell 
 
 Loose on the earth that they might rail against them ; — 
 
 To be this ; hemmed in a dock, the bars of which 
 
 Have propp'd up every crime that law and gold. 
 
 Thirst, madness, tainted blood, foul head, black heart, 
 
 Or tortured nature e'er invented ; — this 
 
 Gives a shock to make a pure man quake. 
 
 But it is over — the dread trial's past, 
 
 And I'm prepared. The verdict cannot bring 
 
 Aught but relief. 
 
 Sybil {douhtfully). Does not the defence bring hope? 
 AVith all my actuality of wrong 
 I never knew how great the villain was, 
 My own infirmity, or your great soul, 
 Till Acton set in dreadfulest display 
 The picture 'fore my eyes. 
 
 Clif. A brave, bright soul I 
 
 Upon whose brow great nature's mark is good. 
 As nobly balanced as the poles, as wide 
 Of heart, and fathomless in honesty 
 As the deep sea, whose currents, ever fresh, 
 Play with the leaded line that seeks its depth. 
 
 Sybil. And when with such calm emphasis he rose 
 To the laws venue, and declared that he, 
 Knowing the vulture passions of the dead, 
 Would not have held your w^eapon from the act 
 That sent a lifers debts to be paid above, 
 
96 SYBIL. [ACTV. 
 
 I could have worshipped him before all eyes 
 But that his speech did choke all words for mine. 
 Oh, Clifden, how his words drag down my brain 
 AVith thoughts which taunt me with my selfish ends. 
 Have mercy on me — pardon my hot blood 
 That fused your genius to my vengeance. 
 Forgive me, husband, for nor earth nor heaven 
 Will come between me and the odious sin, 
 
 CUf. {^putting Ms arm about her). Sybil, my own — my 
 
 beautiful — my bride — 
 Look in my face, and see if there's a line 
 By which you may not trace my heart's proud boast — 
 That you're my wife ! {Noise of holts. They watch the 
 
 door!) 
 
 Enter William Acton. 
 
 Sybil (^rushes towards Acton and falls on her knees). If 
 the full prayers of one like me can reach 
 The throne, they are there pleading for you now. 
 
 Acton. Bise, Margaret {raising her) — rise : ^tis not for 
 you to kneel 
 To me. 
 
 CUf How can I measure my poor thanks 
 To fill your measureless exertions ! 
 
 Acton. Were the deed mine, I know you would have 
 stood 
 In my defence where I have stood in yours, — 
 That is thanks enough for me. But the court 
 Waits ; the jury have retui'ned. 
 
 Sybil. So soon! [Startled?^ 
 
 CUf I am ready. 
 
 Sybil {to Acton). What prospect ! — Did they bear 
 Acquittal on their faces ? Did they seem 
 
SCENE in.] SYBIL 9T 
 
 As though their hearts throbbed with a good deed ? 
 Or did their eyes see corpses in the air ? 
 Say, say. Did they breathe freely, or held np. 
 Lest they might lack enough of breath to float 
 That grave-stone sentence — " Guilty I" Ah, I feel 
 My life is slipping through their hands. 
 
 Clif. We attend the court [goinr/). 
 
 Acton. 'Tis better that your wife remain. {Syhil listens.) 
 
 Sybil (screams). Then all is lost I 
 
 ( Clif den kisses her y she struggles to go with him ; 
 he gently disengages her., and hurries out after 
 Acton. Syhil falls on her knees in agony ^ 
 
 Sybil (after a pause ^ gazing up wildly). What say 
 you — Guilty, or Not Guilty ? 
 Stay, stay — hear me I Old man, your looks are kind — 
 You have a daughter ; ah ! I knew you had, 
 There is such tender comfort in your eye. 
 I had a father once : take care, old man. 
 Your comfort may not wither 'ueath the touch 
 Of the destroyer. Ha I you shake your head : 
 But look at me — who thought that I could fall ? 
 Old man, beware I Your heartlessness makes way 
 For such as dragg'd me down. Go, go I 
 You have a sister, sir ; protect the man 
 Who has protected her I You smile to think 
 She needs protection ; — Fool ! all women do. 
 You will not speak to me — go to, coward. 
 And you ; — but no, there's earth about your eyes — 
 They're clay : debauch has settled on your cheek ; 
 Time's very precious, I cannot speak with you. 
 Nor you, thou low-browed homily on man. 
 But here, I have a man, and married too ? 
 'Tis well I He'll feel for me I What think you now — 
 
 9 
 
98 SYBIL. [ACTV. 
 
 Your bosom friend comes glozing round your wife 
 
 And seeks to raise such hellish flames in her 
 
 As leave you but in ashes — Eh — eh ? 
 
 Kill him you would ? Brave husband I Then say which — 
 
 '' Guilty," or " Not Guilty V Speak it loud— loud— 
 
 That your good presence may inspire these knaves. 
 
 Gone — where is my good friend gone ? All are going ! 
 
 Stay — look at this youth, my husband : think you 
 
 He committed murder — ha ! ha ! He ? No ! 
 
 He did ? I say he did not ! What a world 
 
 Of men, fathers, brothers, husbands — all gone. 
 
 Where is my Clifden ? Gone too {screams) — they've 
 
 taken him 
 To death — ^the gallows I [Cheering outside?) Hear how 
 
 the rabble shout 
 To see a brave man die. Oh Clifden ! — husband ! 
 
 JSnter Clifden, Acton, Maude, Janette, Mr. Lowe, 
 Mrs. Hardy, 
 
 Voices outside. Not fnilty ! 
 
 Sybil (rushing to C'ltfden). Not guilty [falls into his 
 
 arms) — not guilty ! Did I hear aright ? 
 Clif. Yes, dearest Sybil — yes, I am here — free ! 
 Sybil. Free ! Oh [a long sigh), this great joy has 
 ta'en the little life 
 My sorrow left. Forgive me, William : 
 Kiss me,- dear mother — sisters, fare ye well. 
 Oh, do not leave me, Eustace ; — Let me feel you near — 
 Close to my heart, my husband ; — Come,— come. 
 I cannot see you now — there is a film 
 Hovering o'er my sight, Eustace, good-by ! 
 Have mercy, heaven ! — " Not — Guilty." [Si7iks.) 
 
 [Slow music as curtain descends.) 
 
SYBIL — Cast of Characters. 
 
 ST. LOUIS THEATRE. 
 September 6, 1858. 
 
 Euntace Clifden Mr. Charles Pofe, 
 
 Rufus Wolfe " Hamblin. 
 
 OldActon " Griffiths. 
 
 William Acton " WRIGHT. 
 
 Mr. Loice " Hind. 
 
 Baryiabas " F- Paige. 
 
 Landlord of the Eed Heifer. " Klone. 
 
 Gentlemen " Fennoyer. 
 
 ^r.y6j7 Hardy Miss Atonia Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Hardy Mrs. F. S. Buxton. 
 
 Maude Clifden " Pennoyer. 
 
 Janette 
 
 LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 
 Mr. Keeble. 
 " Riley. 
 " townsend. 
 " Dickson. 
 
 " LORTON. 
 
 •• Wm. Scallan, 
 
 Miss Atonia Jones. 
 Mrs. Gilbert. 
 Miss Irene Walker. 
 " Ida Vernon. 
 
 ST. CHARLES. 
 New Orleans, 1859. 
 
 Eustace aifden Mr. Chas. Pope. 
 
 Rufus Wolfe " Hamblin. 
 
 OldActon " Griffiths, 
 
 William Acton " WRIGHT. 
 
 Mr. Lowe 
 
 Barnabas " F. PaiGB. 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer. " Krone. 
 
 Gentlemen 
 
 Sybil Hardy Miss Atonia Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Hardy Mrs. F. S. Buxton. 
 
 Maude aifden Miss Pennoyer. 
 
 Janette " Fanny Denham. 
 
 OPERA HOUSE. 
 San Francisco. 
 
 Eustace Clifden Mr. Lewis Baker. 
 
 Rufus Wolfe " KiNGSLAND. 
 
 OldActon " Mortimer. 
 
 William Acton " Coad. 
 
 Mr. Lowe " Thoman. 
 
 Barnabas " Dcmphries. 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer. " McCabe. 
 
 Gentlemen " Thayer. 
 
 Sybil Hardy Miss Atonia Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Hardy Mrs. Judah. 
 
 Maude Clifden Miss Cogswell. 
 
 Janette . " Jennie Mandetille. 
 
 MOBILE, ALA. 
 
 Mr. Hanley. 
 " Ralton. 
 
 " CURRAN. 
 
 " Ashmed. 
 " Raymond. 
 
 Miss Atonia Jones. 
 
 " Berrel. 
 Mrs. Lingard. 
 
 " H. Bernard. 
 
 METROPOLITAN. 
 
 Sacramento, Cal. 
 
 Mr. 
 
 Lewis Baker. 
 
 " KiNGSLAND, 
 
 " Mortimer. 
 
 " Coad. 
 
 " Thoman. 
 
 *' Gloter. 
 
 " Macklin. 
 
 Miss Atonia Jones. 
 " Nellie Brown. 
 " Cogswell. 
 " J. Mandetille. 
 
100 SYBIL— CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 WINTER GARDEN. WALNUT STREET. 
 New York. Philadelphia. 
 
 Eustace Cli/den Mr. Barton Hill. Mr. Lawrence P.Barrett 
 
 Ruf us Wolfe " J.J. Prior. " E. L. Tilton. 
 
 Old Acton " Jeffries. " G.Johnson. 
 
 William Acton " A. H. Davenport. " Wright. 
 
 Mr. Lowe .." W. Davidge. •' B. Young. 
 
 Barnabas " C. Walcot, Je. " Bascombe. 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer. " Styles. " Porter. 
 
 c " J. H. Evans, " Raymond. 
 
 Gentlemen ^ .. qlarke. " Matthews. 
 
 Syhil Hardy Miss Matilda Heron. Mrs. Emma Waller. 
 
 Mrs. Hardy Mrs. Walcot. Miss Wood. 
 
 Maude Clifden Miss Annie WiLKS. " Josephine Tyson. 
 
 Janette " Fanny Browne. " Johnson. 
 
 HOWARD ATHEN^UM. 
 Boston. 
 
 Eustace Clifden Mr. James Duff. 
 
 Rufus Wolfe " F.E.Aiken. 
 
 Old Acton 
 
 William Acton 
 
 3Ir. Lowe ; . . . . 
 
 Barnabas 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer. 
 Gentlemen 
 
 Sybil Hardy. Mes. Ehua. Walleb. 
 
 Mrs. Hardy 
 
 Maude Clifden MiSS M. Newton. 
 
 Janette 
 
 The casts at many prominent city theatres — such as those 
 at Richmond, Cincinnati, Chicago, Memphis, Nashville, Provi- 
 dence, and other minor places in the United States, and Mel- 
 bourne, Australia, were unattainable. 
 
 COPYRIGHT PRIVILEGE. 
 
 Managers or actors desirous of producing this drama will commu- 
 nicate with the author, "Times" office, New Orleans; or, care of 
 th3 Publisher, New York. 
 
A Handsome 12mo Volume, $1.00. 
 
 Second Edition of Savage's Poems, 
 
 FAITH AND FANCY, 
 
 BY JOHN SAYAGE, 
 
 AUTHOR OP "SYBIL," A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Notices of th© Press. 
 
 Mr. Savage betrays the workings of an ardent, poetical tempera- 
 ment. He is always in earnest, often enthusiastic, and is never at a 
 loss for language or imagery to express his feelings. . . . He makes 
 a successful appeal to the love of nature and the love of country, 
 and kindles sympathy with his expression of manly and generous 
 sentiment. — N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 Will add to Mr. Savage's reputation for brilliancy of imagination, 
 
 sweetness of fancy, and force of diction " To an Artist" is a 
 
 beautiful and solenm lyric, fiiU of delicate and profound thought. 
 . . . The " Washington" is the grandest and most exhaustive poem 
 yet devoted to the Father of his Country. — N. Y. Courier, 
 
 Vigorous, patriotic, rhythmical, and many of them are marked 
 with imaginative power. " The Muster of th§ North" is a bold and 
 striking poem. — Continental Monthly. 
 
 There is one poem that, above all the rest, possesses a charm for 
 us — that for its merits alone should insure immortality to the name 
 of its author, and which we give in full, because it is intensely, en- 
 tirely, and truthfully Irish in sentiment and inspiration. It is 
 " Shane's Head," published many years since in the Citizen. There 
 is a peculiar power and pathos observable in all the Irish poetry of 
 this character, as all will remark who read such exarnples as the 
 ^'Lament for O'SuUivan Beare," the "Lament for Patrick Sars- 
 field," and Davis's beautiful " Lament for Owen Eoe O'Neil." All 
 the b§st features of these are to be found in " Sii^n§'s Head," while 
 
 0* 
 
102 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 in dramatic power and faithful portrayal of the stormiest gusts of 
 human passion— grief, despair, hate, and desire for revenge — it tran- 
 scends them all. — Irish American. 
 
 It does not contain a tithe of Mr. Savage's heart- utterings in song, 
 but there is sufficient here to stamp him as a poet. He has that 
 eager abundance of expression, that rich affluence of language, that 
 passionate swelling of thought, determined to find melodious utter- 
 ance, which, in union, make the poet. The grand lyric, "The 
 Starry Flag," and that other spirit-swelling ballad of '61, entitled 
 "The Muster of the North," which have found echoes in thousands 
 of quick bosoms, lead off this collection. There are several other 
 war lyrics, a magnificent Irish ballad ("Shane's Head"), and the 
 poem upon Washington's portrait, which, originally published in 
 Barper''8 Magazine^ obtained great praise at the time. The charac- 
 teristics of Mr. Savage's poems are earnestness, fire, melody, truth. 
 His is not a cold, phlegmatic nature, which can calmly set itself 
 down to the mere making of verses — it is impulsive, eager, produc- 
 tive, and will utter what it thinks. — Philadelphia, Press. 
 
 Marked by a vein of tenderness and humane charity that speaks 
 well for the heart of the writer, and imites him at once in sympa- 
 thy with his reader. We quote an instance (A Battle Prayer) which 
 
 breathes of the Christian as well as the Soldier. . 
 
 The two strongest poems in the volume are " The Starry 
 
 Flag," and " The Muster of the North." The latter is a spirit-stir- 
 ring, earnest, and admirably descriptive poem. It is a ballad of '61, 
 and describes with wonderful vivacity and faithfulness, the " hurry," 
 the indignation, the wild enthusiastic rush to arms, which followed 
 the rebel firing upon. Fort Sumter. It is a poetical history of one 
 of the most exciting incidents in the most eventful period of the na- 
 tion's existence. — Watson's WeeMy Art Journal. 
 
 "The Dead Year" is replete with poetic imagery ; "Snow on the 
 
 Ground" is an exquisite gem " At Niagara" is another poem 
 
 of strength and beauty. Mr. Savage's writings partake of his spirit ; 
 he is an ardent lover of nature — the tiniest flower that blooms in the 
 forest, or the grandest and most impressive of her monuments, 
 alike inspire his poetic soul. He has a liberal nature, that blossoms 
 into all human generosities at the sight of the Master's handiwork. 
 Such natures make poets; they will be remembered, "growing 
 fonder through ages," long after the poet's dust has mingled with 
 its mother earth. — Troy Daily Times. 
 
 Keplete with sentiment and pregnant with that sweet philosophy 
 which seems to pervade all John Savage's rhythmical productions. 
 —N. Y. Dispatch, 
 
NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 103 
 
 Vigorous in conception, often strikingly original both in thought 
 and diction, and in versification varied, but always melodious. Mr. 
 Savage is indisputably a true poet. — N. Y. Atlas. 
 
 The author exhibits a signal imaginative and verbal power — em- 
 bodying the fancy in the most apposite diction "Flowers on 
 
 my Desk," "Mina," and "Dreaming by Moonlight," are perhaps 
 the tliree gems of the book, and invite a repeated and grateful study. 
 — New Orleans Times. 
 
 Mr. Savage inscribes his volume to the Hon. Charles P. Daly, in 
 commendatory and affectionate appreciation of that gentleman's 
 "generous efforts in'behalf of Letters, Science, Humanity, and Jus- 
 tice" — and in the dedication lets us into the secret, doubtless, of 
 the influences which inspire himself. He says that every person 
 who writes poetry makes his reader the confidant of his hopes, 
 woes, experiences, or sensations; for, he adds, "if he aspire at all 
 to transcribe or embody the feelings which evoke or prompt human 
 action, he cannot help writing largely from his own heart's blood, 
 and in the hues it has taken by contact with Men, Faith, and Na- 
 ture." This accounts for the subtle, sensitive, picturesque, and 
 passionate character of many of the principal pieces in the work. 
 They bear distinctive marks of being studious and philosophical 
 observations of life and landscape, of art, men, and books, guided 
 and illuminated by that insight which amounts almost to intuition, 
 and gives the poetical mind its power over lesser organizations. 
 
 The " Muster of the North" has been widely copied and quoted. 
 Taking it, not as an expression of political faith, but as an historical 
 photograph of what the Count De Gasparin calls the great uprising, 
 it has all the characteristics of the thrilling epoch. It throbs with 
 emotion and commotion from the first line to the last, and sweeps 
 you breathlessly along on its bounding measure. It is difficult to 
 make an extract from it, the atmosphere of concentrated action so 
 surrounds the whole. It is full of scenes for a Darley to illustrate 
 or an Eastman Johnson to paint. — Merchants'' Magazine. 
 
 John Savage's book of Poems, "Faith and Fancy," which is now 
 far advanced in the second edition, has met a most favorable recep- 
 tion from the leading press of Ireland. The Dublin Nation devotes 
 nearly a whole page to a review and many quotations. In the 
 course of the article the critic says : " Of Mr. Savage's powers as a 
 writer no one could doubt who had read the graphic pages of his 
 "98 and '48.' The breadth and freedom of those sketches, the 
 close perception of character, and the dramatic force of the whole, 
 gave promise for the author, which since then he has continued to 
 realize. His recent work, ' Sybil, a Tragedy,' we know only through 
 
104 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 the critiques of the American press, which, give it high meed of 
 praise, and describe it as having proved a remarkable success on. 
 the stage. The little volume now before us consists of a number of 
 poems contributed by the author to various American periodicals. 
 Some of them have long been flitting about, in an anonymous, va- 
 grant way, from journal to journal, brightening the ' Poet's Corners,' 
 where they lit, like those gay-colored birds that give a flower -pro 
 tern, to every tree and shrub on which they rest ; others, written 
 since the outbreak of the war, and glowing with the patriotic ex- 
 citement of the occasion, have received even a wider circulation." 
 The Nation^ strange to say, is lukewarm on the Union side of the 
 American question, and thinks that however well Mr. Savage's Na- 
 tional American lyrics " may reflect the popular enthusiasm, how- 
 ever effective they may be by the camp-fires or from the lips of re- 
 cruiting-sergeants," they are of less beauty than those other com- 
 positions, in which. '' we get the more original ideas and the finer 
 expressions of a 'poet born, not made.' " "The War Songs," it 
 says, "may be the more popular now in America — the others will 
 live longer in the literature of the country." Among the specimens 
 quoted are the "Eequiem for the Dead of the Irish Brigade," 
 "Game Laws," which has also been translated in Germany with 
 honorable mention, "Breasting the World," some of the "Win^ 
 ter Thoughts," "Niagara," in which, says the Nation, "there are 
 some fine thoughts, and such a measured march of rhythm and 
 gravity of expression as well befit the subject ;" " Mina, a pretty 
 sketch, touched easily and brilliantly," and the stormy emotional 
 ballad of " Shane's Head;" the critic concluding with tWs si;igges- 
 tive paragraph : 
 
 " The collection from which we have taken th© foregoing pieces 
 is not a large one, but poetry is not to be measured; by bulk. Mr. 
 Savage's writings show that he has preferred to be the author of a, 
 few pieces, with his own thinking in them, rather than give to the 
 public a mass of common thoughts and coni.naon phrases, jumbled 
 into rhyme. His "Faith and Fancy" will :^nd favor with all ad- 
 mirers of genuine poetry." 
 
 The Irishman, of the same city, giYeathe. book a hearty welcome,, 
 and singles out "The Muster of the North," "God Preserve the. 
 Union" — " a splendid poem, now hea,^d by many a camp fire ;" "A 
 Battle Prayer" — " for its profound, feeling and piety" (we gave it in 
 the Art Journal)', "The Godnclaild of July"— " a beautiful birth- 
 day ode;" "At Niagara" — "opening grandly and well sustained 
 throughout;" and "Shane's Head," which it thinks "too popular 
 to need quotation," fo^ speci^d mention. The Irishman is enthusi- 
 
NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 105 
 
 astically on the side of the Union as against the rebellion of the 
 South, and in these hearty words generalizes its appreciation of 
 Mr. Savage's literary character : 
 
 " John Savage is already well known as an author. His * Ninety- 
 Eight and Forty-Eight' obtained considerable popularity; while 
 his tragedy of Sybil acquired a degree of success that attracted the 
 eulogiums not only of American but of English journals. Indeed, 
 his genius seems chiefly adapted to dramatic writing, even more 
 than to the lighter class of poetic productions. Into the lyrics con- 
 tained in this volume the author has put his heart and soul, and 
 made them instinct with vehement life. Many of them have al- 
 ready become classical ; those, especially, which treat of the great 
 crisis now convulsing America, have obtained popularity extensive 
 as the poet's imagination. The poet sings the cause of liberty in 
 America with the same sacred fervor which inspired him in Ire- 
 land."— WaisoTi's Weekly Art Journal^ July 23, 1864. 
 
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