This change on noble brows? There is a voice, Proc. Montalba, speak! There's something chokes my voice-but fear me not. Mont. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear! Most eloquent youth! What answer canst thou make To this our charge of treason? Rai. I will plead That cause before a mightier judgment-throne, Too buoyantly the glory and the joy Of my free spirit's whiteness: for even now Guido. (Aside.) I look upon his mien, Deemed him so noble once! Away, weak thoughts! Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine, From his proud glance? Proc. Oh, thou dissembler!-thou, So skilled to clothe with virtue's generous flush That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce Whose was this treachery? (Shows him papers.) But thou, a tyrant's friend? Rai. Who hath done this? Father!-if I may call thee by that name Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles Proc. (To Montalba.) His unaltering cheek And his eye quails not!-Is this innocence? Mont. No! 'tis the unshrinking hardihood of crime. Should henceforth be among us as a foe? Rai. That heaven, whose eye Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, Proc. And by that word Thy doom is sealed.-Oh God! that I had died And glory of my heart! Rai. The pang is over, And I have but to die. Mont. Now, Procida, Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid All thy deep soul's commanding energies; For thou, a chief among us, must pronounce- Pro. Ha ha!-Men's hearts should be of softer mold Mont. Rouse up thy mighty heart. Proc. Ay, thou sayest right. There yet are souls which tower As landmarks to mankind.-Well, what's the task? There is a man to be condemned, you say? Is he then guilty? All. Thus we deem of him With one accord. Proc. And hath he nought to plead ? Rai. Nought but a soul unstained. Proc. Why, that is little. Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them, And conscience may be seared.-But, for this sentence! Was it not the penalty imposed on man, Even from creation's dawn, that he must die? It was: thus making guilt a sacrifice Unto eternal justice; and we but Obey heaven's mandate when we cast dark souls Such be his doom!-I have said. Ay, now my heart Its gaspings down. Off! let me breathe in freedom! Mont. Guards, bear the prisoner Back to his dungeon. Rai. Father! oh, look up! Thou art my father still! Guido. Oh! Raimond, Raimond! If it should be that I have wronged thee, say Thou dost forgive me. Rai. Friend of my young days, So may all-pitying heaven! Proc. Whose voice was that? (He sinks back.) (Raimond is led out.) Where is he?-gone?-now I breathe once more In the free air of heaven. Let us away. HUMOROUS AND DIVERTING. HOT COCKLES. SELECTION I. HENRY-CHARLES.- —Anonymous. Charles. Brother, all our friends have left us, and yet I am still in a playing humor. What game shall we choose? Henry. There are only two of us, and I am afraid we should not be much diverted. Char. Let us play at something, however. Hen. But at what? Char. At blindman's-buff, for instance. Hen. That is a game that would never end. It would not be as if there were a dozen, of which number some are generally off their guard; but where there are only two, I should not find it difficult to shun you, or you me; and then when we had caught each other, we should know for certain who it was. Char. That is true, indeed. Well, then, what think you of hot cockles? Hen. That would be the same, you know. We could not possibly guess wrong. Char. Perhaps we might. However, let us try. Hen. With all my heart, if it please you. Look here, if you like it, I will be Hot Cockles first. Char. Do, brother. Put your right hand on the bottom of this chair. Now stoop down and lay your face close upon it, that you may not see. (He does so.) That is well;-and now your left hand on your back. Well master-but I hope your eyes are shut. (Carefully looking round to see.) Hen. Yes yes; do not be afraid. Char. Well, master, what have you to sell? Hen. Hot cockles! hot! Char. (Slapping him with his left hand.) Who struck? Hen. (Getting up.) Why, you, you little goose! Hen. The the right. Char. No, it was the left. Now you are the goose. SELECTION II. HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. MR. H.—STEWARD.—Anonymous Mr. H. Ha! Steward, how are you my old boy? How do things go on at home? Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. Mr. H. Poor mag! so he's gone. How came he to die? Stew. Over-ate himself, sir. Mr. H. Did he, faith? a greedy dog; why, what did he get he liked so well? Stew. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse-flesh. Mr. H. How came he to get so much horse-flesh? Stew. All your father's horses, sir. Mr. H. What! are they dead, too? Stew. Ay, sir; they died of over-work. And why were they over-worked, pray? Stew. To carry water, sir. Mr. H. To carry water! and what were they carrying water for? Stew. Sure sir, to put out the fire. Mr. H. Fire! what fire? Stew. Oh, sir, your father's house is burned down to the ground. Mr. H. My father's house burned down! and how came it set on fire? |