I thought the rich ne'er talk'd about the wretched

Without some slanderous tale to prove their vileness. Caleb. There was much question how you pass'd

your life;

And when you came; and, farther still, from whence. But this was trusted to me, and remain'd

As if I had not known it.

Long I staid
To answer each minute particular

That could at distance bear upon you; whilst
At every pause the friends look'd up, to mark
Each other's looks mysteriously. At last
I was dismissed with cautions to go home
In silence; which I hither came to break,
And wonder what's to follow.

Luke.

Thou wilt know

Full soon, perhaps (aside). It was not premature,

That dream of a discover'd criminal

Dragg'd to the gallows amid savage mirth

And widow'd madness! (aloud).

friend;

Patience, my good

I ponder o'er thy news. (aside). They will be here
With murderous haste. What, drag me from my wife ?
From her who went exulting in my worth,

With thoughts of measureless delights to come?
Tell her that he whom she hath loved so well
And bought so dearly, is too vile to live?
And she, my Mary, have no word to answer?
'Tis fixed. My own beloved, since part we must,

We'll part less shamefully, (aloud). Whate'er he

wants

This stranger, he must wait. My wife will tell thee

That I have lost a dear and distant friend,

Whom I depart to bid farewell in earth.
Caleb, I owe thee many kindnesses,

And must, perforce, be in thy debt once more..

Thou wilt protect my wife till I return? (pauses) She is not destitute of wherewithal

To pay thy care.

Caleb.

Why such unkind assurance?

Luke. Then hasten, Caleb, and apprize thy wife : I'll bring her straight, good friend. No question

now,

Thou seest I'm torn with grief, and cannot answer. Thou'lt know-thou'lt know it all.

Caleb.

I shall expect you gladly.—

Then farewell, Luke.

PART III.

LUKE and MARY in a boat.

The Scene varying according to the dialogue.

Mary. Be cautious, Luke; I do not love this dark
And sluggish river, which divides its banks
With such unequal treachery of depth,

And horrid silence. Often as I've crossed
The old worm-eaten bridge of tottering planks,
Which we just see against the deep blue distance,
I've thought of thee, and thy adventurous toil;
And then how stilly it would hush the cry,
And hide the secret, unresisting corse!

Oh, it is fearful; and (but it is fancy)

All things seem fearful here. E'en thou, dear Luke, Look'st gloomily and speechless. Pray thee, talk— I cannot bear this silence, only broken

By the dull plash, and the dead, heavy plunge

Of water vermin, in the oozing slime.

Luke. Thou'rt new to it—but I have breath'd too

long

These muddy vapours for our daily morsel
To heed the stillness of the summer dawn,

Or storm of wintry midnight. My poor Mary,
Thou'st paid the penalty of thoughtless love

Dearer than most. Well dost thou know the tone
Of the chill blasts that howl around the cabin,
And find the inmate lonely and desponding!

Well dost thou know the tear of bitterness,
When he, whose absence thou hast sat lamenting,
Returns o'erpower'd with fasting and fatigue,
Drench'd with the rain, or stark with icicles,
Which cling to him with rattling misery.
And well, O well! my Mary, hast thou felt

The pang, when he, to whom thou'st rush'd for

comfort,

With harsh despair repell'd thee from his arms,

To mutter sternly of successless toil

And present famine!

Mary.

Why recall such times?

Dear Luke, I never murmur'd for myself,

Neither must thou! for when I see thee smile,
Our wants seem trifling payments for such bliss ;

And I have thank'd the Heavens which granted it,
And pray'd, that if a richer change of fortune
Would change thy love, we still might live in want.
Luke. Yes, thou hast pray'd-'tis good-thou hast

pray'd much.

I've watch'd thee in thy sleep, when thy white temples
Press'd the coarse pillow with as patient meekness
As if 'twere made for them. I've watch'd thee then,
With thy small fingers clasp'd upon thy breast,
And moving lips, which show'd thou dream'dst of
prayer,

And thought that I too once was used to pray;
But fortune only grew more merciless,

And so I ceas'd.

Mary.

O, say not-say not so!

My greatest comfort was to think that Heaven
O'erlooked the dangers hallowed by thy love;
For then the storm about thy houseless head
Lost half its fury.

My tender, gentle, most beloved Mary.

Mary. Come, thou art sad-Look, how the first

faint ray

Of morn hath startled the old querulous owl

Amidst his dull and devious wanderings!

He hath made straight towards the village barn,
Plaining as if he groan'd at his long journey
Across the marsh, which, seen between the twigs
And leaning trunks of these deserted willows,
Seems boundless in its flat and hazy empire.
And see, the heron, with his broad blue sails,
Wheels downward, to succeed the bird of wisdom-
O, long-neck'd felon! That hoarse shout of his
Is meant to tell thee thou'rt no fisherman.
Thou'lt soon be back to try thy skill with him?
Thou said'st to-morrow-Wilt thou break thy pro-

mise?

(Sings.)

"He bade me adieu, and he vow'd to be here

When swallows came down the green;

But the leaves of the Autumn are scatter'd and sere, And home he hath never been."

Oh, and is that the tale! then hear what follows

(Sings.)

So under the wave, and under the wave,

Beneath the old willow-tree."

Mind-mind-dear Luke, your pole will scarcely

touch

The bottom!-You were almost overbalanced.

(Sings.)

"With the weeds for my pall, in a deep, deep grave

My hiding-place shall be!"

Why didst thou start?