To buy this secret, you have sold yourself.
Your movements, eyes, and, most of all, your
From this time forth, are fettered to my will!
You have said truly-you are hateful to me,
Yet you shall feel my bounty; that shall flow,
And swell your fortunes.

breath,

"DE MONTFORT" forms one of the Series of Plays by MISS BAILLIE, intended to illustrate the "Passions." Hatred is the subject of this Play. DE MONTFORT explains to his Sister JANE his hatred of REZENVELT, which at last hurries him into the crime of Murder.

DE MONTFORT, JANE DE MONTfort.

De Montfort. No more, my sister, urge me not again; My secret troubles cannot be revealed.

From all participation of its thoughts

My heart recoils: I pray thee be contented.

Jane. What! must I, like a distant humble friend,
Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed

In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart
I turn aside to weep? O no, De Montfort!
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give;
Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be.

De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee.
Jane. Then fie upon it! fie upon it, Montfort!
There was a time when e'en with murder stained,
Had it been possible that such dire deed

Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous,

Thou wouldst have told it me.

De Mon. So would I now-but ask of this no more. All other troubles but the one I feel

I have disclosed to thee. I

pray thee, spare me.

It is the secret weakness of my nature.

Jane. Then secret let it be: I urge no further. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes,

So sadly orphaned: side by side we stood,

Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove,
And brave the storm together.

I have so long, as if by nature's right,

Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been,

I thought through life I should have so remained,
Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Montfort;
A humbler station will I take by thee;
The close attendant of thy wandering steps,
The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought,
The soother of those griefs I must not know.
This is mine office now; I ask no more.

De Mon. O Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy love— Would I could tell it thee!

Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay, I'll stop mine ears, Nor from the yearnings of affection wring

What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother.
I'll stay by thee; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee;
Pursue with thee the study of some art,

Or nobler science, that compels the mind
To steady thought progressive, driving forth
All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies,

Till thou, with brow unclouded, smilest again;

Like one who, from dark visions of the night,
When the active soul within its lifeless cell
Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy pressed
Of some dire, terrible, or murderous deed,

Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses Heaven.

De Mon. It will not pass away; 'twill haunt me still. Jane. Ah! say not so, for I will haunt thee too, And be to it so close an adversary,

. That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, I shall o'ercome it.

De Mon. Thou most generous woman ! Why do I treat thee thus ? It should not beAnd yet I cannot-O that cursed villain!

He will not let me be the man I would.

Jane. What sayst thou, Montfort? Oh! what words

are these!

They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts.

I do beseech thee, speak!

By the affection thou didst ever bear me;

By the dear memory of our infant days;

By kindred living ties-ay, and by those
Who sleep in the tomb, and cannot call to thee,
I do conjure thee speak!

Ha! wilt thou not?

Then, if affection, most unwearied love,

Tried early, long, and never wanting found,
O'er generous man hath more authority,
More rightful power than crown or sceptre give,
I do command thee!

De Montfort, do not thus resist my love.
Here I entreat thee on my bended knees.
Alas! my brother!

De Mon.

[Raising her, and kneeling.

Thus let him kneel who should the abased be,
And at thine honoured feet confession make.
I'll tell thee all—but, oh! thou wilt despise me.
For in my breast a raging passion burns,
To which thy soul no sympathy will own-
A passion which hath made my nightly couch
A place of torment, and the light of day,
With the gay intercourse of social man,
Feel like the oppressive airless pestilence.
O Jane! thou wilt despise me
Jane. Say not so:

I never can despise thee, gentle brother.
A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs
No kindly heart contemns.

De Mon. A lover's, say'st thou ?

No, it is hate! black, lasting, deadly hate!
Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace,
From social pleasure, from my native home,

To be a sullen wanderer on the earth,
Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed.

Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible!

What being, by the Almighty Father formed

Of flesh and blood, created even as thou,

Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake,

Who art thyself his fellow?

Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched hands.

Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates

To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother!

Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart;

'Tis the degrader of a noble heart.

Curse it, and bid it part.

De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here too long.

With my

first cares I felt its rankling touch.

I loathed him when a boy.

Jane. Whom didst thou say?

De Mon. Detested Rezenvelt!

E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps
Of hostile breed, instinctively averse,

Each 'gainst the other pitched his ready pledge,
And frowned defiance. As we onward passed
From youth to man's estate, his narrow art
And envious gibing malice, poorly veiled
In the affected carelessness of mirth,
Still more detestable and odious grew.
There is no living being on this earth
Who can conceive the malice of his soul,
With all his gay and damned merriment,
To those by fortune or by merit placed
Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune,
He looked upon the state of prosperous men,
As nightly birds, roused from their murky holes,
Do scowl and chatter at the light of day,
I could endure it; even as we bear

The impotent bite of some half-trodden worm,
I could endure it. But when honours came,
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride;
Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise,
And grovelling idiots grinned applauses on him;
Oh! then I could no longer suffer it!

It drove me frantic. What, what would I give-
What would I give to crush the bloated toad,
So rankly do I loathe him!

Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man