Macbeth.

At the same hour that Narcisse and his companions entered the sombre and suspicious looking dwelling, the advocate returned to his home in the upper environs of the city, wearied in mind and frame, from an application broken only by the entrance of Monsieur Veuillot, and the arrival of a messenger from Stillyside, who, hot and excited from the violent scene whereof it had been the theatre, painted the outrage in deepened colors, and exaggerated form. Anger and shame contended in the old lawyer's bosom as he heard the story; the former sentiment urging for the punishment of the delinquents, the latter pleading for forbearance; for amongst the transgressors was his illegitimate son, whose share in the offence, if brought into the light of the tribunal, would thence cast back a shadow upon the father, and point, publicly and anew, to their disreputable relationship. Others also, whose reputation was far dearer to him than his own, must be dragged, either as witnesses or as prosecutrix, to public gaze, and thus be made to furnish matter for the tongue of scandal. Perhaps, too, some latent paternal tenderness inclined the incensed advocate to mercy; and, giving the messenger a hastily written note, sympathizing with the tenants of Stillyside, he despatched him thither, along with a noble Newfoundland dog, then lying in the office, and which he meant should replace the disabled mastiff. Afterwards, his thoughts, occupied with the important professional business of the day, scarcely reverted to the vexatious occurrence of the morning; but now, at eve, the tide of attention, that had been so long dammed back, came flowing over his spirit with increasing depth and force; and, in spite of his unwillingness and the necessity for recruiting his wasted energies, for the performance of the onerous public duties of the morrow, he fell to brooding over the new misdeed of the already too obnoxious Narcisse. From the son, his musings reverted to the menial mother, and, by contrast, from her to the fair tenants at Stillyside; till, tossed by the contrary and vexed tides of thought and feeling, he arose, perturbed from the lounge, went to the window, and, drawing aside the curtains, beheld in the east the full moon climbing the clear, blue heavens, amidst a multitude of marble clouds. Struck with sudden admiration and oblivious pleasure, he opened the folding frames and stepped into the garden. The air was balmy; and, soothed by the change, he returned within, reassumed the habiliments of the day, took a stout, ivory-headed walking cane from its corner, and, calling a domestic, announced that he should for some time be absent. His first impulse was to cross a contiguous, half-reclaimed tract, sprinkled with vast boulders of the glacial period, and reach the turnpike road that led around the mountain. But before he turned to commence his stroll he paused to gaze down on the outstretched city, that, lying as asleep on the arm of the St. Lawrence, with tin-covered domes, spires, cupolas, minarets, and radiant roofs, showing like molten silver in the moonbeams, contrasting with the dark shingles covering most of the houses, presented an enchanted-looking scene of glory and of gloom. On the left, and oldest of its class, was the Bonsecours Church, with its high-pitched roof, and airy, but inelegant, campanile, refulgent as if cut from some rock of diamond. Nearer, was the Court House, and, beneath it, the Jail; and, behind them both, the dusky expanse of the poplar-planted Champ de Mars. In the midst of the city rose the tin-mailed tower and spire of the French Cathedral, and, at its rear, loomed the neighboring, wall-girt, solemn Seminary of Saint Sulpice. The bright, precipitous roof of the Church of the Recollets, and the spangled canopy of the vast foundation of the Grey Nuns reposed resplendent; and, within its ample enclosure, luminous as a moon-lit lake, the quadrangled and cloistered College of Montreal. Beyond these, in the midst of the shining river, duskily slumbered the little, fortified and wooded Island of Sainte HÉlÈne; and up the stream, apast the petty promontory of Pointe Saint Charles, stretched the low, umbrageous lapse of Nuns Island, whence the eye followed the bending flood, that trended towards where, with eternal toil and sullen roar, agonize for ever the hoary rapids of Lachine. In the other direction the eye roved downwards over Hochelaga and Longueuil, Longue Pointe and Pointe aux Trembles, towards where lay the islet-strewn shallows of Boucherville, and, lower yet, the village of Varennes. The mountains of Boucherville, Beloeil, Chambly, and Vermont shadowy bounded the horizon; and, turning from these, abrupt before him rose the awful and spectral presence of Mount Royal. Skirting its foot he now proceeded, brushing away the shining dew, disturbing the lazy lizard and the serenading grasshopper, and hearing below him the harsh croaking of the bullfrog in the pool; whilst, ever and anon, the gust awoke, with a huge sigh, the dreaming maples, poplars, and dark, penitential pines. From the remote, secluded farms came the faint bark of dogs; and amidst such sights and sounds he at length emerged upon the winding road, that, if followed, would lead him past Stillyside. Slowly and without special aim he continued to walk, ruminating and still drawn onwards, lured by the time and scene, until the sound alike of mastiff and of cur had ceased, the grasshopper refused to pipe upon the dusty road, and the too distant bullfrog was no longer heard gurgling to its mates, but all was silent, lying as in a trance, both heaven and earth. And then he paused, and lapsing into meditation, stood unconscious of surrounding things, till the tolling of the clock in the distant tower of the cathedral of Notre Dame awoke him, and, starting from his reverie and listening, he counted the hours to the full score of midnight. Struck, then, by the weird aspect of the scene and singular silence, a vague sense of horror stole through him, and he exclaimed hoarsely: “This is the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and spirits walk abroad!” and scarcely had the words escaped his lips when a wild tumult rose near him, and he perceived a bacchanalian and disorderly troop of both sexes sallying into the moonlight; wherein with uncouth antics and inviting pose, they disported towards a group of trees, encircling which, and in the chequered beams beneath their boughs, he beheld them in Harlequin and Columbine-like appeals of passion, or already mated and forming for the meditated measure; appearing the very gang of Circe;—and in their midst he now observed his son, the brutish looking, cunning, and sensual Narcisse, wine-flushed and loud, and seeming to be the mimic Comus of the crew. As with the power of divination, he at once comprehended the spectacle. He had arrived opposite the equivocal building wherein Narcisse and his companions had disappeared some hours before, and the door of which had just been suddenly flung open, and kindling with wrath he at once advanced upon the bacchants in the midst of their orgies. At the same instant, from the direction of the city and unseen by him, a tall rider on a lofty steed, cloak flying to the breeze, swept by like an apparition; greeted only with a comical yell of astonishment and derision from one of the females, as like a spectre it swept by. But the hilarious band before him was too much preoccupied with the performance of its mockeries to have observed anything, and the advocate, with eyes gleaming and fixed upon his son, who now perceiving him stood terror stricken, approached the revellers, who subsided before him, as, with grey hair fluttering in the wind, he came beneath the extending boughs, like some denouncing Druid amidst the sacred oaks, his countenance inflamed, his whole frame seeming to shake as if in throes to eject some foul possession; or, rather, as if he were himself a fierce, incarnate, and unfriendly spirit; and, at length, addressing his son, who was now leaning against a tree, both for support and concealment, he burst forth: “Miscreant!”—and the word was echoed from the side of a huge, dilapidated barn, —“Wretches,” he hollowed; and the guilty crowd, fearing both individual recognition and personal contact, again began to retire.

“Stay,” he commanded, imperiously, “you are known, and flight shall put the worst construction on your case;—halt, brawlers and bullies, spendthrifts and bankrupts, breakers of the peace; sons of afflicted parents, husbands of weeping wives, brothers of sisters both ashamed and grieved; outlaws; the city's scum, the country's scourge, the harvest that shall yet be reaped for the jail, and leave gleanings for the gallows; abandoned creatures, linger;” and suddenly grasping Narcisse: “Sirrah,” he cried, “here is your nightly haunt, these are your companions,—come with me, sir, come,—ah, will you resist your”—father he was about to say, but he recoiled from the word as from an adder, and, casting upon his son a look of unspeakable disdain, he shook the writhing criminal, who the next moment escaped from his hold, and slunk away, still looking backward over his shoulder and muttering curses upon his begetter. The advocate stood watching him in silence, as, withdrawing along with the others, the distance dimmed his form, and drowned his maledictions; then, drawing a deep sigh, a dark, vindictive scowl gathered upon his visage, until its expression became diabolical, and these words rolled from his heaving chest in deep, irregular murmurs:

“Thou son of a wicked and rebellious woman, do I not know that thou hast set my friends against me, and caused mine enemies to hold me in derision! But thou shalt suffer, thou shalt bend, or I will break thee, yea, dash thee into pieces. May not the potter do what he wills with the cup his own hands have fashioned? Away with thee, misshapen reptile; may soon the Saint Lawrence hide thee, or may'st thou soon be laid in the burial field of thy mother's race. Away, thou vessel of dishonor; grant Heaven that I may not yet make of thee a vessel of wrath!” and the old man's countenance worked convulsively, as he seemed to be revolving some terrible idea; but at last growing calmer he exclaimed: “Down, down, ye cruel thoughts, ye horrible conceptions; hence, busiest suggestions of the fiend; be silent at my ears, ye visionary lips; ye perilous and importunate prompters, peace!” But scarcely had he uttered these words, when a report of firearms sounded amongst the trees, and a shot rattled through the boughs, scattering the leaves upon his head; and the replicated echoes had hardly ceased, when a peal of triumphant laughter rose, and continued to be renewed till the spot appeared a field for the sport of a hundred goblins of mischief.

“Come in,” at length said a voice, and, turning, he beheld a woman standing in the doorway.

“Who are you?” he enquired.

“Enter, and learn;” she answered: “I would not have you murdered in your old age. Do you not know me?” and seizing him rudely she drew him towards her until his face almost touched her own emaciated countenance, on which played a sardonic smile as she turned it towards the moonlight, and he strove to free himself, exclaiming:

“Witch, hag, loose me:” and gazed upon her with a look of mingled amazement and abhorrence.

“Am I then so changed?” she demanded, with a gloomy smile; “am I become a leper; am I grown loathsome now, whom you once declared to be so lovely? Follow me, false man; you did not once require solicitation.” And again the sound of firearms startled the night, and once more the leaves fell fluttering on his head, and the beldam angrily exclaimed: “Come in, old fool,” and laid hands on him a second time, as, in a voice thick and hurried with dislike and terror, he replied: “You are remembered by me, woman; give me shelter for a moment,” and hastily stepping with her over the threshhold, she closed the door after them. Another burst of triumphant laughter rose from the retiring revellers, and again moonlight and returning silence rested on the scene.