BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY COLLECTED BY BENNO LOEWY 1854-1919 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY BOSTON: SAMUEL F. NICHOLS, m. 43 WASHINaTON STEEET. £lntered according to Act of Congress, in t^e year 1856, by WILLIAM B. FOWLE, lo the Clerk^s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Btereotjptd bj BOBARI & fiOBBINS, Haw EngUiid ^pe ami StorMtjpo Fouadny, BOSTON. Cornell University Library PN 6120.A4F78 Pallor dramas, or, Dramatic scenes, for 3 1924 027 214 869 .,„ PEEFACE The success which attended the publication of the author's " Hundred Original Dialogues for Schools" has induced him to listen to an invitation to write a few pieces of greater length, to be used at family parties, or at exhibitions in our higher seminaries. The pieces have all been composed in great haste, and amid the duties of an arduous profession ; their structure is simple, that their representation may not require much preparation ; and most of the subjects are so related to the popular topics of the day, that it is hoped they will not lack the necessary excitement. The author confesses that he had some misgivings in regard to the twelfth and fifteenth pieces ; but he has become satisfied that the ridiculous ghosts in the former piece will make no converts to modern or ancient spirit- ualism ; and the increasing assurance that the home of the Protestant descendants of the Pilgrims is endangered IV PREFACE. by the intrusion of a foe as subtle and active as its pro- posed victims are careless and unsuspecting, has recon- ciled him to the publication of the other piece, whose fictitious representation may assist in preventing the reality which impends. WM. B. FOWLE. Boston, JSTov. 28, 18S6 CONTENTS. PA<]B I. WOMAN'S BIGHTS, 7 n. COUNTEY COUSINS, 18 m. THE WILL, 44 IV. THE FUGITIVE SLAVE, ' 69 V. THE PEDANT, 83 VI. LOVE AT SIGHT, 90 Vn. WILLIAM TELL, 113 Vm. THE COUNTEKPLOI 120 IX. THE WELL OF SI. KETNE 160 X. THE ODDITT, Ml XI. THE TABLES TUENED, 198 XII. THE DOUBLE GHOST, 217 Xm. THE TEA PABTT, 240 XIV. THE TEAR, 258 XV. THE JESUIT IN AMERICA, .274 1* Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027214869 WOMAN'S RIGHTS. CHAKACTEES. Hb. Maswc, a merehant Mss. Masly, liis wife. Mtbtiixa, her sister. BsiDaET, the cook. KiiTT, the chambermaid. SCENE I, — THE PARLOR. Mes. Manly and Myetilla. Mrs. Manly. I am resolved, Myrtilla I This last outrage has determined me, and I henceforth revoke the promise, that in my folly I once made, to serve, to honor, and obey. Out on me for a traitor to my sex ! MyrtiUa. The traitors far exceed the loyal ; and I, you know, am soon to increase the number. Mrs. M. You surely will not make any such promise ? Myr. I am no wiser than the rest of womankind. Mrs. M. Profit by my experience, and renounce the yoke before it is imposed. M/r. My word is given, and this very moment, as you know, my future is expected. Shall I renounce him ? Mrs.M. Better so than wear his chain: I tell you, sister, matrimony is a balance, and the weight is ever in one scale. 8 PAELOR DKAMAS. Myr. What matters it which scale is highest ? Mrs. M. Every thing. The moment you ascend, you lose your foothold, and must swing as the greater weight com- ,mand8. Myr. Sister, I pray you to enumerate a few of the ills I may expect-; nay, tell me some of those that you endure. The world supposes you a favored wife, and named but to be envied. Mrs. M. I am married ; and this word expresses all a noble mind abhors. Since the world began, woman has been a slave. Myr. If this be true, usage would seem to indicate that He who made us intended we should serve. Mrs. M. He made us equal ; and an eternity of usurpa- tion cannot alter the decree. Myr. I think it would annul it most eflFectually. But to the point. You just now complained of outrage. May I ask in what the wrong consisted ? Mrs. M. I wanted money, and my lord told me I could not have it. Myr. Well, spoke he not the truth ? Mrs. M. The truth, Myrtilla I You will drive me mad I 'T is bad enough to be compelled to ask my lord ; 't is infamous to be refused. Myr. I do not see it thus. If I should ask another, be he lord or serf, for what he has not, his refusal is a necessity that would not move my wrath, however it might dis- appoint me. Mrs, M. I could shake you, Myrtle, for your tameness I If that sex usurps the purse and holds it, 'tis but just that we should have all we demand, and at the instant, too. Myr. We, then, should be the tyrants. I expect to marry a husband, not a purse ; and, if I manage him aright, I have no fear but all I need will be supplied. woman's eights. 9 Mrs. M. 0, yes I I think I see you- now informing him of what he ought to have seen, — that you are not dressed befitting your condition, and he must not be ofierided if you say,, that you have worn out all the wardrobe you brought with you from your father's, and are sorry, extremely sorry, to be obliged to say that you must look to him for a new outfit 1 0, 't is glorious to kneel thus in the dust ! Myr. If I dress as well as he does, and have a reasonable share of what he may possess Mrs. M. You never will know the fact. He is the judge, and you must take the pittance he allows ; inferior in this to the drudge who knows her wages, and with independent face can claim her pay. Myr. You go upon the ground that every husband is a tyrant and unjust. I am inclined to think the husbands I have seen have given too freely, and the ruin of too many has been hastened by the lavish bounty of the lord who could not say his lady nay. Mrs. M. There comes my precious keeper 1 I will pro- pose a plan at once to set me free. Enter Mr. Manly. Mr. Manly. Good evening, wife I and you, Myrtilla I How do you bear the approach of the dread hour that will suffuse the eye with tears of joy or sorrow ? — which, 't is hard to say. Mrs. M. I have been warning her of her danger ; but, like a bird beneath the serpent's charm, she waits her willing doom. Mr. M. It is not well to alarm her, when the course before her is so bright and free. Mrs. M. Free I Call you it freedom to hold nothing, 10 PAELOK DRAMAS. have nothing, and what you humbly ask to be refused ? 0, would I were a man 1 Mr. M. That mightinvolve the necessity of my becoming a woman. Mrs. M. Why so ? Mr. M. I did not know you wished for a divorce, — the natural consequence, if one alone should change. Myr. Better stay as you are, and let the wife and hus- band change their duties. My sister to the business may attend, and her liege lord may govern here at home. Mr. M. Done I I will surrender on the moment, and only regret the change can't be complete, Mrs. M. Agreed ! You hear, Myrtilla, he agrees to let me have full swing abroad, while he remains at home, to sew, or cook, or entertain the callers with an account of his experience in the kitchen, or perhaps with a hash of sentiment, which, on such occasions, always flows from the heart, you know. Myr. I hear, and I will judge between you ; for on your experiment may hang my destiny. I pray you to begin this morning ; for my hour of grace is nearly spent, and T would not plunge in the dark. Mr. M. Come on 1 Here is the trunk, the bank-book, cash-book, notes, and all. Take them, and give me all the ensigns of your office, — the keys, the cook-book, and the broom. 0, what a king — a queen — I am already \ Mrs. M. You soon will feel the chain that I have worn so long. While I am dressing for the store, you may prepare a note, informing all the clerks that I am master there. Mr. M. I will do so ; but, lest you should repent too soon, I '11 hint that I am ill ; and you can then retreat, if you desire, and feel no shame or mortification. Mrs. M. Word it as you please. I have no fear of a woman's bights. 11 relapse, and "will contrive to make perpetual your Sudden illness. Mr. M. Be it so. Let us lose no time. (Mbs. Manly and Mtrtilla go out.) Mr. M. i^WriUng and talking.) Well, I shall have a day of rest, at last. Since the banks refused to discounf, I have had no peace. To-day my payments are heavier than usual, and I have not slept a wink. If wife does not get cured of any wish to change, she must be more than my equal. (Folding his billet as she returns.) There, wife I That document will make you head of the concern. Now, manage carefully. Mrs. M. Never fear. Women are too cautious, and never speculate. Mr, M. And always fail, I believe. Mrs. M. I '11 have some pocket-money, at any rate ; and you shall never ask me twice for what you want. I will be a model husband. Mr. M. More likely you will make me turn my coat twice. Business will make you economical. Mrs. M. It shall not make me mean. I feel more con- cern on your account. You never did a thing in the house. Mr. M. No matter ; there is no mystery in keeping house. I 'd teach it to an ape in half a day. Mrs. M. I dare say the ape would soon know as much as his teacher. But I am wasting time. Good morning. You will not see me again till dinner ; and then I shall expect a banquet. Mr. M. You shall have one worthy of the occasion. Goodbye. Success to you 1 Mrs. M. I shall no doubt obtain it. (She goes out.) Enter the Cook. Mr M. Well, Bridget, what would you ? 12 PARLOR DRAMAS. Bridget. Plase, sir, madam says I must look to yourself for the dinner. Mr. M. What is there in the house ? Brid. Nothing in the wide world but the praties and ungyuns. Mr. M. What else do we need, Bridget ? Brid. Mate, sir, or fish, or both, as it may plase. Mr. M. I '11 have a chowder, Bridget. Mrs. Manly would never let me have my favorite dish ; and, now I am mis- tress, the inauguration dinner shall be chowder. Can you make a chowder, Bridget ? Brid. Aw, yis, sir. Do you think the likes of me can't make that same ? Mr. M. How do you begin ? What fish do you prefer ? Brid. Fish, is it ? Sure, there 's nothing aqual to the sahlt fish taken fresh from the wather, already sazoned, as it always is. Mr.M. What? Brid. The sahlt fish for me I It has no innards, you know, and needs no claning. Mr. M. Bridget, you don't know what a chowder is ! Brid. It 's the first time a genthilman ever towld Bridget Killraallybone that she did n't know her business ! It is not I will put up with the insult from a miserable, hen- pecked, meddlesome, impartinent Mr. M. That will do, Bridget ! You may pack up and be gone. Brid. Be gone is it, indade ? It 's not I will stay in your dirty presence another blessed minute ! You may make your own chowther, and ate it, too, for all Bridget Killmallybone 1 {Putting her hands on her hips, insultingly.) I 'U thank you for my wages ! Mr. M. Wages I What is due ? Brid. Ten weeks, come Saturday. avoman's bights. 13 Mr. M. (Aside.) Twenty dollars ! I have not ten in my pocket, and wife has carried off the trunk. Bridget, you must wait till Mrs. Manly comes home, or call to-morrow. Brid. I want me money now I Mr. M. Call Miss Myrtilla. Brid. Do your own cahling ! I am no longer your sar- vant. Mr. M. This is too bad! (JEe goes out to call Myktilla.) Brid. Sure, here is a work-box. That will fit me pocket like a glove. (She pockets it.) When a poor gairl is abused and chated as I have been, it is fair to defind herself. Miter Mr. Manly. Mr. Manly. There is your money. I have borrowed it. Begone 1 Brid. It 's not Bridget Killmallybone will hurry for the likes of you I I wahnt my chist, — 'twill not be safe to lave it in such kaping. Mr. M. Well, take it, and leave the house this instant I Brid. Sure, and I cannot carry that same alone ! If you will cahl the omnibus, and pay for the ticket, I will go ; and, sure, no genthilman will refuse a ticket to a poor gairl ! Mr. M. There 's a ticket. Stop that omnibus, and go to — Brid. It 's not I will travel that road yet ! Chowther, is it? (She goes out.) Mr. M. Well, this is a brave beginning 1 No cook ! Then I must call the chambermaid. {He calls at the door.) Kitty! Kitty! {Enter Kitty.) Kitty, I have dismissed Bridget, and you must take her place to-day, and do her work. KiMy. It is not I could cook the asiest dish in the cook- 2 14 PARLOR DRAMAS. book. And if I could, who would liaalke tbe beds, and swape the room, and dust the things, and Mr. M. You can do it for one day, until I get a cook. Kitty. It is not the likes of me- will do another gairl's worrk I You may get a chambermaid, too, while you are about it. I have engaged to go with Bridget, and only wait for me wages. Mr. M. How much is due you ? KiMy. Ten weeks, at nine shillings a week. Mr. M. I will give you an order on my store. Kitty. I wahnt no orthers, — the money is what I wahnt ; and you may give me it in gold, if you plase, as the law requires, for I can't rade the dirty bills. Mr. M. Get out I Leave the house, and come to-morrow. KiMy. {She Sits down on an ottoman, with determination.) It's here I '11 set till I 'm paid I Sure, no genthilman will drive a poor gairl into the street, and not pay her her hard airnings I Mr. M. Myrtilla I Myrtilla ! (Ee goes out to find her.) Kitty. Sure, it will be a week or more that I shall be Baking another place, and paying me board. Here is a gold pencil-case and spectacles. Surie, a poor gairl cannot be blamed, if she pertects herself when she is wronged. {She puts them in her pocket.) Mr.M. {Entering with Mrmiu. A.) There is your money. Now, leave the house this instant, or I will have an officer here 1 Kitty. Sure, it is I that nades the officer 1 Hard times, if a. pacible gairl must be abused in this manner I {She goes out very slowly.) I'll never do another gairl's worrk — not 1 1 Mr. M. Well, Myrtilla, if you had not happened to have the money, I should have been turned away by my own woman's rights. 15 Bervants. A pretty pickle we are in I No servants, and no dinner I MyrUlUi. Don't be concerned. We will have a cup of tea for dinner, and I can make the beds. But what is this ? Sister returned t Pray what can be the matter now ? Enter Mrs. Manly. Mrs. Manly. Well, here I am I (She plumps down on ffie ottoman the girl has just left.) Mr. M. I am glad you have come, wife 1 I want some money sadly. Mrs. M. You may want, for all me f Money, huh 1 Mr. M. But I must have it ; and I have nobody to look to but yourself. Now you are lord of the treasury, we shall expect to see some liberality. I tell you I must have fire-and-thirty dollars 1 Mrs. M. I tell you you shall not have a cent \ 0, dear 1 0, dear I Myr. What is the matter ? Has any accident disturbed you? Mrs. M. Accident 1 Husband, go this instant to the store [ Mr. M. What is the matter, pray ? Mrs. M. Matter, huh I What is n't the matter ? I had hardly en-tered the counting-room, before the clerk laid before me half a dozen bank notices of notes to be paid to-day ! Mr. M. Well, you prepared for them, of course ? Mrs. M. Prepared with a vengeance ! How did you prepare for them ? Mr. M. As you did for the dinner, I suppose. What did you tell him ? Mrs. M. To go and pay them. He asked for the money, and expected me to furnish it. There was not a hundred 16 PARLOR DRAMAS. dollars in the trunk. He then looked at the bank-book, and said you had overdrawn. I told him to let the banks wait. He said it would ruin your credit, and I had better borrow the money. Mr. M. Well, you borrowed it, of course ? Mrs. M. Of course, I did n't 1 Borrow ! Whom could I borrow five thousand dollars of ? I never saw so much 1 Mr. M. We have to pay as much every day. Mrs. M. What do you pay with ? Mr. M. Money. Mrs. M. Money I Where do you get it ? Do you beg, borrow, or steal it? I saw no money in the drawer, or trunk, or safe. Mr. M. You should have borrowed a check. Mrs. M. I got one without borrowing, — an effectual check. Good gracious, Manly ! tell me if this is the sort of life you lead ? Mr. M. You have a very fair specimen of it since the banks have been so tight. Mrs.M. Bridget! Bridget! Mr. M. Bridget has walked out. Mrs. M. Walked out ! What ! in the forenoon ? Kitty I Kitty! (Galling.) Mr. M. Kitty has walked out, too. Mrs. M. What do you mean ? Why did you allow it ? Pretty doings ! Mr. M. I proposed it. Mrs. M. Proposed it I Manly, what do you mean ? Mr. M. I mean that your two girls have dismissed them- selves or me. I am not sure which way it stands. Mrs. M. Then, what has become of the dinner ? Mr. M. Nothing : we had none to become of. Mrs.M. Husband, you know no more about house- keeping woman's rights. 17 Mr. M. Than you do about storekeeping 1 Mrs. M. Provoking I Myrtilla, you must think us a pretty pair of fools. Myr. Very -well matched, I must acknowledge. But, Bister, I am not surprised at the result of your experiment. The hen was never made to swim. (Mr. and Mks. Manly look each other in the face, at first itriffi determination ; but at last they relax, and burst into laughter'.). Mrs. M. Tou had better run to the store. Mr. M. You know I am very ill of an illness you pro- nounced perpetual I How can I venture out ? Mrs. M. Begone, or I will be the death of you ! Mr. M. I will go ; but, first, you will please to pay me " me wages." Mrs. M. Put mine against yours, and let us pass receipts. Mr. M. Agreed I Good bye to the empty kitchen I Mrs. M. Good bye to the empty safe ! When I complain again What will you have for dinner ? Mr. M. I must have a chowder ; and Myrtilla must tell you why, while I run to the store and get an appetite, " A chowther, is it ? " 2* COUNTRY COUSINS. CHARAOTEBS. Mr. Bohner, father of Helen. Frank Noble, a young gentleman of fortune. Ben Aoorn, Helen's cousin. Helen Bonner. Jane JbiWELl, a fe^hionable friend of Helen. Terence, servant to Helen. Michael, servant to Jane. Jessie and Ben, children. SCENE I. — HELEN'S PARLOE. Helen and Jane. Jane. Have you heard the news, Heleu ? Helen. Do you refer to the railroad accident ? I have just returned from doing all I could to help the sufferers. Jane. 0, dear 1 how can you meddle with such disa- greeable things ? I referred to the arrival of Frank Noble. Helen. I shall be glad to see Prank. Jane. He has already called on me ; and, I assure you, he is a glorious fellow. It is fifteen years since he went to California ; and you would hardly recognize the rosy- faced boy, we romped with, in the elegant gentleman that he now appears. He has promised to call on me often. I COUNTRY COUSINS. 19 will let you know when he calls, and you can accidentally call on me and see him. Helen. I think Frank will call on me also ; I have done nothing to forfeit his acquaintance. Jane. Perhaps he will ; nay, I will ask him to do so. Hekn. I pray you not to take the trouble ; the call, to be of any value, must be voluntary. Jane. Well, you may do as you please ; but don't blame me, if he neglects you ! How did you like the concert, last evening ? Helen. It was very fine. I love simple melody better than that complicated harmony to which one mijst be educated. Jane. You simple one, don't let any one else hear you utter such a barbarism 1 Those who are judges consider it almost vulgar to listen to songs and ballads, though sung by angels. Helen. It does not distress me to differ from others, when I do not depart from nature. I can appreciate the taste and judgment which would prefer what is called difficult and scientific music ; but I still confess my preference for what is more simple and melodious, though all the world should, think as I do, and make the notion perfectly vulgar Jane. I dare say you could listen with delight to a psalm tune sung by a whole congregation ! Helen. I dare say I could, and have done so a hundred times. Jane. I can't listen to such murderous work ! Hekn. It seems more to me like worship than the refined music by a few scientific singers. Jane. You are utterly unfashionable, my dear ! Wor ship is a small matter compared with the pleasure a refined ear derives fi:om a professional choir. Helen. I cannot agree with you, Jane ; but I cannot 20 PARLOR DRAMAS. discuss the subject at present, for the door-bell rings, and I must retire a moment to give some directions to the domestics. ( She goes out. ) Enter Frank Noble. Frank. Why, Jane, is it you ? I expected to see Helen. Jane. She has just stepped out, and left me to entertain you. Frank. To entertain mef How did she know I was coming ? Jane. To entertain her company, I mean. Frank. I am glad it is no worse, for I should be sorry to lose Helen's regard. Jane. Helen is very peculiar in some of her notions ; but she means well, and must be excused. Frank. She had a heart when she was a girl, and I hope she has not lost that. Jane. No ; she is a benevolent creature as ever lived ; but her general philanthropy will probably prevent her from ever becoming attached to any individual. 0, dear ! I wish you could see what a gang of beggars is constantly running after her 1 Here comes one of them now ! Enter Ben Acorn. Ben. Servant, ma'am ; and sir to you. Where 's Helen ? They told me she was here. Jane. How dare you enter at the front door ? Ben. I supposed it was made to be entered. I came here to see Helen, and not you. Jane. Intolerable I I '11 teach you which is the door for beggars to enter. {She rings, and Terence enters.) Terence, show this fellow the door, and help him down the steps I You know what I D~.ean. COUNTRY COUSINS. 21 Teremce. I '11 do that thing, miss, in a moment. ( To Ben.) Come, sir, marrch 1 Ben. I 'm not under marching orders. I 've a sort of furlough, and have come to spend it in the city with Cousin Helen. Ter. Begone, sir, or I '11 be afther helping you marrch 1 Ben. Is your mistress at home ? Ter. None of your business, sir ! Nothing short of the misthress wiU sarve you. There 's the door ! Ben. I see it, but I must see your mistress before I go out of it. Ter. She is not at home, sir. Ben. You lie, you rascal ! you know you do I Jane. Was there ever such impudence ? Terence, drive the rascal out instantly 1 (Teeence lays his hand on Ben ; and the latter, griping his hand till he screams vrith pain, leads him to the door, and turns him out. ) Jane. {To Feank.) Mr. Noble, protect me ! Frank. There is no danger. You are deceived ; this man is not a beggar. (To Ben.) May I ask, sir, on what ground you enter this house ? BeM I came to see my Cousin Helen. I have n't seen her these ten years ; but I know she has n't forgotten Cousin Ben, that used to romp with her at father's cottage. Jane. She does n't wish to see any such vulgar rela- tions 1 You 'd better be gone before she comes, and sends you packing ! What a curse it is to have such a tribe following one I Such a cousin would dare as well die as come near me I Ben. I should n't think he 'd own you 1 Jane. Mr. Noble, t claim your protection against this blackguard I ^ Ben. No blackguard, miss I I '11 leave it to the gentle- 22 PARLOR DRAMAS. mau wKch of us is ttie blackguard. My rule is to treat e\erybo(iy well that treats me well, and vice versa, as our schoolmaster used to say. Frwnk. Take a seat, sir. (Bbn sits.) Miss Helen will return soon. I am waiting for her myself. Ben. Give me your hand 1 (Sising and shading it hean- ily.) Now, you see, that's what I call being civil and manly. I suppose I 'm not finished off to suit this girl's taste ; but I 'm as good as she is, notwithstanding and nevertheless. Enter Helen. Helen. {To Jane.) Excuse me, Jane; I have been de- tained longer than I expected. Jane. It 's lucky you have come. Here is a fellow that has forced himself into the parlor, and claims to be your cousin. Helen. ( With surprise. ) My cousin 1 Jane. Yes ; and he has heaped untold insults upon me for ordering him out. Helen. Who are you, sir ? Ben. What 1 don't you know me, neither ? I 'm your Cousin Ben, and you are my Cousin Helen. I could swear to your sweet voice in a thunder-storm 1 {He kiss^ her.) There ! take that as a reminder ! It is just such a smack as I gave you ten years ago, when we parted at Glen- burnie 1 Helen. I 'm very glad to see you, Cousin Ben — very glad ; and, if I recollect, I promised you something when we next met. {Kissing him.) Was it not so ? Ben. To be sure it was,, but I did not expect you to keep your word. Helen. I am sorry you should doubt me. Ben. The same angel she used to be ! But, cousin here 's a gentleman you did not see. {Pointing to Frank. ■CO0NTR-S: COUSINS. 23 He 'b what I call a gentleman, though I found him in such company. Hekn. {Bowing to Frank, and he to her.) Did you *ish to see me, sir ? Frank. Much, Helen; but I find you Lave forgotten Frank Noble. Helen. (Oiving her hand.) I am glad to see you. Prank. I well remember the Frank that was, I assure you. You are welcome home. Frank. I thank you ; but may I not claim the same to.ken of recognition that your cousin has received ? I have been absent longer than he. Helen. {Laughing.) Did you have the same promise ? Jane.- (Approadhing and kissing him.) I will do it for her. She- has a strange taste for a lady 1 (Looking sneer- ingly at Ben.) Ben. She pays her own debts, and asks no favors. Frank. I have no right to complain, though a kiss by proxy is but half a kiss. Jane. Will you be good enough to see me home, Mr. Noble ? I feel a dizziness that makes me fear toi venture alone. Fremk. "With pleasure. Helen, I will, with your per- mission, return. Helen. FiAj do. I have many questions to ask you. Jane. Good morning. (To Helen, and not to Ben.) Helen. Good morning. {They go out.) And now. Cousin Ben, how does your father, my good old uncle, do ? Ben. Hearty, hearty as a buck, Helen 1 Helen. And your dear mother ? Ben. She is in heaven. Helen. No I — and we not hear of it ? Ben. We sent you word. Hehn. It- never reached Us. How yCu must miss her I 24 PAKIiOR DRAMAS. Do you remember, that last evening before we parted, you laid your head in her lap on one side, and I mine on the other ? Then she laid a hand upon each head, and blessed us, and told us never to forget each other. Ben. God knows I can never forget it ; and yet that girl who went out just now told me you would not see me. Helen. She did not know me, Ben. But tell me, how is little Emma, the dear little blue-eyed cherub ? Ben. An angel, and with her mother. Yes, they are both in heaven ; and I am bound to the land of gold, that I may not see the places and objects I have loved so long, and that I may, if God pleases, earn something to smooth the down-hill path of the broken-hearted father. Ah, Helen, it has been a sore time with us. But no matter ; crying won't mend a broken bowl or a broken heart. I 'm glad to see you ; and my stay is so short that we must let bygones be bygones. I sail to-morrow. Helen. It is poor sympathy to say that I regret all you have told me. My mother, too, has left us ; and I only remain to my dear father. Come, let us find him, and lose not a moment. SCENE II. — jane's parlor. Enter Frank Noble and Jane. Jane. I thank you for your attentions, Frank, and feel quite relieved by the walk and the fresh air. I believe it was only the vulgarity of the country boor that overcame me. Frank. I was rather amused than offended. You may depend upon it that circumstances will yet develop a character in him of which we shall all be proud. COUNTRY COUSINS. 25 Jane. I cannot endure such vulgarity, and am aston- ished that Helen should be willing to kiss such a bear, and then refuse to kiss you. She must be a confirmed prude to do this I Frank. I regarded it as a proof of true delicacy. Jane. True vulgarity, I say 1 I shall never be able to look upon Helen again as a lady who knows all that belongs to her station. Frank. I dare say she can defend herself; but let us not discuss this matter longer. I must return to finish my call. Jane. I shall have a right to be offended, if you leave me to visit her, after what has happened. Frank. I should be sorry to offend, but etiquette seems to require my return, since I only left on your account. JaTie. I hope nothing stronger than etiquette moves you. When, of two damsels, one is ill and the other not, a gallant knight, methinks, would stay with the invalid. Frank. I do not fully understand. You said but now you had recovered. I shall not leave you, if you need my assistance. Jane. I should be loath to take what is granted even to my need, if it is given unwillingly. Frank, I feel an interest in you that I cannot explain without the risk of much misapprehension. Frank. I thank you for your interest, although I do not well perceive what cause there is for any friendly fear. Jane. Do you know Helen Bonner ? Frank. What a question ! I know her as I do you and others whom I met in youth, and whose memory has lived through many a year of busy contest with a selfish world. I think I do know Helen. Jayie. You love her, Frank ; I know you do. 3 26 FAELOB BBAMAS. Frank. You know more, then, than I have owned. I have scarce seen her half an hour. Jane. We females form a judgment in less time. I see your bias, and I feel it to be my duty, as one that deeply feels for your happiness, to warn you of your danger. Frank. My danger I Pray explain. I have a right to require more frankness. Grant, for the sake of argument, that I love Helen, what risk is there in that 1 Is she not virtuous ? Jane. Yes, as virtue now-o'days is understood ; but, when I love, I love with my whole soul, and less than this is insincerity. Frank. Is Helen insincere ? Jane. Perhaps she has not yet been tested. The part of prudence lies in wise prevention. I would but have you guarded. Frank. I will be so {smiling), although I see no peril. Jane. There lies your danger. Trust to my guidance, and I '11 lead you safely through. Frank. Through what ? Be frank. Jane. A gentleman, who sees a lady he may love, is never safe without a confidant who knows her sex, and can instruct him in the thousand wiles the female heart contrives to attract and circumvent him. Now, it is plain that you are charmed by Helen. Frank. Plain ! to whom ? Jane. To every eye but yours. Frank. What.is the evidence ? I may deny the fact ; but still it is my duty to return to Helen. I beg you to excuse ^^- {He goes out.) Jane. He denies the fact I Then is there some hope • and I may yet find means to turn him from his purpose. COUNTRY COUSINS. 21 SCENE III. — HELEN'S PARLOR. Ben. Enter Frank. Ben. Eeturned so soon I Did you see that crazy girl safely home ? Frank. Yes, of course ; I never desert a convoy. But why call her crazy ? Ben. All jealous people are crazy, or worse than crazy. Frank. Why call her jealous ? Ben. The girl 's in love with you, and, fearing your par- tiality for Helen, she feigned sickness to draw you ofl", and have you to herself. Frank. How know you this ? I did not suspect it, and yet, upon your hints, my vision is improved. Ben. She tried to Iqeep you ? Frank. Yes. Ben. Advised you not to return ? Frank. She did. Ben. She warned you of the evil of having poor and vulgar relations ? Frank. Well, go on. Ben. She tried to create donbts as to Helen's excel- lence ? Frank. She did all this, I must confess. Ben. Did she tell you she loved you ? Frank. Not quite so bad as that. I should have seen through all, if she had. Ben. Well, you have a pair of spectacles now, and can see better. I shall not be here to see the fun, but I can guess at it. Frank. What do you guess ? 28 PARLOR DRAMAS. Bm. She '11 burn her own fingers. She can't get you, any how. Frank. Why so ? Ben. She insulted me and you did not ; and one who des- pises a man for his dress only, or his want of polish, can never suit one who can see true worth under the coarsest cloth. You can't love her for her mind; nor she you, except for your money. Frank. You think I should like Helen better ? Ben. To be sure I do. " Like likes like," my old spell- ing-book used to say. Helen is worth twenty of her. I love Helen, and would give the world to have her myself; but I have nothing of the world to give, and she has scru- ples, so that I must give her up. Frank. You are poor, then ? Ben. Yes, poor as an empty egg, but not so easily broken. I sail to-morrow for the land of promise, and if industry and good habits do not fail me, I shall have some- thing to do good with, besides good wishes, on my return. Frank. I have just returned from the land of gold, and can assist you. Much depends upon a good start. Here is a purse of shiners, and, before moi-ning, I will prepare some letterg to my friends, which will secure to you every advantage. Ben. Do you mean what you say ? Frank. I never said what I did not mean. Ben. I '11 take you at your word, then ; and, if Ben Bon- per succeeds, you, or somebody else, will find a good friend in him. There comes Helen. You may talk to her, while I go and see that Jane. I 'm determined to have another interview with her before I leave. {He goes out as Helen enters.) Frank. I hope you will excuse the abruptness of my departure. You saw the motive for it. COUNTRY COUSINS. 29 Helen. I hope my friend Jane reached home. safely, and is better. Frank. She recovered very rapidly. Helen. I am glad. She is a good girl, though we do not always agree. Frank. She urged me to stay, but I had already called on her, and had much to say to you. Helen. I am obliged to you, though I wonder how you could resist the temptation. Frank. Helen, will you pardon me if I ask a question that I may have no right to ask ? Helen. You may ask it, provided I be not required to answer it, if improper, as you say. Frank.. Have you ever promised your cousin Ben to marry him ? Helen. Why do you ask this question ? It is but fair that I should know your motive. Frank. He is not in a condition to marry you. Helen. 1 am sorry he is so poor ; he has a noble soul, and that is niore than money. Frank. If there is any engagement, I wished to place him in a situation worthy of you. I have ample means. Helen. I love Ben. Frank. And Ben loves you ; he told me so. Helen. We have talked this matter over, and have sworn to love each other, but never with a view to matrimony. Frank. Then may I ask another question ? Helen. Yes, on the same conditions, though I wish he was here to answer for himself. Frank. The other question does not depend on him, but on yourself. Will you accept my hand ? 'T is yours, if you say yes. Helen. I was not prepared for this. You do not know me, Prank. I may have changed since we were young, 3* &l) PARLOR DRAMAS. and tbe few hours that you have seen me now are not enough to authorize the step that you propose. Frank. A thousand years could give no better prepara- tion. Helen. Pray tell me on what grounds you thus imperil all your happiness ? Frank. Ben is at the bottom of it. Helen. He has not sued for me, I trust. He has too much sense, and too much regard for me, to do that. Frank. He thinks, as I do, that when a lady of fashion and elegance, surrounded by the vain and foolish, the proud and . prejudiced, has courage to receive a poor relation as you did him, no other recommendation can Strengthen the security. Helen. Poor Ben, he is a noble fellow, and millions could iiot change him. Frank. What say you, yea or nay ? Although it is but fair that I should give some proof that I am worthy of the hand I ask. Helen. There needs no proof of that. Ben, too, is at the bottom of that testimony ; for you saw me welcome my poor cousin, and were no more ashamed of me than I of him. Need I say yea or nay, after this confession ? {She gives her hand to Prank.) Frank. God bless our cousin Ben I Let us to your father now and ask his blessing on his children. (They go Old.) COUNTRY COUSINS. -81 SCENE IV. — jane's PARLOR. Jane. Enter Michael. Michael. There is a blackguard at the door, ma'am, who says he will see you. Patrick tould him he should n't, and he knocked him down. I was afraid of the same traitment, and came to tell you, ma'am. Jane. What sort of a fellow is he ? Mich. 0, ma'am, a counthry-looking fellow, as sturrong as a lion, and with no more manners than a horrse. Jane. It must be that boor I saw at Helen's come to ask my pardon. Let him come in, and see that he does not attempt to kiss me. Mich. Kiss you, ma'am I Ha 1 ha ! ha f I should as Boon think of doing that same, meself. Mnter Ben. Ben. Madam, I owe you some apology for this intrur sion ; but, as I am bound away, and may never see you again, it seems but fair that we should part in peace. Shall we shake hands ? Jane. There is no need of that. Ben. There is, for your sake, as well as mine. Jane. How so ? Stand off ! What is it to me what becomes of you, or what you think of me ? Ben. Not much either way, but it is important to you what you think of yourself Jane. Of myself 1 what do you mean ? Ben. Why would you have driven me from my cousin's house ? Why shun me now, as if I were a villain ? Jane. I prefer a different kind of acquaintance. 82 PARLOK DRAMAS. Ben. You might find such without insulting me. Do you find other fault with me than my poverty ? I am not refined, perhaps, to the standard you approve ; nor do you come up to my standard, which leads me to estimate others . by their moral and intellectual worth, and not by the acci- dents of birth or wealth, of dress or talent, which involve no merit, and may prove a curse. Jane. I am not used to hear such sentiments. Ben. Then you have no real friends. Do I not speak the simple truth ? Jane. The abstract truth, perhaps ; but what is truth, if no one lives by it ? Ben. It is still the truth. No departure from it can change it, however it may change you. My Cousin Helen loves you, and assures me you have worth, though fashion has misled you. I am satisfied that reason and your better judgment will make you worthy of me (she starts) when I . return, as I most surely shall, not the poor country cousin Ben, whom you now see, but Benjamin the millionaire, as you shall see. There is a prophecy in a determined will. Jane. Was there ever such a strange proposal ? Ben. 0, yes, many, far more strange. You have some hope of catching Prank, but this can never be. Your treat- ment of me shocked him, and he will go to Helen. In the mean time, remember what I have said, and profit by it, and we yet may bless the day that made us enemies to make us more than friends. Jane. Does Helen know of this proposal ? Ben. No, but she shall, if you agree to it. Come, give me your hand, and it shall be a bargain. I am going to a wild country, and would anchor my heart at home. Jane. Did Helen say she thought me worthy ? How I have wronged her ! Ben She did, and would, mayhap, have waited for her COUKTRY COUSINS. 83 cousin, hail he not been so near of kin. She has a religious Bcruple 01. this point. Jane. I have none on that or any other point ; and, to prove this, you have my hand {giving her hand) and seal {kissing him). You see, I take Helen for my model. Am I forgiven ? There is romance, at least, in this. Ben. So there is truth. Let us to Helen ; and then, with such a motive to exertion, who can doubt of full suc- cess ? ( They go (xid. ) ACT II. SCENE I. — NOBLE HALL. Mr. and Mrs. Noble and two children — Jessie and Ben. Frank. It is now five years, to-day, since Cousin Ben departed for the land of promise. How strange it is that not a word has ever reached us from him ! He must be either dead, or has so changed his name that no advertise- ment has e'er betrayed his whereabout. Helen. I hope he is not dead ; for, should your fears be realized, and bankruptcy be unavoidable, he could, he would, befriend us and our little ones. Frank. Our all is in the ships ; and their arrival is so doubtful now that no insurance can be made. Before the week is ended, all my drafts are payable, and ruin must ensue ! Helen. You have helped others in distress. F orphan children that Mrs. Nudgett Mart Fairchild, 5 had brought up. SCENE I. — MRS. NUDGETT'S PARLOR. Mks. Nudgett alone. Mrs. Nudgett. Well, after all, money is a plague. I have abundance ; but, since my poor husband died, it has taken all my time to manage the property, and all I have had from it is a living, and my servants have had as much, without any of the trouble and anxiety. I have no near relation ; and it is clear that my cousins only worship me for my money. Frank is a dear boy, but so dissipated, and unwilling to submit to my control, that I have told him he has nothing to expect ; and Mary has incurred my just displeasure by persisting in her attachment to him when I have forbidden it. 0, dear ! I should be far happier, were I obliged to labor for my daily bread. But here is my cousin. She has, no doubt, heard of my illness, and THE WILL. 45 has come to sympathize with her very dear relative ! 0, dear I Enter Mbs. Swipes. Mrs. Swipes. (Sunning up to Mrs. Nudgett, and hissing her.) My dear cousin, how do you do ? I have just heard of your illness, and, although weighed down with family cares, I threw all aside ; for Mr. Swipes almost com- manded me to run to you as my first duty, although, mercy knows, I did not need to be told of that. How do you do,, dear, good woman ? I was so frightened, when I heard you had a fit, that I almost fell into one myself. Mrs. JS". I am obliged to you for your sympathy. The attack was sudden and severe, but my physician encour- ages me to think it may not be repeated. Mrs. S. I trust and pray it may not be. 0, dear ! what should we do if any thing should happen to our dearest of relatives ? Where can my husband be ? He was to follow me, that we might oifer our services, if we can render any assistance. 0, here he comes. Enter Mr. Swipes. Mr. Swipes. My dear madam, how is it with you ? I have left all to follow you, as the good book says the faith- ful and true must always be willing to do. Mrs. N. I feel much obliged by your attentions ; but I trust I shall not need any assistance from my friends. Mrs. S. You know, dear woman, on whom to call, if you waijt any aid, no matter how great a sacrifice of time or personal attenlion it may involve. Mr. S. Is there nothing I can do ? It is said that there is a healing virtue in good ale ; and I shall -nsist upon sending you a dozen of my best, with a promise to snpply you as long as you shall live and I do well. 46 PAELOR DRAMAS. Mr&. N: I thank you sincerely ; .but my physician for- bids the use of any thing but water. Mrs. S. There is no strength in water ; but a glass of ale now and then would build you up, and make a new creature of you. Mr. 8. There is nothing like it ; and I shall insist upon your trying it. I hope it will prove the elixir of life to you. Mrs. N. I pray it may, but I have little hope of any such resuscitation. Excuse me a moment. (She goes out feebly.) Mr. S. There 1 we have touched the old one 1 Now, be careful to follow up the blow; and let us pray for her health with all our might, for the prayers of the wicked, you know, never prevail. Mrs. S. 0, you naughty man 1 But there she comes, lame enough ! Another touch of the paralysis will give her entire relief from all pain ! I hope she will soon find rest I Mr. S. 0, you naughty woman I how can you speak thus of your dear cousin ? Enter Mrs. Nudgett. Mrs. Nudgett. I am quite feeble yet, you see. Mrs. S. Be sure to send for us at once, if any thing should happen. Mr. S. Command us in any thing and every thing. We are ready to be spent in your service. Mrs. 8. Be sure to send for us before you send for the Curries ; for what we do is from the heart. Mrs. N. I shall remember your kind offers. 3Irs. 8 {Kissing her.) Good morning, my dear, dear woman. THB . WILL. 4^ Mr. S. (Shaking h&r hand so hard as to gim her pmin.) Good bye, my deaa: madam ; rely on us entirely. Go ftd bye. ( TTiey go out. ) Mrs. N. I wonder if they think I am deceived. How much less trouble it is to be sincere. M^ter Mr. and Mrs. Cubrie. Mr. Gurrie. My beloved cousin, how rejoiced I am to find you able to be up. I was told that you were confined to your bed, and unable to move without assistance. Mrs. N. I was, for a few hours, but am happily quite restored. Mr. G. What a subject for gratitude to the Author of all our mercies ! Mrs. N. I hope I am duly gr^iteful. Mrs. Gurrie. We held a fast as soon as we heard of your danger ; but now our fasting shall be turned into joy and thanksgiving. Mr. G. My wife has left two sick children, and I hav.e left my shop untended, as it were, that we niay offer yoij our personal services. I have nothing else to offer, except my horse and chaise, which I hope you will consider your own, and use whenever you please. Mrs. G. I pray you do so, dear madam. Nothing could be so cheering to our affectionate hearts as to be instru- mental in any way to your recovery. ■ Mrs. N. I will accept. of your offer, if I find myself able to ride. Mr. G. You know, my dear niadam, the deep solicitude I have always felt for the spiritual welfare of my friends ; and the moment I heard of your illness I sought the Lord in your behalf. I hope you had the Sweet satisfaction of feeling that you were at peace with your Maker. 48 PAKLOB DRAMAS. Mrs. N. I felt that I had been an nnworthy steward, and one who had hid my talent in the earth. Mrs. C. It is not too late now to lay up treasures in heaven. I know one affectionate heart that would rejoice to owe his happiness to our beloved cousin. , Mr. G. 0, Caroline ! how could you hint at such a distressing event as would be involved in such remem- brance of me ? " I am unworthy of the least of all thj mercies," as said the psalmis''. Mrs. N. We are all unworl \y ; and I now see that it is dangerous to defer our good intentions for an hour. My dear' cousin, will you be so good, when you pass the Squire's, as to ask him to call here this afternoon on busi- ness of importance ? Mr. G. I will do so with much pleasure ; and, in the mean time, I pray you to command me in all things. Mrs. G. Eemember the chaise, my dear madam. Mr. Currie will be delighted to drive you any where at any moment. Mrs. N. You must allow me to retire. I have sat up too long, I fear. Mrs. G. Shall I help you to your chamber ? Mrs. N. No, I thank you ; I prefer to go alone. I must learn to help myself, and do my duty, though at the eleventh hour. (^She goes out.) Mr. G. We have fixed her ! She wants the Squire to write her will, and we are to be the fortunate heirs. I saw it in her eyes ; and then how kind she spoke. Mrs. G. Yes, she is secured. You must try to see the Squire, and perhaps you can get him to help us a little. .The promise of an additional fee may have great influence. Be carefiil, however, Currie, and don't miss the mark, now it is so near. Mr. G. Not I. I think the Swipeses may now hang THE WILL. ^ 49 their harps on the willows, and — themselves beside them, if they please. ( They go out. ) (Mbs. N. returns, and is hardly seated when Feank and Makt enter. They advance timidly Unvards her, and, each taking a hand, kneel at her feet.) Mrs. If. Well, children, what am I to conclude from this visit ? I hardly expected to see either of you again. Mary. We have come to ask forgiveness. In our des- pair at your displeasure, having no earthly inend to whom we could go, we Mrs. N. Have married, I suppose, as thwarted lovers have so often done before you, to increase the evils they would cure. • " Frank. That is the extent of our offence. We are now intent upon two things, first to obtain forgiveness of her who has been more than a mother to us, when we were unable to help ourselves, and then to depart forever. Mary. We had concluded to seek Australia, but hearing of your illness, unworthy as we are, we could not depart without her blessing whom we shall bless even in our exile. Mrs. N. Mary, how could you encourage his addresses, when you knew how easily he yields to the tempter, and how all unfitted he must be to make you happy ? Mary. The Frank that you describe is dead. I have the promise that his new life shall be all you ever wished. Mrs. N. What proof have you that he will keep his promise ? Mary. His very disobedience. If he were not in ear- nest, he would have left me when I was banished from the home you made my heaven, and which was still open to him. Frank. Mother, I do not blame you for distrust. Kepent- ance hath no life in words, by words can ne'er be proved ; and all I ask is your forgiveness for the past, your blessing 6« ^ PARLto nSAMAS. on the future. We heiard of your illness, and feared We were too late. Mrs. N. This is romance, I fear^ and Mary is to be the victim. Frank. By all that 's true, I swear Mrs. N. 'T were better not to swear, I always dread a word that needs an oath to fortify it. It is too latfe to undo what you have done. It only now remains to do our best to make the future all it should be. Mary, I need not ask if you love Frank. You have chosen him with wretched- ness in prospect. Mary. Dear mother 1 Mrs. N. Is it not so ? What else can she expect, who> ere she weds, can not restrain the vicious promptings of her worshipper ? Mary. The backward road is not to be retrodden ; the path of life, be it direct or devious, is always onward, but no one can so wander that the better way may never be regained. Mrs. N. I hope your dreams will all be realized. Frank. They shall, by heaven I Mrs. N. I hope the blessed power, in whose holy name you promise, will enable you to faithfully perform. What preparation have you made for the exile you intend ? Frank. None, the destitute and the determined make but little preparation. Mrs. N. Leave all to me, and this day se'n-night let me see you here, when better health may aid our consuItationB. THE WILL. 51 Scene li. — the same tARLOB. {A f&rtnigM is supposed to elapse.) Enter Mb. and Mrs. Swipes, in mourning. Mrs. Swipes. 0, the coast is clear, I expected to see the Curries at their post. Mr. Swipes. They will be here in time to show {ironically) their deep respect for the dead whom they deplore. Mrs. S. More likely for the fat living they expect, 0, there they come. Now fit your visage to the house of mourning, and do not be outdone in solemn show. Enter Mr. and Mrs. Ccrrib, in mourning. Mr. Gurrie. Good morning. This meeting is quite unex- pected. Mrs. S. It is so to us, at least. Mrs. G. .No doubt you think as we do, "it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feast- ing," as the preacher says. Mr. S. We are here by notice from the Squire. Mr. C. Indeed ! and so are we. Mrs. S. 'T is evident then that the old lady has divided the spoil between us. Who could have thought that Prov- idence so kindly would have made our interests the same ? Mrs. G. Ay, " He shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will." Two months ago, who would have given a far- thing for our chance ? The orphans, as the old one called the vagabonds she nursed so long, were sure of the inher- itance. They now are beggars, and are bound to regions that befit their origin, and will preserve us from their inter- meddling They go to Australia, the land of gold and guilt. 52 PARLOR DRAMAS. Mrs. B. Have they sailed ? I wonder they should go so quietly. Mrs. G. I understood from the servants they were here the day before her death, and were dismissed forever in disgrace. Mrs. S. Good ! then the course is clear, and we may walk it at our leisure. Mr. C. I know that she had made a will, for she com- missioned me to call the Squire the day before she died. Mr. S. I saw the Squire this morning, and though he did nbt name the cause of our assembling here, he seemed to hint there was a meaning in it. Mr, G. There no doubt is, and, as no other heirs are presaat, it is clear we are the only legatees. Mrs. S. Not so fast, brother Currie, unless my eyes deceive me, here are the two young reprobates, returned no doubt to hear their doom. Ihter Frank vrifh Mary on his arm. Mr. G. They are not heirs at law, and have a precious stock of impudence to show themselves where they must be assured no one will welcome them. Mrs. G. ( To them. ) I suppose you can not bear to leave these halls, though once expelled by the owner. Frank. We did not mean to intrude. The Squire insisted on our coming, though we gladly would have been spared the painful ceremony. Mrs. S. What are you going to do with that creature upon your arm ? Frank. You are a woman, or those lips would never move again in their impurity. Mr G. Do you threaten, vagabond ? Mr S. I should annihilate the wretch who insults my wife. THE WILL. 58 Frank. And I - Mary. Dear Prank, no, no. Let us retire. Be this our first lesson of self control. If I can learn it, you must. Frank. Be it so, but we must off at once. I can bear all the obloquy that words can be perverted to express, but when they breathe on thee, though never a word is uttered, I may go mad. Let us begone, we have no hope but in each other. {They move to go out, and meet ffie Squikb.) Squire. ■ Sarvant, ladies ; sarvant, gentlemen. Frank, what 'a the matter ? Mary, why in tears ? Well, well, she was good to you, and you have a right to weep. Frank. Worthy sir, we must retire, the insults we have just received leave no alternative. Squire. You are my guests, not theirs, and you must stay. ^ Mrs. G. {To her husband.) What can this mean ? Mr. G. He wishes to make an example of them. Mr. S. {To his wife.) His guests? What ! has the old villain made himself the heir ? Mrs. G. He '11 hear you. Mr. S. He 's deaf as any adder, and as cunning. I must palaver with him a little. • Mrs. G. He '11 hear if you don't wish him to do so. Mr. G. We have met with a great loss. Squire. Squire. Yes, greater than you think. Mrs. G. Providence will overrule it, so that the loss shall be our gain. Squire. May be, may be. Prank, take a seat, my boy. Mary, you are at home. Mrs. C. Home indeed I It will be any thing but sweet home, when we get possession. (Pkank and Mart sit. The Squire takes out some papers, 5* 54 PARLOK DRAMAS. puts on his spectacles, opens a large sheet, and, while doing so, says :) Squire. This is the testament of your deceased relative, which she intrusted to my keeping the day before her sud- den demise (Mks. C. and Mrs. S. pretend to sob and weep audibly, so as to interrupt the Sq^tire.) Don't take on so, ladies. You had better listen to the will, and then, if you choose to cry Mrs. 8. Dear woman, how I did love her. Mrs. G. Were it not for the precious comforts of the Gospel, I should mourn as one without hope. Mr. 8. 0, brother Currie, this is a mournful scene, Mr. G. Just so, just so, but we interrupt the Squire. 8quire. This will, your deceased relative requested me to write, and keep till her demise, and then to read in jamsence of her heirs, which heirs you be. ^^frs. 8. dear, that we should live to be so called I Mrs. G. We, who would have died to save her, and not have lived to break her heart, as some folks did. (Glancing at Prank and Mart.) Frank. Your worship, I protest against such insults. Sqwire. Bear them, my boy, they are " coals of fire," as scripture says, and you will see ere long. But I was interrupted. Thus runs the will. You saw the old lady the morning that her testament was executed, Mr. Currie. Mr. G. I did. Squire. And she was sound of mind ? Mr. G. As you are now. Mr. S. I saw her too, and never saw her brighter. Squire. I thought so, but am glad to have your testi- mony corroborative. Well, I proceed to read. " In the name of God, amen. I, Mary Nudgett, widow of Samuel Nudgett, of Barryton, of sound mind and mem- THE WILL. §5 orjj but aware of my frailty pkn4 liability to be suddenly called away to judgment, do hereby make and declare my last will and testament. Imprimis, In the faith of the Gospel, I give my body to, corruption, in the hope of receiving a more glorious body, and my spirit to Him who gave it, trusting for mercy in the merits of my Redeemer." Mrs. G. Dear saint, ghe surely is at peace. Squire. Please not to interrupt, madam. (He goes on reading.) "Item, I give and bequeath all my worldly goods, to wit, all my estate, personal, real, and mixed, including my mansion and farm-house, with all my stocks, bonds, mortgages, moneys, and property, of whatever name or nature, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt-street, Brewer, and Christopher Currie, of Crupper-court, Saddler." (The Squire takes off his spectacles to wipe Ihem.) Mrs. S. Bless her kind soul for doing so. Mr. G. God bless her. How can we make a suitable- return ? Mrs. G. " The memory of the just is blessed." Mrs. 8. Now, let the vagabonds flee at once. Frank. Come, Mary, let us not interrupt such pleasure, and such sincere gratitude. We are evidently out of place here, and should be on our way to Australia. . . Mrs. 8. 'T will cost you nothing to get there ; you being, no doubt, qualified to go at the expense of govern- ment. Frank. This is the second lesson, Mary. Well, I have promised to bear it all, by way of penance. (They move as if to retire.) Squire. (Putting on his spectacles and looking over them.) You must not go yet. I need your presence. (Peakk and Mart remain standing.) Mrs. S. Mr. Swipes, when the property is divided, you must make sure of the mansion-house for me. 56 PAKLOK DRAMAS. Mrs. G. Not if I know it. I have long had my eye on that ; and, Currie, if you give it up, I '11 be the death of you. Mr. 8. Mr. Currie will see the reasonableness of my wife's claim, she being a female, and entitled in her own right, as his wife is not. Mrs. G. If Mr. Currie dares to see any such thing, I '11 tear his eyes out. Mrs. S. We shall not be terrified into a surrender of our rights, you may rest assured. You in the mansion-house ! I should as soon think of a toad in a silver tankard. Mrs. G. Take that, then. {Slapping her face.) (Mrs. S. runs at her, and seizes her by the shoulders, shaking her, while Mb. Swipes and Mr. Currie endeavor to part ihem.) Squire. Dear me ! What are the doves doing ? Be patient, ladies, be patient, and you will see there is no cause for fighting each other. Let me see, where was I ? Ah! (He reads.) " All my property, of whatever name and nature, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt-street, Brewer " (Looking over his spectacles at him.) Mr. S. God bless her ! Squire. " And Christopher Currie, of Crupper-court, S addler ' ' ( Looking at him . ) Mr. G. Yes, yes, in my own right. Squire. (Reading. ) "To haive and to hold — in trust — for the sole and exclusive benefit of ray adopted children, Frank Mills and Mary, his wife." Mr. S. What is all this ? In trust I How does that appear ? Where is it ? Squire. (Pointing to the parchment.) There, in two words of as good Old English as I could write. Mr G. Then we are humbugged, Mr. Squire. Pretty THE WILL. 57 well too, if two sob 3r, hard-working citizens must be sent tor to be made a laughing-stock of. Mrs. S. And all for these two vagabonds, nobody's brats, that have intruded into an honest family to ruin it. Mrs. O. Husband, can you not manage the property so as to make it a curse to them f Mr. G. To be sure we can, and we will too. Brother Swipes, we '11 pay them ofif. Squire. Let me read the rest of the will, my Christian friends, before you settle the management. (Beads.) " To haive and to hold. In Trust, for .the sole and exclusive benefit of my adopted children, Prank Mills and Mary, his wife ; Provided, his worship, Melchisedek Wagner, Esq., will not undertake the trusteeship, but not otherwise. Signed, sealed, and declared to be my last will and testament, in presence of, M. Wagner, Mart Nudgett John Smith, David Jones," Squire. So, gentlemen, as I have concluded to accept the trust, in behalf of my young friends here, you will have no opportunity to show your affectionate regard for them, and your respect for the wishes of your deceased relative. Mrs. G. An old hag. I know who will have the picking of her bones. Mrs. S. An unprincipled old sinner. I thought all along there was some trick. Mr. S. The Squire is at the bottom of it. Mr. G. He deserves to be hanged. Squire. Good morning, gentlemen; I expected to be complimented, but I can bear it, seeing that I have been instrumental in keeping a large property from such unfeel- 58 PAKLOB DRAMAS. mg hypocrites, and i» aeenring it to my young friein43, who, " not ignorant of suffering, will know how io pity thp distressed," as my old school-book said. Why do you not speak, my boy ? Mary, are you dumb ? Frank. We are, indeed, amazed, and well may fail to speak the gratitude we owe to you, to her, to Heaven. Squire. You may take possession now ;; these worthy persons (pointing to Messrs. .S. and 0., and &i£ir wives) are now your honored guests. Mary. They never shall lack any aid that we can afford them. We are not so free from error that we can presume to east the first stone at any fellow-creature. Mrs. G. We will relieve yOiH of oar pi?esence. (2b Mrs. S.) She is a sweet creature notwiUistanding. {They go oiU.) Frank. Mary ! Mary. Frank f ( They burst into tears and follow ffie Sqcibe into (he next room.) THE lUGITIVE SLAVE. CHARACTERS. John Dote, a Quaker merchant. DoROiHT, his Tvife. NATmtNAEL, his son. Sqxhb^ Habden, an TT. S. Commissioner. Geosqe, his son. Col. Soott, a Southern planter. Mabie EuaENiE, daughter of John Dove. Gkaoe Qasdneb, her Mend. SCENE I. — JOHN dove's PAKLOB. John and Dorothy. John. Well, Dolly, has thee prepared all things for the birth-day ? Marie is worthy, and we must do our duty. Dorothy. My only fear is that I may have exceeded thy intentions in regard to Mary. It is unusual to celebrate the birth-day of one of whose birth and parentage we are ignorant But she ^oes not know this, and it was more numane to tell the poor child she had a birth-day, than to teU her she was not ours. It is eighteen years to-day since she was brought to us ; and as she, by the law, is free, we 60 PARLOR DRAMAS. are bound in common honesty to tell her so, and undeceive her as to her real parents. John. Why would thee undeceive her? Thee would not cast her oif ? Dor. Nay, thee knows I would not ; but when the secret is no longer necessary, it is unjust. John. Does thee think so ? She is happy in the thought that we are her parents, and it can do no good to say we are not ; it may be painful to her. Dor. I have deceived thee, John ; will thee forgive me ? John. Thee must make thy peace with Him {pointing upward), if thee has done a wrong that needs forgiveness. Still I may know thy fault, if thee has no objection. Dor. I think with thee that Marie might remain still ignorant, if only she would be affected by it ; but, John, we have a son. John. Yea, Nathanael is our boy. Dor. Nathanael knows that Marie is not his sister. John. Thee has been indiscreet, I fear. Did thee tell him this ? Dor. That is my offence. I once, in confidence, revealed the secret, and Nathanael's love for Marie is not now that of a brother. John. I fear thee has done wrong, butit is plainly now our duty to let Marie know the whole. Doth She love Nathanael ? Dor. Verily, as a sister ought. John. We then no longer have a parent's right to guide her. But, thee had better keep the secret still, and warn Nathanael not to reveal it? Dor. He will not till I permit. But I have matters to arrange, and must leave thee. John. I too must see to the garden. Farewell. Dor. Farewell. I hope what I have done will be over- ruled for good. ( They go out different ways. ) IHB FUGITIVE SLAVB. 61 SOEXE II. Enter Makie. Marie. Eighteen years to-day! Would I could be assured that all my years will be like those I have enjoyed. My parents, 0, how kind and faithful 1 and what a friend, Nathanaell To-day, they say, I am free. What can be more free than I have been ? I can not think in what this freedom can consist. My spirit knows no bondage. Enter George Harden. Good morning, George, George. Good morning, Marie. Your father tells me you are free to-day, and I am come thus early to congratu- late you on the event. Marie. It adds no new joy to my spirit, George. I always have been free. Geo. And yet the thought that henceforth you are released from all restraint, and are not bound to seek advice, or follow it, must give you pleasure. Marie. Thee is in error, George, and the release can only give me pain. What can I gain by it, happy as I am, and free as yonder bird ? Geo. Marie, I long have watched your, growth — Marie. Thee has 1 I long have known thee, George, but did not know thee watched me. Have I grown to suit thy taste ? I fear I am a graceless plant to all but partial eyes. Geo. Marie, I have long desired — (.4 Jong pause.) Marie. Well, what has thee desired 1 I wish to-day to make thee a present. Each of my friends is to receive one from me. 6 62 PAKLOB DBAMA^. Geo. They can not all receive what I would ask, had I the courage. Marie. Thee must hot be so timid, George. If aught I have would give thee pleasure, it is thine, of course. Geo. Marie I Marie. Thee grows serious, Qeorge. Geo. It js a serious question I would ask, — one that involves my future happiness. Marie. P,oes that depend- on me ? I should feel sorry if it did. Geo, Marie, I love you, and would ask, nay, beg, for a return. Marie. George, has thee long been thus unhappy ? Geo. I have long in silence loved you, Marie ; and, though I have no reason to complain of marked negle.ct, J do not feel assurance that my loye ha,s ground for hope. Marie. I am young, thee knows. Geo. And so am I. Young hearts unite raost easUy, most firmly. Marie. My duty to my parents has always led me to refer to them, before I answered even less serious questions. Geo. You are free to-day ; and I have fondly hoped the first act might be to Marie. Enter into bonds ! No, George. I have not inquired the nature of my freedom ; but I feel here {laying her hand on her heart) it can not break the bond that binds me to my parents. All I can say is, I respect thee, George, but am not now prepared to answer thee as thou lost seem to wish. Geo. Say you are not pledged to another. Marie. I will fi-ankly tell thee I am not. Geo. There is some comfort in even that. Marie. Thee will be here this evening with our friends ? Geo. Most gladly. THE EUQITIVE BLAyE. 63 Marie. Farewell. {Qivrng her hand, which he kisses.") Nay, tbee must not do so, now I know thy mind. Geo.