CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
PS 2789.S34P7"""'"*'"' "*""'' 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this 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/cu31924022163202 
 
TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, 
 
 WILLIAM WALTON, 
 
 PRESIDENT OF THE BROOKLYN PRESS CLUB. 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 
 
 A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 OTTO FREDERICK SCHUPPHAUS. 
 
 NEW YOEK: 
 A. LOVELL & CO. 
 
 1892, 
 
Copyright, 1892, by 
 Otto Fkederick Schupphaus. 
 
PEE FACE. 
 
 A DRAMA in blank verse may challenge criticism 
 by suggesting a certain presumption on tbe part 
 of the author ; but the form having seemed fitting 
 in the present case, the author saw no reason why 
 he should defer to any literary superstition by 
 choosing another. The book looks for an audi- 
 ence amid the thousands, aye, the milUons, who 
 watch with eager interest the greatest struggle 
 waged in modern times — the struggle between 
 the rich and the poor, between capital and labor. 
 It appeals to all who like to -hear the unfettered 
 voice of the whole people, not of one class only. 
 It has been the author's aim to be strictly impar- 
 tial. How far he has succeeded is for the reader 
 to judge. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 West, a rich manufaeturer. 
 Henry, his superintendent. 
 Ida Field, a widow. 
 Alice, her daughter. 
 Jack, 
 Paul, 
 George, 
 
 Patrick, *■ workingmen. 
 Peter, 
 Charles, 
 Fred, 
 Mary, a servant. 
 Lawyer, porter, servants, and workingmen. 
 
The many still must labor for the one ! 
 
 Byron, "The Corsair ■' 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 
 
 ACT I. 
 Scene I. Boom in Mrs. Field's Mouse. 
 
 Ida. Yes, Alice will be home to-day, I hear. 
 How long it seems since last I saw her ! Ah ! 
 If she but knew how great has been my grief, 
 How much it costs me to be far from her, 
 And let her grow up under strangers' eyes. 
 Then she might understand a mother's love ! 
 But what will not an ardent mother do 
 To see her darling happy and content ? 
 If sorrow is the price of happiness. 
 Then Heaven may grant that all shaU yet be 
 well! 
 
 Henry. Well, madam, you will proudly meet 
 your child — 
 An image, closely copied, of yourself. 
 
8 TBE PLUTOCBAT. 
 
 She was uo stranger at my uncle's school. 
 Before her sunny and ingenuous charm 
 His pedantry quite melted. He loved her, 
 She was his pride, and even his own girls 
 Had not a better friend in him than she. 
 We all adored her — fairy she was called. 
 The name is fitting ; she's as beautiful — 
 As beautiful as is — 
 
 Ida. An angel ! 
 
 Henry. No, 
 
 Just let us say : as is her mother fair. 
 I am no flatterer, accept my word. 
 But when I saw you fii-st I truly thought 
 'Twas she, so does her face repeat your own. 
 
 Ida. Your words cause more than mere embar- 
 rassment. 
 Such reckless compliment is dangerous ; 
 And were your pretty phrases quite sincere 
 They yet would be in truth love's labor lost. 
 Our life is too distraught for em pty words ! 
 
 Henry. Upon my honor, madam, you are 
 wrong! 
 I am no gallant — as you think I am. 
 You must perceive my rude facihty. 
 If I have been offensive, pardon me. 
 I may have been too blunt, but truth is truth ! 
 I am no man with sleek society arts. 
 
THE I'LVTOCBAT. 9 
 
 Grrown up in earnest work among my books, 
 I could not seize the superficial gloss 
 Yoii'R find in gilded youths. But what I say 
 Has honest meaning, is no soft deceit. 
 
 Ida. I will believe your words; you are 
 sincere, 
 And I can trust you. Yes, I am stiU young ; 
 When yet a child I also was a wife. 
 Yet care has seemed to make me quickly old, 
 And thought of all that I have had to bear 
 Imparts a sound of mockery to praise. 
 
 Henry. Whatever griefs have hm't you, I know 
 not; 
 I only know I grieve to see you sad. 
 Forgive — I am impulsive. If you need 
 A friend, beheve that I am one who would 
 Be proud to stand with you against the world. 
 I'm simple-hearted, yet I'm strong and true. 
 It quite unmans me thus to hear you sigh. 
 If I can help you, speak ! You've naught to do 
 But to command me. 
 
 Ida. You are very kind. 
 
 Your friendship cheers me, and your manly words 
 Have won my confidence. If I had known 
 A friend like you in years now sadly past, 
 AU might be well, but — 
 
10 THE PLlTUClUf. 
 
 Enicr Mary. 
 
 Main. Mr. West is here. 
 
 Ida. Mr. Henry, you must leave me ! He 
 Must not suspect that you are here, and I 
 Cannot explaui. Quick ! let this ciu-taiu serve 
 To hide you here. [Exit Henry. 
 
 Enter West. 
 West. How is my gentle friend ? 
 
 I hope you're happy and enjoying life. 
 How flushed you look, my dear ! Did you shed 
 
 tears 
 For your dead husband 1 True, he was a man 
 Whom aU the world could love, as strong and 
 
 handsome 
 As Adonis. Loving you so well ! 
 He loved you with such love he fled away 
 To die with strangers, far from home and wife. 
 He did not wish you near him then ; he feared 
 The shock would kill j^ou. Ah, he was so nohle ! 
 Doubtless, then, he died of love. Sad fate ! 
 But all beloved by God, they say, dii^ young ! 
 Ida. I wish He'd love you more, then, Mr. 
 
 West. 
 West. And coiild you breathe so harsh a wish ? 
 
 Your words 
 Quite shock mo. Surelv vou can't mean — 
 
THE FLUTOCllAT. H 
 
 Ida. Desist ! 
 
 ^Y€st. But heed, my gentle friend; are you 
 
 not wrong- 
 To heap abuse upon your truest friend ? 
 Was it not I who gave you strong support 
 To brave this life when all your friends were 
 
 gone? 
 And this though you refused my heart and hand, 
 And did not hesitate to speak yoiu- hate. 
 Is this a due reward for my great love f 
 
 Ida. If you have come to taunt me with 
 
 account 
 Of your good offices, go on, go on ! 
 Make bleed anew the wounds now hardly healed, 
 And spare me not ; just kill me inch by inch ! 
 I doubt not that the torture pleases you. 
 
 ^Yeiit. Speak not of pleasure, when you know 
 
 so well 
 My life is spent in work for others' weal, 
 Not for my own. And yet, 'tis strange, the more 
 I love, the more I'm hated ; even you. 
 Who have aU reason to show gi'atitude. 
 You hate me more than aU the rest combined. 
 I've been your heartlessly rejected swain, 
 But never have I thought of sweet revenge 
 When I might well have taken it. To you 
 I freely give the comforts of this life, 
 
12 TMM FLVTOCIUT. 
 
 Still you persist ! But why should I complain ? 
 My conscience is — 
 
 Ida. Your conscience, did you say ? 
 
 You never had a conscience ! if you had 
 It is not seen. O unctious hypocrite ! 
 You know the reason of my hate. 'Twas you 
 Who took my husband from me ! I know not 
 By what foul means you made your schemes 
 
 succeed. 
 You broke his heart, you made him flee and die. 
 He thought me false, distrusted me, who never 
 Loved a man but him ! I did not see 
 My husband till grim death had done its work. 
 Then 'twas by your good grace — you had revenge ! 
 
 West. Revenge is sweet, 'tis very often said — 
 I do not know. I only know that love 
 Is sweeter — not that love of which your poets 
 Sing romantic strains, but that true love, 
 That love— 
 
 Ida. Of serpents whose embrace is death ! 
 
 West. Has such a sentiment kept you aloof ? 
 I see it now ! But I am not so bad. 
 And if I were a serpent, it were one 
 That did not shine in many brilliant hues. 
 And did not sting you to your very heart ! 
 
 Ida. You coward! You can go too far with 
 this ! 
 
TBE PLUTOCRAT. 13 
 
 West. Weep, my fair friend; your feelings 
 need the vent. 
 I could weep with you, for I know your grief 
 And feel it keenly. CaU me vilest names ; 
 AU these offend me not, if they but give 
 Some shght rehef to you. So goes the world ! 
 Beauty and youth are naught if they're not paired 
 With Mammon. Gold's the greatest of all kings. 
 Yes, gold is very life, and gold is might ; 
 It makes the greatest wrong the greatest right. 
 You have refused to profit by this truth, 
 Your beauty has but been your luckless star. 
 And now must Alice turn to do that well 
 Wherein her handsome mother failed. And, 
 
 pray, 
 How is my Alice ? 
 
 Ida. She returns to-day. 
 
 And on my knees here. West, I now implore you. 
 Leave the girl to me ! If you but knew 
 The long and bitter anguish of my soul ; 
 If you could know how eagerly I long 
 To clasp her to my heart ; if you could feel 
 The thousandth part of a true mother's love — 
 Then even your impassive heart might melt. 
 Ah ! Let me have my child ! For once have pity ! 
 Then I could forgive ! I can bear aU, 
 But let my child alone, let her be happy ! 
 
14 THE PLUTOCRAT. 
 
 West. Alice shall be happy, but with me ; 
 And all that money buys is freely hers — 
 Her costliest whims shall aU be gratified. 
 I hope you didn't forget your contract yet — 
 The girl is mine, and she shall be my wife ! 
 On that condition I have brought her up 
 In cultiu-ed comfort and have cared for you. 
 Now you as well must do your part. 
 
 Ida. My part ! 
 
 Cursed be that fatal hour of dark despair 
 "When I consented to the sinful scheme ! 
 I only yielded in the feeble hope 
 That Providence would kindly interfere — 
 
 ^Yest. And I might die ; but Providence, my 
 dear, 
 Hasn't been so kind — to you ; I hve. 
 And come to claim my just and due reward. 
 Now let the girl enjoy my princely wealth. 
 
 Ida. How little men perceive of woman's 
 heart ! 
 You cannot buy her love with aU the riches 
 You may own. 
 
 West. Yet money still is king ! 
 
 That you still doubt it who have felt its might. 
 Quite daunts my comprehension, Ida ; for 
 If money buys not love, at least it buys 
 That semblance which is all I care to ask. 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 15 
 
 If she's in duty bound to love but me, 
 Why should she not ? 
 
 Ida. But duty is not love. 
 
 West. Yet women, as you know, are soon 
 inured 
 To unions that at first may scarcely please ; 
 And knots that wisdom binds with useful gold 
 Are always strongest. WeU you know 
 What 'tis to love, and what it is to bear 
 The pangs of want. But not for me I speak ! 
 If you prefer to see your lovely child 
 Fight for herself the battle of this life, 
 To see her float in momentary bliss. 
 Then sink at last in ruin and despair. 
 It rests with you ; just say the word, my friend. 
 And I'U retire. 
 
 Ida. You're right in all you say ; 
 
 And yet the forced alternative is harsh. 
 G-od knows the strain the wish to save her want 
 Has put upon my heart ; for I have yearned 
 To give her golden gain though love be gone. 
 But leave me now alone ; I am not weU — 
 My brain is whirling, leave me ! 
 
 ^Yest. Is this, then, 
 
 A bargain ? You will not deceive me now ? 
 It is not safe for you and yours ! Farewell ! 
 And may God bless you ! [Exit ^Yest. 
 
IG TBJi: I'LVTOCRAT. 
 
 Enter Henry. 
 
 Henry. Did I hear aright ? 
 
 Is Alice sold — sold, like a slave, for gold f 
 Yes, worse than sold, she's — 
 
 Ida. Sold him by her mother ! 
 
 Yes, condemn me. "What don't I deserve ? 
 May God forgive ; from men I crave no grace ! 
 
 Henry. What do you say? Condemn you? 
 No, not that. 
 But I must feel the horror of your fate. 
 0, for the power to crush the cruel hand 
 That injures you ! To have the strength to hurl 
 Him into deepest gloom ! Condemn you ? No, 
 You're innocent ; I can believe but that. 
 
 Ida. You frighten me with your ingemious 
 faith. 
 I know full well that I must bear the blame. 
 My trials seem severe, for how could I 
 Let Alice die in want and misery 1 
 Perhaps 'twould have been better in the end. 
 Why did I dream of fortune for my child ? 
 Why longed I for revenge by day and night ? 
 Why did I think of Alice as a means 
 To riiin West as he has ruined us ? 
 Why did I let such wild, unruly thoughts 
 Imbue my mind with svTch unholy aims ? 
 
TUM PLUTOCliAT. 17 
 
 But as I've loved I've hated ! God f oi'give ! 
 All this is past, to Thee I leave revenge ; 
 Give me but strength to find the right way now, 
 And let my child's fate be the best it may, 
 For mine has been a most unhappy one ! 
 Heaven only knows — what words can never tell — 
 What I've endured, and how I have atoned ; 
 But I have borne it — ^borne it for my child. 
 Now let the fruit be worth the sacrifice ! 
 
 Henry. I understand your grief, I see its depth ; 
 But do not be despondent, lose not hope ! 
 Here stands a friend who only seeks the chance 
 To save you from this loathsome suitor, this 
 Great hypocrite in guise of friend. Keep heart. 
 You have no right to kill yourself with grief ; 
 Your life should not be wasted ia despair. 
 
 Ida. If you had seen what I have seen, my 
 friend, 
 You'd look on life in quite another light. 
 I honor you, and be assured that naught 
 That might my daughter's lot improve shaU go 
 Undone. Doubt not my heart! I've loved too 
 
 well; 
 Biit love alone can never give to us 
 A perfect happiness. I won't find fault. 
 But if, as I am told, you love my girl, 
 Forget her ! And believe it for the best ! 
 
18 THE rLUTOCRAT. 
 
 Yon are still young, you can and wiU forget. 
 Make not still harder my but too liard task. 
 
 Henry. Don't speak like that ! Forgive me if 
 I say 
 We cannot lean on sentiment. We must 
 Use energy — not bow before defeat. 
 We must do battle for Fortuna's smile, 
 It will not do to merely wait for it. 
 I should not interfere did not your good 
 Most certainly demand that some one should. 
 It is my sacred duty, and no man 
 Can hold me back. It is not for myself ; 
 It is for you as weU as for your child. 
 And you not least, since such distressing state 
 Is more than you can bear. 
 
 Ida. I feel the strain, 
 
 And I am grateful for your noble words ; 
 But now I feel too well it is too late ! 
 
 Henrt]. Too late'? Refuse that thought; 
 there's ample time 
 To win the fight ! Take but a quick resolve, 
 Cut every bond that binds you to this man, 
 And leave with me the care for both of you. 
 Leave me the struggle I will gladly make 
 To bring you peace, to make you quickly lose 
 The memory of these clouds. 
 
 Ida. Your words are music. 
 
TMM I'LITOVUAT. 19 
 
 Yet they torture when I think the trnth. 
 
 I know too well that it can never be ! 
 
 You. do not know the man you rage against : 
 
 His craftiness and cxmning strike a blow 
 
 Like cruel lightning. Well he knows the might 
 
 His money brings ; and should you cross his path 
 
 He'd crush you — blast the prospects of your life. 
 
 You are in his employ : one word from him 
 
 And you will lose your place. Whom once he 
 
 hates 
 Wni find no rest while he has strength to hurt. 
 And more, instead of helping us, you help 
 Increase the danger of worse blows for us. 
 
 Heni-jj. I do not doubt that he is all you say, 
 But that shall not deter me in this cause. 
 It is a crime to let him claim your girl, 
 To sell her beauty to a heartless wretch ! 
 
 Ida. That is a bitter truth. I know full weU 
 How galling is the thought of yielding her 
 To one whom I so thoroughly despise. 
 To you this rightly seems a monstrous thing : 
 Alternatives force us to dreadful deeds. 
 My daughter does not know the world, and I 
 Have no intent of teaching her these things. 
 He loves her in his way, no doubt of that. 
 And with the riches that he has, can make 
 Her life an easy and a pleasant one. 
 
20 THM PLUIOCIIAT. 
 
 And then — and then — I know the thought is sin, 
 But drowning people often catch at straws — 
 He's old — he cannot live forever ! 
 
 Eenrij. Old! 
 
 His age can never save the stain of wrong. 
 Though Alice lived with all material gifts 
 She still would suffer for the loss of love. 
 That sinful bond, that gilded misery 
 Would break her heart ; and hearts like hers are 
 
 born 
 For love, which is the sunshine of her Hfe. 
 
 Ida. But if she does not marry him she then 
 WiR feel the taste of poverty, and that 
 Has power to imbitter the whole soul ; 
 It sears the heart and makes the conscience hard ; 
 It crushes out the thought of nobler things — 
 And more in women than it does in men. 
 I then but choose what seems the smaller Ul. 
 'Tis natural to seek the hammer's part 
 Than to be made the hammer-beaten plate. 
 
 Henry. It seems to me you fear this man too 
 much. 
 Is he a giant with a Titan's strength. 
 That right dare not oppose his cruel might '? 
 
 Ida. Yes, I do fear him, I confess to that ; 
 I have no doubt that I should seal our doom 
 If I opposed him. Yes, I fear him miich : 
 
TBE PLVIOCBAT. 21 
 
 Not for myself, but more for those I love. 
 If he had seen you here you would be marked, 
 'Twould be enough to make you lose your place. 
 Henry. Your fear seems almost superstitious ; 
 
 but 
 Don't fear for me — no need of that as yet ; 
 I shall now try by deeds, and not by words, 
 To merit your esteem, perhaps your love. 
 I will defy this ravager of homes ! 
 He's wronged you — that is plain and quite 
 
 enough ; 
 And if his power were ten times as great, 
 He should yet pay for that. 
 
 Ida. Control yourself ! 
 
 Think not of me ; I've learned to bear it aU ; 
 And I implore you, pray you, for your sake. 
 Do nothing rash, be not so fierce ! Your rage 
 WiU but destroy yourself, not injure him, 
 And I should feel that I had been the cause. 
 Be warned in time of my depressing fate — 
 That those who loved me and whom I have 
 
 loved 
 Have met an early doom. Be warned in time ! 
 Henry. [Aside] Yet death were welcome l£ it 
 
 were for her ! 
 [Aloud] Your views are gloomy, but I shall be 
 
 warned. 
 
•22 THE I'LVTUCIUT. 
 
 Still let me make one last and great endeavor ; 
 If I made no effort I could feel 
 No comfort in mj^ after-life. To fail 
 Is possible, but failing in a cause 
 So good is better than to fail to act. 
 I still could have the vision of a true, 
 A sweet, angelic woman blessing me. 
 That thoiight can make me now serene, and fit 
 For superliuman struggles. Trust mj' strength. 
 Ida. You are a strange, a very strange young 
 man, 
 Unlike the ordinary types we meet. 
 And yet your instincts, I can feel, are true. 
 But those with loftiest aims ai-e often known 
 To be misled. The truest, noblest minds 
 Are in perpetual danger. True it is 
 That common men stay in their common sphere, 
 "While those with lofty aims can never rest. 
 They strive to spur their common clay and fly. 
 And often fall to depths of sad despair. 
 Before you try to fight a man like West 
 Remember aU the chances of defeat. 
 I must compose myself ; I'm now a prey 
 To my emotions, and I need some rest ; 
 In such a state I should not greet my child, 
 And she will soon 1 )c' here. You'll pardon me 
 If in the garden I collect myself. 
 
THE PLUrOCllAT. 23 
 
 And you, if nothing calls you hence in haste, 
 Might linger till she conies. [Exit Ida. 
 
 Henry. Am I a madman or am I a villain 1 
 Who's this woman '? Who this creatm-e fair 
 That fills my breast with this soul-burning fire ? 
 Wliat did she say of her depressing fate — 
 " That those who loved me and whom I have loved 
 Have met an early doom." If she loves me 
 Perhaps my end is near. But this is raving. 
 Can she love one who deserves contempt? 
 Am I a madman or am I a villain ? 
 Where's my sense of honor f Has it gone ? 
 Where is my pride, the master of my heart f 
 Is it before her beaiity dashed to pieces 1 
 Where's my guardian angel, to withstand 
 The mighty devil who has hold of me ? 
 Here in the first hoiir of a strong temptation 
 I'm a traitor to the truest, piu-est, 
 And most trusting girl that ever breathed ! 
 There is no punishment too hard for me ! 
 I must despise myself : I am no man, 
 I am a base, a mean, and heartless wretch ! 
 I wrong them both, the mother and her girl ! 
 But I will save them — save them from this West, 
 And then, perhaps, must save them from myself. 
 Who am a danger also in their path. 
 
24 THE FLVTOCBAT. 
 
 Enter Alice. 
 
 AUcv. Where is my mother? Henry! Is it 
 you? 
 But how you look ! What aUs you, boy ? You're 
 
 pale. 
 Why dou't you speak to me? Is this your 
 
 welcome 
 For your little Alice, home again ? 
 
 Henry. Your mother's in the garden, I beheve. 
 
 Alice. How bad you are to keep me in sus- 
 pense. 
 Quick, what has happened, haughty, naughty boy ! 
 I hope you did not lose the book I sent. 
 
 Henry. I lost myself — 
 
 Alice. Do not torment me so. 
 
 What makes you look so grave ? What are your 
 
 thoughts ? 
 You will not tell ? O, then you do not love 
 JMe half so much as I do you. 
 
 Henry. Ah ! dou't ! 
 
 Don't say I d(j not love you. 'Tis not true ! 
 But well I know I never shall deserw 
 A love so pure as yours. BelieAe me, child, 
 All j^our sweet gentleness and charming grace 
 Arc tlirown away upon a, worthless lad, 
 Who cannot reach the summit of your love. 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 25 
 
 Alice. Thank God that this is all! I know 
 yoiir worth- 
 It makes me prouder than the proudest girl. 
 Be cheerful, and let sunlight have your face ; 
 Kiss me for welcome, call me little pet, 
 Then you'll forget your cares. 
 
 Senry. Alas, my pet ! 
 
 You are too good. If you but knew the truth ! 
 
 Alice. Don't be so solemn, it is not becoming ; 
 You're not like yourself, and I prefer 
 Your usual mood. Be good, or I shall- scold ! 
 And now enough of that ; take me to her. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Garden. 
 
 Alice. And was there ever happier girl than I ? 
 A loving mother is the greatest boon, 
 A mother who could move a heart of stone. 
 I'm sure I don't deserve such happiness. 
 Yet I can't love you more than I do now. 
 My only, dearest mother ! Take my heart, 
 'Tis aU I have. 
 
 Ida. And you have mine, my dear. 
 
 Throughout the lonely years of separation 
 Love for you has grown to greater strength. 
 
 Alice. And so it has with me. I'm angry quite 
 At Uncle West, he came so many times, 
 
•2i} THE I'LUTOCliAT. 
 
 And brought me candy, dresses, books, and gems, 
 
 But never brought me back to you. He said : 
 
 " Youi- education first, and then the pleasure." 
 
 Henry's uncle was to me a father, 
 
 Yet I missed a mother's tender care. 
 
 How often have I begged of Uncle West 
 
 To bring you. How I scolded, wept, and raged. 
 
 But aU in vain ; he stood there Hke a rock. 
 
 Unmoved by tears. I don't know why, because 
 
 In other things he was so generous. 
 
 [To Henry] Now don't make such a face, you siUy 
 
 boy! 
 Or are you even jealous of my uncle? 
 Come ! Why are you so mysterious ? 
 Perhaps you've read a novel, fell in love 
 With some fair heroine. A tragic thought ! 
 But I absolve you, though I'm madly jealous. 
 And exact that you shall tell her name. 
 Who is she ? Let the fearful secret out ! 
 
 Hpiiry. [Aside] Unconsciouslyyou're very near 
 the truth ; 
 For real life has hardy heroines 
 And beauty greater than that set in books. 
 [A/oiid] No, no, I read no novels now — in fact, 
 I hardly find the necessary tune. 
 
 A lice. What a relief ! This f enr is of£ my 
 mind ! 
 
THE FLVIOCRAT. ^1 
 
 Now I'll be niei-iy ; l)e yt)ii meriy too ! 
 Dou't look so very stupid, Henry, please ; 
 What will my mother tliiuk of you ? 
 
 Henry. You're right, 
 
 You're right, my dear, but she'll excuse the sin ; 
 She is contented with your love, she notes 
 No mood of mine. You are her life and joy. 
 And though you give to her your utmost love 
 You cannot give her all that she deserves. 
 
 Ida. My child, yt)u must be just ; you do not 
 know 
 The many things that sometimes trouble men. 
 We can't be always merry. 
 
 Alice. He has been. 
 
 Why can't he be so now '? If he has troubles 
 I must share them^ — it's my sacred right. 
 [To Henry] And I insist on it, I want to know, 
 Or make more troiible for j'ou, sir ! 
 
 Henry. Ah, well ! 
 
 Here is a willful little chatterbox ! 
 My earnest thoughts but touched prosaic busi-' 
 ness. 
 
 Alice. Even so, it is my business still ! 
 But let that pass. You keep your gloomy 
 
 thoughts, 
 And tell me something sweet. 
 
 Henry. In you I could 
 
28 THE PLUTOCRAT. 
 
 Find subjects sweet enough if I might find 
 Words fit to picture one too good for earth. 
 Alice. Shall I take wings and fly away to 
 heaven ? 
 If I were safely there what would you do 
 Without your little prattler ? 
 
 Ida. Don't, my child ! 
 
 Pray, teU me something of your life in school. 
 
 Henry. Yes, do so, dear, I must go to my work. 
 And, Alice, pray for my success this time. 
 
 Alice. That I'll do willingly, with cheerful 
 heart ; 
 If it depends on that, then you may hope. 
 For my best wishes always go with you. 
 
 {Exit Henry. 
 
 What can he mean? He truly frightened 
 
 me! 
 
 Ida. I cannot tell you, child, at least not now. 
 
 Alice. If you know aU, then there can be no 
 
 wrong. 
 Ida. Yet for all that he acted a strange part ; 
 I must confess I cannot fathom him. 
 You're much attached to him, 'tis clearly seen : 
 Your love seems even stronger than his own. 
 Alice. Yes, mother dear, my love is without 
 boi:nds ; 
 With every fiber of my heart I love ! 
 
THE FLUTOCMAT. 29 
 
 He'll marry me as soon as lie has won 
 The battle for the money that he needs ; 
 And though his struggle lasted ten long years, 
 Or longer still, I faithfully could wait. 
 
 Ida. O, what a Httle foolish girl you are, 
 My hopeful child ! Just let me tell you now 
 That all these hopes are buUt on shifting sand. 
 And both of you are children — nothing more. 
 
 Alice. I know his talent, and I do not doubt 
 His triumph. 
 
 Ida. Child, your foolishness must cease. 
 
 'Tis hard your dreams should vanish, but they 
 
 must. 
 You'll soon have grown a woman. 
 
 Alice. Yes, I know. 
 
 Yet, if I do, can't I then marry him 1 
 He often swore he could but live with me. 
 Why should I loll him when I love him so 1 
 
 Ida. Men do not die of that peculiar ill. 
 How many have thus spoken to your mother ! 
 Most of them, I think, are still alive. 
 
 Alice. They're not like him, he never told a lie. 
 
 Ida. O, foolish child, think something of your 
 future ! 
 
 Alice. He's my future, he's my guiding star, 
 And I shall follow him through dark or light. 
 Prom earliest years we have each other loved : 
 
30 THE FLUTOCBAT. 
 
 There is no truer, dearer lad than he. 
 We played together, and he guarded me. 
 When I was ill he watched for many nights 
 Faithfidly at my bedside, reading tales, 
 And in the morning he went oif to work. 
 Whenever it was sought to make him cease, 
 He cried, I know, as if his heart would break. 
 Why should I turn from such a love as that ? 
 
 Ida. You take too seriously, my dearest child. 
 What young men say. They are not always 
 
 true. 
 And like to fly from flower to other flower. 
 
 Alice. I can't distrust him, and I never wiU : 
 Distrust him is Hke doubting of my life ; 
 He is my aU, and I can trust in him. 
 He is romantic — who finds fault with that '? — 
 But that he's false I never can believe. 
 And even if he ceased to love but me, 
 I should resign to give my Henry joy 
 Were my own heart to break in the attempt ! 
 
 Ida. Ahce, how sublime, how good you aie ! 
 I am ashamed to have you tortured, child. 
 Forgive me — I wiU try to set aright 
 That which I've turned. Now go and see your 
 
 room. 
 How gayly I haw dressed i( for my girl; 
 I'll gvt some flower.s and soon will join you thei'e. 
 
'IMJi I'LtJTOCllJT. iJl 
 
 Alice. But first give me a hearty, hearty kiss ! 
 
 [Exit Alice. 
 
 Ida. Shall I be treacherous to my only child, 
 And undermine the bliss that fills her heart ? 
 Must I not spare her such a fate as mine, 
 And let her worldly welfare be the aim 
 That solely is to be considered now 1 
 Or shall I leave her in her happy dream, 
 And thereby di'ag her to a certain doom ? 
 But will her heart not break if I refuse 
 To give consent to such a luckless match ? 
 Have I a right, then, to deny her that 
 For which I paid so dear ? Is there no hope ? 
 Can't Henry save us ? He has said he would, 
 Though I don't see how he can meet the task. 
 He lacks, it seems, not com'age nor good- wilt, 
 Yet some essential to complete success. 
 But I will act myself, will try once more 
 With all my might to move West's stubborn mind. 
 If I should tell him of their mutual love, 
 He cannot love or well demand a wife 
 Who could but hate him, though he turn her heart 
 From all she loved and ever cherished there. 
 God give me strength for this, my last attempt, 
 And bless me in my fight for my dear child ! 
 
 [Exit Ida. 
 
32 I'SE FLUTOCRAT. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. Entrance to VTest's Private Office. 
 
 George. O, save yourself the trouble, Jack, my 
 boy, 
 You'U try in vain to move that fat old sinner. 
 Jdcli. I must risk it, G-eorge ; my poor wife's 
 life 
 Depends on the result. 
 
 George. I wish you luck ! [Ast(?e] I'm sorrj- 
 for his wife ; 
 If it depends on West, her life is lost. 
 
 [Exit George. 
 
 Scene II. Wesfs Private Office. 
 
 Jacl: Good-morning, sir ; if I do not intrude, 
 I'd like to ask a moment of your time. 
 
 West. What is it, Jack? Come to the point! 
 You know 
 I can't afford to make a waste of time, 
 For time is money. 
 
 Jack. Yes, I will be short. 
 
 The thing is this : I need a trifle, sir, 
 To buy some wine and meat for my sick wife. 
 The doctor's fees, the medicine, and all 
 
THE PLVIOCliAT. 33 
 
 The many little things that must be paid 
 Have swept away the little that I saved, 
 And now — 
 
 West. You think that I shaU be in haste 
 
 To offer you my pm-se, to be a fool ! 
 You're sadly wrong, my friend; times are too 
 
 hard: 
 I could not spare a cent just now if 'twere 
 To save a soul. In fact, if truth were known 
 To all, I sacrificed myself for you. 
 Instead of living on my revenues 
 I put my cash in these confounded mills, 
 To give your people work, improve your state, 
 To make you more content, to show you all 
 What generous men can do. I did my best, 
 And now I'm on the brink of ruin. Jack. 
 
 Jach. I thought that everything went very 
 
 well, 
 Because at present we work day and night. 
 
 West. The more the pity f For my sleepless 
 
 nights. 
 For all the anguish of a feeling heart, 
 I have no profits, and, I fear, no thanks. 
 J(icl(. Think of my dying wife, my children 
 
 poor! 
 What will become of them if they're bereft 
 Of her? Think— 
 
34 THE I'LVTOCliAT. 
 
 West. Yes, I do think, Jack. Of what f 
 
 I think now of a time six years ago : 
 You l:)oiT(_iwed money from a friend of yours 
 To wed your wife. I said the day would come 
 When yoii would rue that foolish step. You 
 
 laughed. 
 Now it has come ! You've hungry children, Jack, 
 And a sick wife. Is it my fault or yours? 
 With wanton, reckless wish for worldly joys 
 You've ruined your life — ruined their lives, too. 
 Hei-e, look at me ! You did not see me marry, 
 Though I could afford it ere bad luck 
 Had made me buy these mouey-eatiug mills. 
 
 Jdch. You can deduct it from my wages, but 
 For God's sake, sir, give me some money now ! 
 
 West. I pity you, but, as I've plainly said, 
 I cannot spare a cent. 
 
 Jacl-. 0, what a world ! 
 
 West. Be silent ! do not dai-e to curse this 
 world ! 
 Against me you nia_v turn, but don't rebel 
 Against the Maker of this best of worlds ! 
 
 .Jdcl,'. sir, you will not di'i\ e to desperation 
 One who's served you faithfully for years ! 
 Gi'ant me this favor, or, liy (iod — 
 
 West. Be quiet ! 
 
 \To iiilniiKj Poiiir] What do you want? 
 
THE i'LVTUCilAT. ;J5 
 
 Porter. The superintendent wants to see you, 
 
 and 
 
 He says it is on urgent business, sir. 
 
 ^Yest. Then let him enter. [To JacT{] Jack, 
 
 you may retire : 
 
 I pardon you this mad, unholy wrath. 
 
 JarJ;. If my wife dies you shall repent this 
 
 hour! 
 
 [Eieiiid JacJc and Porter. 
 
 Enter Henry. 
 
 West. You saw this fellow Jack come out of 
 here : 
 As soon as possible discharge that man. 
 
 Henry. He is a faithful man ; what will he do ? 
 He has no money, and caimot be idle. 
 
 ^Yest. Let him hang himself: it helps his 
 views 
 About this woiid among the growling mob ! 
 Henry. Beware, you might be sealing your own 
 
 doom! 
 West. No, I'm just sealing mj own banknote- 
 packs. 
 Henry. When arguments are scarce, display 
 
 your gold 1 
 West. Possession of it is no crime as yet. 
 Shall I be ostracized because I'm rich ? 
 
'S() THE PLUTOCIUT. 
 
 Henry. Shall they be crowded down because 
 
 they're poor ? 
 West. They are oppressors, never the op- 
 pressed ; 
 They do not care for justice or for law. 
 Henry. Unjust they may be, but no more than 
 you; 
 They may be lawless, but no more than you ; 
 Your actions don't inspire respect for law. 
 And it is you who breed this lawlessness. 
 If law were founded on eternal truth, 
 It coiild be taken as the safest guide ; 
 But it knows naught of moral right or wrong — 
 In spite of law you've bested brawn and brain. 
 West. Ungrateful men alone can speak like 
 
 you. 
 Henry. Shades of the dead inventors, rise and 
 see 
 The princely fortunes made by Plutocrats 
 Who sold your brains, and let you go to law 
 To gain a trifle of your own creation, 
 Then behold your murky paupers' graves — 
 The monuments of rich men's gratitude, 
 The proud mementoes of the mighty law 
 Which would have done yoii justice, had you 
 
 lived 
 To f oUow patiently its tedious coiirse ; 
 
THE PLUTOCMAT. ;J7 
 
 Aud then subdue all feelings of revenge, 
 But bless and praise this great Plutocracy ! 
 
 West. It gets along without a special bless- 
 ing. 
 
 Henry. You're protected ! Who protects your 
 men? 
 The government fights only for the rich, 
 And leaves the poor to battle for themselves. 
 To-day the workingman is at your mercy ! 
 
 West. We take care of him as best we can. 
 
 Henry. A noble duty to protect the poor ! 
 What higher mission can there be in life '? 
 You can make thousands happy and content ; 
 Your life will be a curse if you refuse. 
 It's greater to be loved than to rouse hate ! 
 
 West. I do not mind the hate or love of men ; 
 I run these mills to please myself alone. 
 
 Henry. Don't go too far, do not imbitter them. 
 Don't try to starve them into meek despair. 
 If you don't heed the spirit of the times 
 Two formidable armies will arise — 
 United poverty, united wealth : 
 Their final clashing is a certainty, 
 The peaceful struggle wiU become a war. 
 And then the outcome cannot be in doubt. 
 
 West. The tyranny of ignorance is death, 
 And may I die before I see its dawn ! 
 
38 '^'HJi PLUTOCllAT. 
 
 Henrij. Who speaks of tyranny? You fear 
 too much ! 
 
 West. Do not enlighten me as to my men — 
 I know them well ; they've taught me how to act. 
 Throw btit a crumb to the most vicious cur, 
 It licks your hand to show its gratitude. 
 Not so your noble-minded workingman : 
 He is above such silly sentiment. 
 "With tiger's wi-ath he tears the proffering hand ; 
 He knows no feeling and he shows no thought, 
 And strike and boycott are his arguments ! 
 
 Henrij. They learned from you to use such 
 arguments. 
 
 West. When they went out on strike some 
 years ago, 
 And everything was left to waste and rot, 
 When through malevolence a milhon fell, 
 They boastingly proclaimed it a great deed. 
 If I refuse to pay more than agreed 
 It's called a crime, capitalistic theft ! 
 
 Henry. What you agree to is compelled from 
 them! 
 
 West. Now, every one is molder of his fate — 
 He is the product of his own exertions. 
 Persevering genius will prevail. 
 They want to own what others built, they put 
 A premium on mediocrity. 
 
TEE PLUTOCEAT. 39 
 
 0, what a vision of theii" future state, 
 With Mr. Walkiug Delegate as king, 
 That prince of impudence and laziness. 
 That most exacting, most despotic lord. 
 O, what a travesty on liberty ! 
 And how all brainy men would ever pray 
 For the returning of that glorious reign 
 Of what they're pleased to caU Plutocracy ! 
 Plutocracy ! that feeds the mUhons who 
 Are forging weapons to destroy their peers. 
 Plutocracy ! whose freedom's unsui-passed. 
 Which makes the earth a real paradise. 
 
 Henry. For aU the allies of the Plutocrats ! 
 
 ^Yest. Yes, money, might, and merit, hand in 
 hand : 
 Tear them apart, and what will then remain ? 
 What have ambitious men to battle for I 
 Their masses, mediocrity, and meanness 
 Can't appeal to men like you and me. 
 
 Henry. It seems that notliing can appeal to 
 you. 
 
 West. I want to be the master in my house : 
 I own it, no one else, and I wiU rule ! 
 And if they want to strike, I am prepared. 
 Woe to the fools who dare to cross my path ! 
 Enough of this. Now let's to your affairs. 
 What may it be, young man ? 
 
40 'J-'HE PLUTOCRAT. 
 
 Henry. It is of great importance, sir ; I try 
 To win my happiness and that of friends. 
 
 West. I'm satisfied you should, my honored 
 sir, 
 But what has that to do with me, I beg? 
 Henry. More than I wish ! For, if I must 
 confess, 
 You are the one who's standing in my way. 
 
 ^¥est. Be plain : I'm no expert in raving, sir ; 
 If you expect a higher salary. 
 Just say so, and I'll pay it willingly. 
 At present I can't well dispense with you. 
 
 Henry. It is not that ! 'Tis that you want to 
 take 
 What is to me most beautiful on earth ! 
 
 ^Vest. Young man, explain! 'Twould scarce 
 be worth my while 
 To take from you the little you possess. 
 Henry. I have no wealth, but mine's at least a 
 heart 
 Which aU the money of the world can't buy ! 
 West. It is not strange that you possess a 
 heart. 
 But so do I and all our fellow-men ; 
 And as to buying hearts, you can be calm. 
 Henry. No, I cannot, for you have plainly 
 dared 
 
THE FLUTOCHJT. 41 
 
 To try and buy, like vulgar money's worth, 
 The heart of Alice Field, my bride. 
 
 West. What? Alice Field? Yom- bride? 
 
 Henry. Is it so strange ? 
 
 West. Yes, strange indeed, for I am her 
 betrothed ! 
 
 Henri/. You her betrothed? Don't you pre- 
 sume too much ? 
 She never loved you, and she never will. 
 Her heart is mine, and I won't part with it. 
 You're warned : leave her alone ! Grold is not all ! 
 If need, we still have laws. 
 
 West. Yes, laws enough, 
 
 And a society that does prevent 
 All cruelty to animals and such. 
 What have you to complain of ? Pray go on, 
 I am the president of that relief. 
 
 Henry. A worthy president ! 
 
 West. I'm glad you think so. But to our own 
 case: 
 It stiU remains to see who is to blame — 
 I, who will strew her path with roses fair. 
 Or you, who with your love wUl without fail 
 Drag Alice on to darkest misery. 
 Is that your love ? I never loved like that ! 
 
 Henry. How can jon speak of love, a man like 
 
 you, 
 
42 THE rLVTOCIUT. 
 
 With such a withered, selfish, stony heart ? 
 Care not for me : I'm young, and my whole life 
 Will be devoted to her happiness. 
 
 ^Yest. But you can faU, and, I might add, you 
 wUl. 
 
 Henry. Is this a threat ? 
 
 ^Yest. Take it for what you please. 
 
 Henrij. But I defy you: yours she'll never 
 be. 
 A man hke you, long past the prime of hfe. 
 Wants yet a youthful angel for his wife ? 
 
 West. If I am old, and if my end is near, 
 'Tis but a reason more she should be mine, 
 And more so as 'tis rather doubtful now 
 That I'H enjoy sweet angels' company 
 When I am dead. If you can check yom' love 
 And wait till then, you'll have a widow fair 
 And milUons yet into the bargain. 
 
 Henry. No, 
 
 Not for a minute shall the girl be yours. 
 Beware, if you persist in the attempt. 
 
 West. I must, it is too late, I can't go back ; 
 There is too much invested in this thing, 
 And now I want to reap the pi'oflts due. 
 
 Henrij. You heartless wretch ! Can you 
 expect a girl 
 To love a man who — 
 
THE I'LUTOCIUT. 43 
 
 }Vevt. Is iu love with her, 
 
 Has uo good looks, but plenty of good cash f 
 Of course I do ! 'Twill take some time, I thiuk, 
 But I am patient, and you ought to know 
 That it takes more than love to be content. 
 Ask Mrs. Field. 
 
 Henry. Don't dare to speak of her ! 
 
 Whate'er she's done, she's but a woman, weak. 
 And you have planned your worst to make her feel 
 The great, the cruel pains life has in store 
 For those who well deserved its choicest joys. 
 She is as high above you — 
 
 West. As the stars. 
 
 You're right, she is a very pretty witch. 
 Much prettier than Alice. Were I yon 
 I should propose to her. She is still young. 
 And— 
 
 Henri/. One word more, try but to speak iu jest 
 Of her whom I respect, whom I'll protect 
 Against such creeping snakes as I deem you — 
 Say one word more, and I'll do something, sir. 
 That could not well be undone. 
 
 West. I'U be still; 
 
 But pray keep cool, and let's not come to blows : 
 Such exercise does not agree with me. 
 
 Henry. I see that naught can move this cynic 
 wretch ! 
 
44 THE FLUTOUIAT. 
 
 West. Just what I thought myself; but be so 
 kind 
 And move yourself : I'm rather busy, sir — 
 
 Henry. I go, for I can't hope. 
 
 West. Why not, sii", pray ? 
 
 Why can't you hope — who wiU prevent you, 
 
 friend! 
 Hope, by all means ; for hope is happiness. 
 
 Senry. I'm done with you! Henceforth it 
 shall be war, 
 War to the knife ! 
 
 West. So be it ! To the knife ! 
 
 [Exit Henry. 
 AH seems against me, but I'm not the man 
 To now retreat, to calmly take defeat 
 When I'm so near my aim. I will not tire ; 
 I'U fight it out as if it were for life ! 
 Is't only young men's privilege to love f 
 Have I not loved ? Did I not meet defeat 
 Through one whom I at last ran down ? Ah, yes ! 
 Have I not waited through these many years 
 To win the daughter when I lost the mother 'l 
 Jove, I swear that she shall yet be mine ! 
 The fool seemed much more ardently in love 
 With Ida than with Alice. His quick wrath 
 Betrayed him plainly. This might be of use : 
 At Icnsf I'll try. Tlio chavms of Ida Field 
 
THE PLUTOCIUT. J-5 
 
 Might make an angel fall : I'U watch them both. 
 I know she hates me. And if aU means fail 
 The pinch of want can tame the stoutest hearts 
 I have no time to lose, I'U go to work 
 At once ; there is too much at stake. 
 
 Enter Portbe. 
 
 Porter. A lady — Mrs. Field. 
 West. Is welcome here 
 
 [Exit Porter. 
 
 Enter Ida. 
 
 West. By Jove ! 'tis reaUy you, my charming 
 friend ; 
 You come to see me — that's indeed sm-prise ! 
 But nowadays aU joys are crowding me. 
 If I were vain, without humility, 
 I'd think you were in love with me at last. 
 'Tis but of rare occurrence that we meet ; 
 This is the first time I have seen you here. 
 
 Ida. The first, and, I will hope, the last time 
 too; 
 But I've not come to be tormented. West. 
 
 West. Does love for me torment you ? 
 
 Ida. No, not that ! 
 
 West. I'm sorry for it ! What a fool I am ! 
 How could I think she was in love "with me 
 
46 TEE FLUTOCBAT. 
 
 When she has such a young and dashing lad 
 Who loves her to complete distraction. 
 
 Ida. Stop ! 
 
 This is too much ! Do not insult me, sir ! 
 
 West. Why, don't you know a Mr. Henry, 
 friend ? 
 
 Ida. And if I do ? What can you say of him ? 
 
 West. He only swore to me he loved — admii'ed, 
 Adored you, would protect and rescue you. 
 He nearly broke my nose for you alone. 
 If that's not love, why, tell me, what, then, is ? 
 
 Ida. It is a lie, the basest you've yet told. 
 In this you can't so easily deceive : 
 I know that Henry loves my little girl. 
 
 West. I won't say that's a lie, but I do doubt. 
 He spoke of Alice too — 'twas tamely, though, 
 Whereas for you he was aU fire and flame. 
 Perhaps this goes to prove he loves you both, 
 And rather than lose either he'd take two, 
 And travel on to Salt Lake's famous town. 
 Tis not a bad idea ! He shows wit ! 
 His taste, indeed, is better than his ways. 
 
 Ida. Pray, save the trouble of insulting him ; 
 Your labor's lost on me. I did not come 
 To hear my friends besmirched and jeered by you ; 
 But I have come to tell you, once for all. 
 You must resign all hope of claiming hei'. 
 
Tii£ plvtochat. 47 
 
 You cannot force her to become your wife, 
 And I would rather die than aid such force. 
 'Twould be her death. She does love Henry, and 
 No power on earth could put her love in doubt ; 
 I've tried it once, but utterly in vain. 
 
 West. That test remains to be more fuUy 
 
 made: 
 There are so many ways which lead to Rome. 
 But, verily, I'm sorry for this man ! 
 His immorality is truly sad ! 
 I must discharge him, bring hiin to himself — 
 I owe't to you and to my fellow-men. 
 
 Ida. Beware, let Henry stay! For once bo 
 
 kind ! 
 West. Be kind ! Who ever taught me to l.)e 
 
 kind ? 
 Has ever any one been kind to me ? 
 From early chUdhood daj's I've been abused, 
 Been trampled on and kicked, despised and 
 
 shunned. 
 For what ? Because I was a nameless waif. 
 If kindness could be bred by cruel blows 
 I should be kind, but it cannot, my friend ; 
 'Tis mockery to say to me : Be kind ! 
 
 Ida. Gro not too far with this ; restrain your 
 
 hate. 
 West. Don't speak of hate; the word is sinister. 
 
J:8 2'iif^' I'LVTOVliAT. 
 
 Don't call an ugly child by ugly uames : 
 Speak rather of my duty — that is i)lain. 
 It is my duty to remove this man. 
 Moreover, I must warn all righteous folks 
 That such a man is dangerous to employ. 
 
 Ida. Pray, spare him ! Rather vent your 
 wrath on me, 
 And let this pair enjoy their blissful dream. 
 West, live a better life, God is not dead ! 
 Fear His rebuke ! Though He waits patiently. 
 If once the measure be too fuU, He then 
 Can strike you but the harder for your sins. 
 
 Wcfit. I don't believe my measure to be full ; 
 It can still hold a goodly draught, I think : 
 If it mins over through a fault of mine, 
 I've been a blockhead, and I'LL humbly bow 
 To whatsoever is by Fate decreed. 
 But I feel very well just now, my dear, 
 In expectation of my happiness. 
 I am quite ^ure you will not cross my path. 
 For if you help this wild and daring man 
 You are in danger too ; my righteous duty 
 Then extends to you and yours as well. 
 And, verily, 'twould be a lasting shame 
 When two such beauties had to beg for alms. 
 May Heaven but turn a thing so sad to see. 
 
 Idii. You know too well my vulnerable point ! 
 
TBJi PLVl'OCllAT. 49 
 
 You know it is not for myself I fear ; 
 
 You know you hurt me most in those I love ; 
 
 You know it, scoundrel, far too weU ; you use 
 
 The fact to further all your wicked schemes. 
 
 May God forgive, but I cannot forgive — 
 
 I can't suppress my hate, 'twill choke me here ! 
 
 I must give vent to it, and if by words 
 
 I could now kUI you, 'twould be joy for me 
 
 Were I for years to suffer and repent. 
 
 Ah, my poor Alice, must it come to that ? 
 
 God ! canst Thou leave us in this demon's grasp ? 
 
 If we are tried on earth so hard, O Lord, 
 
 Then even heaven itself cannot console. 
 
 West. How beautiful, how ravishingly grand ! 
 I never saw such beauty in my life ! 
 You are sublime, an angel stiU in Avrath ! 
 And if, then, Alice loves this raving fool, 
 I'll let them marry, if you'U be my wife. 
 
 Ida. At this price, no ! For I would rather die 
 Than marry you ! I loathe you so. 
 
 West. You do f 
 
 I then shall stick to Alice, if I must : 
 Then you're at least my handsome, doting mother. 
 Who will have me for a loving son. 
 As for that coy, reluctant love of hers, 
 I think that I can win it quite alone 
 If you will promise not to interfere 
 
50 THE PLUTOCnAT. 
 
 And not to tell lier all about the past. 
 
 I do not need your help — I'm strong enough, 
 
 And know the arts of little love-affairs. 
 
 Ida. It tears my heart. I jiromise to obey ; 
 But if you harm a hair on Henrj^'s head 
 You mU repent the hour — for in that boy 
 I see a manly faith, a noble soul. 
 I'd find no rest if any harm met him. 
 
 West. I'll harm no hair on your dear Henry's 
 head, 
 
 no, not one ! Though well he'd spare one hair. 
 Don't be afraid, I will not pluck his hair : 
 Except for him and you it has no value. 
 
 Ida. Wicked monster, how I hate you now ! 
 More than I ever hated you before ; 
 And more than you and all on earth can hate ! 
 But 'tis in vain ; therefore I go and leave 
 My curse tenthousandf old with you ! 
 
 West. A single hearty one will do, my dear ; 
 If not, relieve yourself, do not mind me. 
 
 1 am forgiving — you ought to forgive, 
 Or you will go to the fifth steep in heU, 
 As sings the poet of infernal deeps. 
 
 [Exit Ida. 
 Ah, what a woman ! What a marvelous gem ! 
 Were all like her, I could admire the sex ! 
 I've hated her, and she deserved my hate ; 
 
THE PLVTOGBAT. 51 
 
 But had I hated her as she believes, 
 She would not be among the living now. 
 With aU my fiery hate I've loved her wildly — 
 Which the most, the devU only knows ; 
 Yet be it what it may, be't love or hate, 
 She is my only heiress ; when I'm dead 
 My gold may heal the wounds which hate in- 
 flicts. 
 And it is hers by that which fools call right. 
 Her husband was my partner : at the start 
 He had the money, I, experience ; 
 Before he died the tables were just turned, 
 He had experience, I had the rest. 
 
 [Exit West. 
 
 Scene III. A Factory Yard. 
 
 Henry. Yes, Jack, 'tis true ! You are to be 
 discharged. 
 But I will try my best to keep you here. 
 Still, in the meantime, look for other work. 
 He would not listen to my warm remonstrance. 
 All my words in your behalf were lost. 
 
 Jacli. Then I can't even hope for other work. 
 What did he tell you? 
 
 Henry. Jack, leave that untold. 
 
 Jack. But why not speak ? I shan't expect too 
 much : 
 
52 I'UE I'lvtuchaT. 
 
 Tell me the truth ; perhaps it might relieve 
 To know the worst that can be said of me. 
 
 Henrij. Well, Jack, he said that you might 
 hang yourself — 
 Illustrate thus your views about this world 
 Among the growling mob ! 
 
 Jach. I thought as much. 
 
 A pleasant man, a kind of humorist. 
 So I should hang myself — a good advice : 
 The man is right, it's not a bad idea. 
 
 Henrij. I teU you this for your own good, 
 friend Jack, 
 To show you there's no hope of help from him. 
 You know I have no power to keep you here ; 
 I am a slave myself as much as you. 
 If I could help you, Jack, it should be done. 
 But I won't stay here longer than yourself. 
 I may be forced to leave this place to-day ; 
 And willingly my steps shall turn, for here, 
 Where wrong and evil gain the victory. 
 Is no good place for honest, feeliiig men. 
 Yet don't despair, and hope for better days ! 
 
 Jach. I won't despair. There must be yet a 
 God. 
 Good-bye ! [Exit Jack. 
 
 Henry. Unhappy Jack ! Unhappy man ! 
 Oppressed, enslaved, and toiUng all your life — 
 
TMJi I'LUTOCRAT. 
 
 Oue long-continued struggle for yoiu* bread. 
 And still the want of that distiu'l)s j'our sleep, 
 And fills your soul with bitter mental woe. 
 Your independence is a flimsy sham ! 
 Is this the much-blessed freedom you enjoy? 
 Cursed liberty, this liberty — to die ! 
 
 ACT III. 
 Scene I. Boom in Mrs. Field's House. 
 
 Ida. I knew your efforts would most surely 
 
 fail; 
 And I have had not more success than you. 
 West promised nothing more than that he would 
 Spare me the painful task of helping him. 
 I won't be sacrificed, won't marry one 
 Who has destroyed and wrecked my happy home. 
 Henry. Is he still there to plag^le you with his 
 
 love? 
 Is he still there to lift his eyes to you ? 
 Let him but try to yet prolong the strife, 
 And he shall fight with me for hfe or death. 
 Across my body lies the way to you ; 
 No other man shall ever own yom- heart ! 
 
 Ida. This tone, sir — God, what are the words 
 
 I hear? 
 
54 THE PLUTOCRAT. 
 
 Henry. I know yoii hate him ; if you say the 
 word 
 rU kill him. 
 
 Ida. You can talk of murder, then 1 
 
 0, think of heaven ; may God forgive you, sir ! 
 
 Hen vij. With y( m is heaven, without you — hell ! 
 For one embrace, for one touch of your lips, 
 I'd willingly forego eternity ! 
 
 Ida. Sir, you are mad ! 
 
 Henry. Yes, and I know I'm mad. 
 
 But is not our whole life an insane dream '? 
 What do we live for if 'tis not for joy? 
 From birth till death we hunt for paradise, 
 And mine, I think, I've found in you at last ! 
 
 [Enibraces Ida. 
 
 Ida. O, leave me, leave me, that I may forgive 
 While I stiU can. I must not, will not hate, 
 And only pity stirs within my breast. 
 
 Henry. Do I need pity ? Do not pity me. 
 No, no ! For I now hold you in my arms ! 
 No future joy or terror moves me now : 
 The cup of joy has touched my eager Hps ; 
 Then let me drink it, drink it to the dregs, 
 And I will gladly die ! 
 
 Ida. Now leave me, leave me, or I'll cry for 
 help. 
 If words can't move you, think of Alice ! 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 55 
 
 Henry. [Releasing her] Ah ! 
 
 What have I done in madman recklessness ? 
 Forgiving giiardian angel, help me, help ! 
 To think I should so shamelessly betray 
 The confidence of one so sweet and pure ! 
 In passion I have torn the flower I held, 
 And now, too late, there is no power to save ! 
 
 [Bushes out of the room. 
 
 Ida. 0, wherefore was I born ? What fate is 
 mine 1 
 Why did this deadly beauty come to me ? 
 Why was I made unwillingly a tool 
 Of dire destruction "? 0, thou much-prized gift. 
 What hast thou wrought to me but misery 
 And endless woe f Unruly passions hast 
 Thou kindled in men's breasts, hast blindly led 
 Them to dread deeds, or even crime, for me ! 
 fatal beauty ! Is this all thou gainest "? 
 Then be cursed by me, be cursed and cursed ! • 
 
 Enter West. 
 
 West. Why, my fair friend, in tears again so 
 soon ? 
 Your well of weeping overflows to-day. 
 Now, Ida, do not weep, it spoils your looks. 
 And no admirer of j'our matchless charms 
 Would like to see such sad calamity. 
 
56 THE PLUTOCRAT. 
 
 Ida. If weeping only could destroy the spell, 
 I might be tempted to unceasing tears. 
 Once more my fatal gift has wrought its worst 
 In one who but for this was truly good ; 
 And though he's wronged us both, I pardon him — 
 I only pray that he may yet return 
 To that true love by which he was inspired. 
 West. Ah ! then what I foretold has come to 
 
 pass. 
 Now tell me : was I wrong in what I said ? 
 Ida. I never thought of it, should never 
 
 doubt 
 But for this scene. It is a fearful truth. 
 For God's sake, don't let Alice know this, West, 
 Or I shall teU her of yom- life and deeds. 
 
 ^Vest. No fear of that ; keep but your promise, 
 
 dear. 
 I knew 'twould come, I hardly ever err. 
 I know my men — but one unguarded word 
 Reveals to me their deepest, inmost thoughts, 
 Reveals their strength and all their weakness too. 
 To this I owe my great success in life : 
 It is a precious gift, my stock in trade. 
 That he's out of the -way to me, I vow, 
 Is tidings of a truly welcome kind. 
 
 1(1(1. No doubt of tliat ; I know that you hate 
 
 liim. 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 57 
 
 West. I hate him ? No, I am in love with him. 
 Did I not call him fool, and has he not 
 But proved himself quite worthy of the name ? 
 Hate him? What nonsense! It would be too 
 
 much 
 To hate all those who might be in my way. 
 I only can despise them, but not hate ; 
 And if I trample over hearts or heads, 
 'Tis but as if I trample over worms. 
 For hatred never moves me to rebuke. 
 Hated I have but one. You are the one. 
 And you I never could despise. 
 
 Ida. My thanks. 
 
 Yes, many thanks, that even you admit 
 You've found in me one worthy of your hate. 
 This is, indeed, a flattering remark, 
 And truly gratifying to my heart. 
 Your haughty tone cannot deceive me. West, 
 You're void of every noble thought or wish. 
 I am a woman with a tender heart — 
 Could never look unmoved on others' paras. 
 
 West. Yes, yes, you have a tender heart, my 
 dear; 
 Especially does it soften for this youth. 
 To see me suffer would not give you pain. 
 
 Ida. Why should I wince to see a scoundrel 
 writhe ? 
 
58 THE I'LUTOCBJT. 
 
 West. That's right, my friend, let's play to the 
 old tune, 
 Else we might grow too sentimental ; yet 
 If I have been your devil, you were mine, 
 With all your angel's face and angel's form. 
 That which I am I am through you. 
 
 Ida. That stab 
 
 You've given me before ; but you are wrong : 
 This cowardly excuse your meanness shows ; 
 For I believe that love ennobles men, 
 And you are just the opposite of all 
 That I call noble in the sterner sex. 
 
 West. Perhaps I am, your standard is so high. 
 But what's that now ? We'll let bygones be gone. 
 I came to see my girl ; I came to win 
 Her for my wife. Where is our darling pet ? 
 
 Ida. Then you will win my child without my 
 help "? 
 In faith, it makes me laugh to think of it. 
 She is strong proof against your golden rain, 
 For gifts and honeyed words can't buy her heart. 
 
 West. Who told you, then, that I would hiij 
 with gifts ? 
 
 Ida. Perhaps you may rely on other charms. 
 But I confess they have not yet appeared. 
 
 West. Yes, they were lost on you, 'tis but too 
 true. 
 
XHE FLVTOCBAT. 59 
 
 Why do you tliiiik they must be lost on her ? 
 
 Ida. I only think that even j'ou grow childish. 
 Luck attend you ; may you win the game. 
 But take good care, do not flame up in love : 
 The heavenly fire might burn your brittle heart ! 
 
 ^Yest. Pray save your laugh till you have seen 
 the end, 
 And do not be too playfully inclined, 
 Lest malice yet might bear ill fruit. Take care ! 
 
 Where shaU I find my Alice ? 
 
 Ida. While we spoke 
 
 I heard her sing ; she must be in the house. 
 
 ^Y('st. Then I wiH go and find out where she is, 
 And let us see who'll win the weighty war. 
 
 [Eiit West. 
 
 Ida. How can he win her? Surely not by 
 force. 
 To mention what he heard he dares not do, 
 And if he did he'U find there no belief. 
 Yet I did wrong to thus excite his wrath ; 
 He wore an ugly smile when now he left. 
 But let us hope the best. These crushing scenes 
 Have filled my cup of soi'row to the brim. 
 May Heaven reveal the way to save the lad, 
 Reveal the way to save my chdd and liiiii. 
 
 [Exit Ida. 
 
60 THE FLVTOCKAT. 
 
 Scene II. Music-room in Mrs. Field's Souse. 
 
 Alice. [Singing] 
 
 0, 1 am as happy 
 
 As birds are in spring ; 
 I delight to be merry, 
 
 I gambol and sing. 
 
 And why not be merry ? 
 
 The "world is so fair. 
 Begone every dark look, 
 
 Begone every care ! 
 
 The rain may bestrew us. 
 
 But the clouds must soon part ; 
 
 The world is aU sunlight, 
 For Love's in my heart. 
 
 Unfer West. 
 
 West. You're always mei-ry, Alice, and why 
 not? 
 Why should we be morose, to all a plague, 
 While life with aU its \intold charms and joys 
 Still smiles on us ? Why should we see the dark 
 Where in reality all is but light 
 And happiness 1 Wherefore complain and sigh ? 
 
THE PLUTOCBAT. 61 
 
 Let others pine in feigned, unreal giief, 
 But let us sing, let us be always gay. 
 
 Alice. So let it be, dear uncle ; it is right 
 That we should sing while we are happy yet ; 
 And let us wish to every one good-hick : 
 And down with every sorrow. Let us pray 
 That ah the world be blessed as we are blessed. 
 
 West. So be it. Let us wish good-luck and 
 cheer 
 To all with grief oppressed ; and thou, sweet Love, 
 Who rules supreme the vast domain of hf e, 
 To thee we bow, to thee, a god, we sing. 
 
 Alice. 0, how I pity those who do not love. 
 And are not loved by loved ones in return, 
 For they are poor if they were doubly rich. 
 How rich I am in love, how rich, how rich. 
 And loved by aU. 
 
 West. And not the least by me. 
 
 Alice. And I am truly thankful for it, uncle ; 
 So win mother be, for she loves all 
 Who love me and were kind to me in school. 
 How I love her, that I can only feel. 
 And never teU. 
 
 West. In that, my dear, you're right. 
 
 If ever life's dark clouds should cross your path, 
 And if in hours of trial courage fails. 
 If you cry loud to Grod to send rehef, 
 
62 'J'SH PLVTOCBAX. 
 
 To help you in your hours of agony, 
 
 Look to your mother then — in her you'll find 
 
 More love and help than all the angels give. 
 
 Alice. Dear uncle, I believe you. It is so. 
 
 West. I will not make you sad, my pet, not 
 now. 
 But you cannot requite her faithful love ; 
 No sacrifice of yours can pay the debt. 
 That debt is over great. She's suffered much, 
 But out of aU she came a victor brave. 
 And aU for you. I will not now recount ; 
 It takes too long, and makes me shake mth 
 pain. 
 
 Alice. What do you mean, dear uncle ? 
 
 West. Let it rest, 
 
 My dearest child ; let that rest undisturbed 
 Deep in my breast. 'Tis best. And, so God help, 
 'Tis dead forevermore, not to revive. 
 Therefore, my deai", don't speak of it to her, 
 But help to make her all forget by love. 
 
 Alice. To do this, uncle, shall now be luy aun, 
 And I am thankful that I know of this. 
 
 West. I know your heart, and knew that it 
 would prompt 
 To help me to your mother's happiness. 
 That is one reason why I tell this tale 
 Of suffering and woe. Her fate is mine. 
 
TUB I'LVTOCIUT. 63 
 
 My life I have devoted to her good, 
 
 Her sorrows have been mine, and, so God help, 
 
 Her joys shall yet be mine. 
 
 Alice. You are too kind ! 
 
 What a dear friend you've ever been to us. 
 
 [Kisses West. 
 
 West. Nothing of me, I pray you; leave me 
 ovit. 
 What I have done was done with cheerful heart : 
 Nothing of me, let that not trouble you. 
 I always stood alone in this wide world, 
 And shall thus to my end stand quite alone, 
 A solitary tree, bent down by grief. 
 But such is life ; for others mine is spent, 
 And never did I win a smile from love. 
 Yet I'm content, for I have love deserved ; 
 If 'twas denied 'twas hard, but — let it be. 
 
 Alice. And were you loved by none, you're 
 loved by me. [Kisses West. 
 
 West. That is my only consolation, child. 
 I have much loved. I have been very selfish. 
 Once I thought I could possess the one 
 Who has been life to me — your mother, dear. 
 It could not be : she loved another man, 
 And she was right. I yielded cheerfully, 
 For, as it seems, I was not born for love. 
 Love is a gift of Heaven, cannot be bought, 
 
G4 TBE PLUTOCBAl. 
 
 It must be freely given to lia\-e worth. 
 This boon has been denied to me. 
 
 Alice. no ! 
 
 My uncle dear, my love is not enforced. 
 
 [Kisses West 
 
 West. Why do I speak of that? And why 
 complain 1 
 Am I not acting like a tiresome prattler ? 
 Pray excuse me, dear, and to return : 
 Your mother married ; I stood watching her. 
 And wished her all the happiness on earth. 
 But even that has been denied to me — 
 To find my happiness recast in hers. 
 Her husband left her friendless and alone, 
 And never saw his wife or child again. 
 
 Alice. My poor, unhappy, patient mother ! 
 
 West. Yes, 
 
 For poor she was : no friend to give her help, 
 And left to face the world with Ikt weak child — 
 Alone to fight the battle of this life. 
 It was a fearful sight, hai'd to behold. 
 No hope was dawning on her tear-dimmed eyes, 
 But she looked up to Him, and Heaven befriended. 
 I was watching her with loving eye. 
 O, what a joy to me to have tlie means 
 To banish care and all the fears of want ! 
 Her mental grief I never could appease ; 
 
TUE PLVTOCliAT. 05 
 
 Oft have I tried, but I have tried in vain, 
 And not to me this boon was to be sent. 
 But I believe that she'll be happy yet, 
 And that at last her fearful trials end. 
 0, how I wish her this time better luck ! 
 Alice. Then 'tis to you we owe all that we 
 
 have. 
 0, was there ever such a generous soul 
 As yours, my dearest, dearest Uncle West ! 
 Can any love of mine wipe out such debts ? 
 
 [Kisses West. 
 West. Nothing of me, my child. Be quite 
 
 asstired 
 'Tis only for your mother's sake I speak. 
 To show you how she has deserved your love. 
 But how it gladdens my old foolish heart. 
 To feel quite sure that she'll be happy j-et. 
 That she has found a man whom she can love. 
 Alice. You speak in riddles, uncle. TeU me 
 
 aU. 
 My mother said no word about a lover, 
 Gave no hint about a marriage. 
 
 West. Has never hint been given? That is 
 
 strange ! 
 But 0, I see, she'll take you by surprise. 
 Or it may be she does not like to tell — 
 It might not prove entirely welcome news. 
 
06 'I'UJi I'LrTOCllAT. 
 
 Alice. Yes, tb;it might be the case; I can see 
 
 thilt ; 
 
 But nothing ever could hurt me that might 
 (^live her some happiness. If this lie true, 
 I wish lier all the good which life can grant. 
 
 West. Of co\arse 'tis true, your mother told me 
 so. 
 I have no doubt they will be happy, and 
 In their joy I shall find my happiness. 
 Then I can die in peace, then is my aim 
 Attained. In truth, I have not lived in vain. 
 
 Alice. 0, how sublime, how nobly true you 
 are ! 
 But who is he that steals my mother's hand ? 
 
 West. A worthy, noble, honest, manly man : 
 In everything the acme of perfection. 
 True as gold — I've sounded him myself. 
 O, had he not been worthy of her love, 
 I should not lie so glad ; I'd have to blame 
 IMyself forevermore. But I am sure 
 They are the best matched pair I ever saw. 
 
 Alice. "Who is this hap]iv man ? Do not delay. 
 Are you afraid? Why not divulge his name? 
 
 West. You know him well, twy little pet. This 
 man 
 Is yonv own friend as well, he told me so, 
 And yon'U be glad to have him for a father. 
 
TEE I'LVTOCllAT. 07 
 
 Alice. No, I do not know him, 'tis too bad. 
 I'm mystified. Don't keep me in suspense ! 
 
 West. But you know Henry, your old friend 
 and playmate. 
 
 Alice. He ! Is he the m an of whom you speak ? 
 It cannot be ! G-od, it cannot be ! 
 
 AYest. Darling, you frighten me ! Yes, it is he. 
 But what is that to us ? 
 
 Alice. You ask me what? 
 
 God, it cannot be, it cannot be ! 
 He and my mother ! No, it cannot be ! 
 Speak, uncle, speak, it cannot be ! No, no ! 
 
 West. It is the truth. But, child, what do you 
 care ? 
 You make me feel quite wretched ; truth, you do. 
 
 Alice. It cannot be, 0, say, it cannot be ! 
 He is my lover, he belongs to me, 
 To me alone — to me belongs his heart, 
 And I alone have sacred rights in him. 
 
 uncle, teU me ! Speak ! It cannot be ! 
 
 West. What have I done ? unhappy wretch I 
 am! 
 This man your lover '? Heaven forgive my act ! 
 
 1 can't forgive myself — a dreadful thing ! 
 
 God ! Why did I speak ? What have I done ? 
 My child, my darling, can you pardon me ? 
 What I have done, I did with good intent ; 
 
68 THE PLUTOCBAT. 
 
 But I must always fail. O, mother poor, 
 
 This last stroke is your death-blow, nothing 
 
 less! 
 But here I swear I will revenge you both. 
 He'U pay this with his life, the traitor he ! 
 'Tis now an eye for eye, and tooth for tooth. 
 Now all my dreams of happiness are gone, 
 And grief will bend me down. I am a wreck ! 
 Unhappy child ! But thrice unhappy mother ! 
 Grod, forgive the sin ! I must be off ! 
 I'U kill him— 
 
 Alice. No, you shall not take his life. 
 
 No, uncle, stay. Stay, do not make it worse, 
 And leave me not in my heart's agony. 
 But counsel me, and tell me what to do. 
 0, my poor heart, it is thy doom to break ! 
 Thou canst not long endure such raging pain. 
 It is too hard — this sudden leap from heaven 
 Into the depths of dark despair and woe ! 
 poor, foolish heart ! Why dost rebel 
 Against thy fate ? Why wilt thou break with 
 
 grief? 
 Be cabn, be calm as if in death ! Be calm ! 
 So all my hopes are buried in despair : 
 So young, so full of life, and so unhappy ! 
 Robbed of all, of all that I have cherished. 
 God ! it is too hard ! It is too hard ! 
 
THE I'LVTOCBAT. G9 
 
 West. Despairing grief, burst forth! Break 
 
 all the bonds ! 
 Cry up to Heaven for but one ray of hope. 
 Alas, there is no hope ! 'Tis done, 'tis done ! 
 My darling, do not weep, do not despair, 
 Or you will break my aching heart in two. 
 You are still young, life will yet heal your wounds ; 
 But when I think of her who bore you, child. 
 Then I am lost. For her I fear the worst ; 
 For her 'twill be heart-rending agony. 
 Give her this wound with all the wounds she 
 
 bears. 
 And it wiU surely kill her. Think of this. 
 0, had I but the wretch here in my hands, 
 I'd tear his lying heart out of his breast. 
 Eage overpowers me — I'll look for him. 
 
 Alice. No, uncle, do not harm him, but stay 
 
 here. 
 Let him alone : his heart has been misled. 
 And Where's the man who will not love my mother. 
 Can resist her charming gentleness 
 And her angelic beauty ? He's not born. 
 Let him be happy if he can be so. 
 Now I can understand his sullen grief. 
 He felt his wrong, 0, poor, poor boy ! 
 
 West. Withal 
 
 Could you excuse him still 1 How strange this is ! 
 
70 TilJi I'LVTOCRAT. 
 
 Don't think your mother did the mischief, giil. 
 By all the powers in heaven and on this earth, 
 I swear that she is innocent of all ! 
 Do not blame her — 
 
 Alice. Blame her? What do you think ? 
 
 Should I descend to give my mother blame ? 
 If she had told me all when I arrived 
 'Twould have been better ; but I let that pass. 
 Why should she not admire him — him so good ? 
 Yet, I can see 'twas he who lost himself. 
 I know his sudden passions, his wild love 
 For all that's beautiful, for all that's great. 
 I pardon him. May they be happy long. 
 I wiU resign, and see them still as one. 
 Then I will die. 
 
 ^yest. Say not that word, my child. 
 
 A noble soul ! You've conquered your own heart, 
 You've won the greatest battle ever fought. 
 You shall not die ! Think but of me, my pet, 
 Whose only hope, whose only joy you are. 
 A common grief has boimd us in one bond. 
 And I wlU try to keep the ti'ust God gave. 
 I'll be your father, mother, husband — all ! 
 
 Alice. I only say I thank you, uncle dear ; 
 Pray show me now the way, and show me light. 
 I cannot break the subject to them now. 
 How, uncle, shall I meet them after this ? 
 
THE I'LUTOCliAT. 71 
 
 West. Be quiet, and conceal your heart's fierce 
 pain. 
 Don't speak about the dreadful case to them — 
 It is too painful for both sides, my dear — 
 And leave the rest to me. We'U fly to Europe 
 On the swiftest ship that rides the seas : 
 Among new men, among new scenery 
 You'U be my merry little pet again. 
 
 Alice. Your pet I'U be, but merry — no, not 
 that. 
 
 West. O, we shall see. I shall dispel the cloud 
 That darkens now your life. You shall revive. 
 
 Alice. No, uncle, I am wrecked, and ruin stares 
 Me in the face. I am the shadow only 
 Of my former self. 
 
 West. All this will change. 
 
 You are exhausted ; tears stand in your eyes. 
 Stay in your room and think of me, my dear. 
 Remember that you are my all ; weep not. 
 Do as I tell you. Seek your strength in Heaven. 
 
 Alice. Yes, uncle, I'U retire : I feel so cold. 
 My heart is chilled, as if the arms of death 
 Had stretched themselves about me, and held fast. 
 heart, heart, why wilt thou break with gi-ief ? 
 Be calm, be icy calm ! [Exit Alice. 
 
 West. 'Tis done at last. 
 
 The farce is out, and I am glad indeed ; 
 
Tl THE PLVTOCllAT. 
 
 But never have I had a harder task. 
 
 It is a risky game, but I'll succeed. 
 
 So forward, then, retreat is now cut off. 
 
 Thus far my part has been weU j^laj'ed, 'tis true, 
 
 But I can't rest, there is yet much to do 
 
 TiU all is gained, till Alice is my wife. 
 
 'Twas hard, I must confess, to watch the blow. 
 
 I had no other means to gain my end. 
 
 I'U win her heart, and not alone her hand. 
 
 [Exit ^Vest. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. A Public Ball 
 
 George. Friends, f eUow-workmen : we are here 
 to-night 
 To organize and to devise a plan 
 To better, if we can, our hapless state. 
 We all know West, we all know what he is : 
 He'd let us starve and die without regret 
 So long as he might multiply his dollars. 
 Well we know that words are lost on him, 
 And we must urge by deeds what words can't do. 
 It is but justice, friends, for which we fight. 
 And but by lawful means we'll win our right — 
 A right that's born with every human soul. 
 
TBE PLUTOCRAT. 73 
 
 A right eternal, that entitles us 
 At least to ample clothes and ample food. 
 "We claim the right to work for decent pay. 
 Patrick. Claim everything, and then get aU 
 
 you can. 
 Peter. Before we start, let us invoke God's aid. 
 He is almighty : may He guide us right. 
 
 Several worMngmen. Yes, may God help us! 
 Ask His mighty aid 
 To stir West's soul, awake his sleeping con- 
 science. 
 PatricJi. 'Faith, boys, look for nary soul in 
 West; 
 I guess his soul is in his money-bag. 
 
 Paul. A soul so heavy, with so great a weight. 
 Is never likely to fly up to heaven. 
 
 George. This is no time to jest: we have a 
 task. 
 We best attain our aim by well-planned strikes ; 
 The risk is great, but nothing else can help. 
 If strike we do, let's strike his money-bag — 
 In other parts we cannot hurt our man. 
 Fred. To strike is well, but whereon shall we 
 
 Kve? 
 George. In times of peace we must prepare for 
 war. 
 And pubUc sympathy wiU greatly aid. 
 
74 TMM FLL'TOCllAT. 
 
 Charles. Don't count on public sympathy, good 
 friend ; 
 'Tis well enough, but it will buy no bread. 
 What does West care for public sympathy, 
 The heart- and soul-devouring glutton ! He 
 Can let the public speak without restraint, 
 And laughs at us, scorns public sentiment. 
 
 George. Naught but united action makes us 
 strong ; 
 United, we can battle without help. 
 
 Enter several Workingmeu with Heney. 
 
 Newcomers. We looked for Mr. Henrj^, brought 
 him here. 
 To ask for his advice. We know his grit. 
 He'll tell us which is best — join with the Knights 
 Or bring our forces to the Labor Union. 
 
 Menrij. I'm not in a mood to hear your talk — 
 I am disgusted with your faction fights ; 
 And what advice can you expect from one 
 Whose misery is greater than your own ? 
 Friends, let me go. 
 
 Worlingmcn. 0, stay and give us help ! 
 
 You always let us feel your sympathy. 
 
 Henri/. Show me the way to help you in yom- 
 plight. 
 Your fight is manful, it is for the right ; 
 
THE rLVTUCRAT. 75 
 
 But Where's the prophet who will lead you on, 
 
 Who can unite conflicting elements 
 
 And warring factions in your open camp ? 
 
 O, were you not so easily misled 
 
 By heartless scoundrels taking yoiu' last cent, 
 
 To lead a life of luxury and shame — 
 
 The prostitutes of a most noble cause. 
 
 Who but tear down what better men have built. 
 
 Incite to violence and open crime. 
 
 Who speak of progress, but do all they can 
 
 To keep you where you are. They know too weU 
 
 That poverty and patience are not twins, 
 
 Like poverty and crime. But who can wait 
 
 When actual want is staring in his face "? 
 
 Give me the man who is no demagogue, 
 
 The patriot, the true American, 
 
 Who will devote his whole life to your cause ; 
 
 The man firm in adversity and luck, 
 
 The iron-willed giant of intellect, 
 
 Who can unite the toilers of the land. 
 
 And down an arrogant Plutocracy ; 
 
 The man who's just to all, who serves the right 
 
 For all his fellow-men, not for one class — 
 
 Grive me the man, and I will follow hini. 
 
 Will greet him as the great and true Messiah. 
 
 Once I dreamt that I could be the man. 
 
 It should not be, it was not given me : 
 
76 lUE I'LUTOCUAT. 
 
 'Twas but a dream, and that is over now — 
 My course is run, my life is lived for naught. 
 
 Worliingmen. Why can't you be the leader in 
 our fight ? 
 
 Henry. It is too late, I fear, 'tis of no use : 
 Plutocracy will soon destroy itself. 
 The sturdy farmer and the artisan 
 WiU rise in anger and will crush the Moloch. 
 Now's your time, your opportunity. 
 To help the mighty cause ; if it is lost, 
 A century might bring no other chance. 
 The money-power is like one solid rock : 
 Why can't you have a federation, men! 
 Whate'er you do, unite, friends, if you can. 
 Decry all factions ; see hxA workingmen. 
 
 WorMngmen. Hurrah for him ! for he is always 
 right. 
 Be this our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! 
 
 [Exit Henry. 
 
 Enter Jack. 
 
 Paul. See, there comes Jack. Great heavens ! 
 see how he looks ! 
 Jack, what's the news, my boy! How is your 
 
 wife? 
 I hope she's well. 
 
 JiicJ<\ yos, she is (piito well. 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 77 
 
 No hunger more, no cold : she's still and dead. 
 AU this I owe to great, to generous West. 
 He has discharged me too — another blow. 
 Perhaps he saw that I am getting old. 
 And more than all, he gave me good advice : 
 He thought to end my worldly cares at once. 
 And set a good example to you, boys, 
 'Twould be advisable to hang myself. 
 No doubt he's right. Is he not always right I 
 Worhingmen. That is too much ! With all his 
 
 misery 
 To mock him heartlessly in dire distress ! 
 
 Jach. Is it too much ? It reaUy is too much. 
 It must be so, if even you protest — 
 You, who're contented with your paltry bread. 
 Who've lived in chains from early childhood's 
 
 days. 
 Who hardly feel the fetters if not want 
 Reminds you but too frequently of them. 
 And is it then too much f Why is't too much ? 
 Have we a right to live ? No, he is right. 
 He knows too weU the people whom he owns. 
 He knows they're slaves and have a slavish mind. 
 Are only good for meanest drudgery. 
 Of freedom they know but the name, and not 
 The meaning. Yes, he's quite right to down us. 
 How can a man respect his ser^ale slaves! 
 
78 THE PLUTOCBAT. 
 
 He gave me good advice : I'll hang myself ; 
 
 But I will tie the rope in such a way 
 
 That his neck wiU be caught in the same sling. 
 
 Paul. Remember, Jack, that you have children. 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 We have a poorhouse, have we not ? and there 
 They're better off than they are now with me. 
 Poor people's children are but born, it seems, 
 To fiU these prisons with a motley crowd. 
 But what is left to them ? Their sense of honor. 
 Once awake, is killed in earliest youth. 
 It is the wisdom of our governance 
 That rogues and criminals are cared for, and 
 That honest workingmen are left to starve ! 
 
 Peter. We feel with you ; but this is not the 
 hour 
 To think of yoiu" revenge : leave that to God. 
 We aU look up to Him. We suffer all. 
 Heaven is our last, sole hope when aU hopes fail. 
 And in the end, what is aU worldly wealth ? 
 'Tis naught, and can't redeem us. For our pain 
 Grod win reward us — He is merciful. 
 
 Jack. If there's a God, and He can see such 
 things, 
 Then show me but His love, show mercy now. 
 If He creates us liut to let us feel 
 The deepest depth of h\;man misery. 
 
THE I'LOTOCBAT. 79 
 
 Destroys us then just like a wooden toy, 
 
 And if this earth is His great masterpiece, 
 
 I have enough of Heaven. Yes, I've enough. 
 
 My poor dead wife and all my children sad 
 
 Cry for revenge ! In Heaven they found no 
 
 ear. 
 But let it be. At least they'll find it here. 
 Peter. You lose your reason, Jack : try to be 
 
 calm. 
 May God forgive yoii, you have greatly sinned. 
 WorMngmen. But it is true, this is a wicked 
 
 world. 
 George. Ye fools, do not complain about this 
 
 world. 
 It is our will, our brutal ignorance, 
 That makes it what it is. We are to blame. 
 We made it bad ; and we shall make it worse, 
 If we're arrayed here in continual strife 
 Against ourselves, wage war against our friends ; 
 We'U make it worse, if, in our blind career. 
 Low, petty jealousies and selfishness 
 Prevent connected work, prevent success. 
 Our enemies form one united host. 
 And therein lies their crushing force and might. 
 If we will only foUow where they lead. 
 We shall be stronger : we outnumber them, 
 And we shall be a power in our land. 
 
80 THE FLVTOCBAT. 
 
 Organization is the magic wand 
 
 That forms our strength, insures our victory. 
 
 No need of violence if we unite ; 
 
 Then right wUl be our only force and strength, 
 
 'TwiU be respected if upheld by aU. 
 
 If we are one, both heart and soid. 
 
 Stand firmly all for one and one for all. 
 
 Then, friends, and not before that joyous hour, 
 
 Win dawn the morning of a better day. 
 
 We may not see it, but our children wUl. 
 
 Let's stand together, let us organize. 
 
 It is a glorious goal we're fighting for. 
 
 And we can reach it if we only will. 
 
 WorJdiujnien. Hurrah ! He's right. We'U 
 form a mighty league ; 
 
 And if West still will give no higher pay, 
 
 We'll cease to work, we'U strike, and we shall win. 
 Jaclf,. Ye cowards ! Strike and starve — 
 That is your doom. 
 
 Delay till death shall strike ! Wait tiU to- 
 morrow — 
 
 Let me strike to-day. [Exit Jack. 
 
 Paul. Just let him go 
 
 Until his anger shall be cooled, poor Jack. 
 
 He's raving now ; his reason wiU retiirn. 
 
 And may liis peace of mind be soon restored. 
 
 'Twould be sheer madness to now keep him here. 
 
'IHJi PLUTOCIIJ.T. yl 
 
 George. Then let's go home, and may God grant 
 success, 
 And that He will. A cause as just as ours 
 Is always sure to win. 
 
 All. It ought to win, 
 
 And it shall win ! It cannot meet defeat. 
 And tUl the victory is won by right 
 Be this our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! 
 
 [Exeunt WorJcingmen. 
 
 Scene II. Boom in Mrs. Field's House. 
 
 Ida. What has resulted of your wooing siege ? 
 
 West. That I am disappointed, I confess. 
 But Rome was not erected in one day. 
 And I have patience : you ^viR witness that. 
 
 Ida. I do know something of your qualities, 
 Of what you have and what now you have not. 
 
 West. Yes, yes, you know it, and I know it too : 
 I have much money, but I have not you. 
 
 Ida. And never will, thank God ! 
 
 West. Then, hope, farewell ! 
 
 Ida. But teU me what she said. 
 
 West. Not very much. 
 
 What said she ? WeU, she called me uncle dear, 
 And she knows well that I am no such man. 
 
 Ida. And how did you begin ? 
 
 West. That's hard to say. 
 
82 THE I'LUTOCIIAT. 
 
 I babbled uf tlie sympathy of souls, 
 
 Platonic love, and other nonsense too. 
 
 I aliiiost fear she did not understand. 
 
 I'm hardly just the man for making love. 
 
 And truly, twice I blushed ; but if I'm home, 
 
 I'll learn my part with utmost diligence. 
 
 And you, my dear, might give me a sUglit hint 
 
 How best to win a woman's fickle heart. 
 
 I know that most are bought by boundless wealth, 
 
 But you and Alice are another kind. 
 
 In you I found my first and great rebuff. 
 
 But haply you are two exceptions, not 
 
 The rule. 
 
 Ida. If this be true, the moral is. 
 You'd better cease your wooing, leave us here 
 To love and hate as we see fit to do. 
 
 West. 0, you do that without my leave, my 
 dear ; 
 I merely trj^ to lead you on to one 
 Who most deserves undying — 
 
 Ida. Love or hate f 
 
 Wfsf. Is that so difficult to say, my firiend ? 
 With equal reasons both for love and hate, 
 There is a doubt — 'tis for love's benefit. 
 Therefore I say, one who deserves your love. 
 
 Ida. You say so, but I don't. Enough of that. 
 Now tell me, did you mention Henry's name ? 
 
TUE PLVIOVllAT. 83 
 
 West. Not once, my dear. I hardly thought 
 of him, 
 Or, rather, kept in mind your gentle threat 
 To tell our Alice some unpleasant tales. 
 But what of him ? He is not in the race. 
 His claim for happiness exists no more. 
 
 Ida. In faith, I do not know why it should 
 not. 
 I think his guilt is pardonable sin, 
 Not gi'eat enough to sacrifice him for. 
 It was a moment's madness, not so bad 
 As it might seem if seen with jealous eyes. 
 
 ^Yest. 0, I believe it was not bad for you. 
 You take it cooUy, are not hurt at all : 
 " There is no harm in it, no, O no ! 
 A nice young man, he takes us to his heart. 
 And kisses us ; pray, tell me, where's the harm ? 
 It was not right — he had another girl. 
 But then that is no fault — it was not wrong — 
 O, not at all ; you know, in righteous love 
 We close our eyes to such a little joke. 
 And keep quite stOl'; a kiss will never kiU ; 
 And then, we cannot help if we're so nice, 
 If this enticed him to embrace us ; why, 
 The world is not in danger for that much. 
 'Tis nothing bad — in fact, it was mere fun." 
 But if the sinner were an older man. 
 
84 THJi PLVTOCllAT. 
 
 One lean and lank, without attractions, then, 
 
 " The gray old sinner has no sense of shame. 
 
 The ugly monster, the_ enfeebled fright. 
 
 To kiss a decent woman ! 'Tis a crime ! 
 
 Fie, shame ! No pardon ! He must pay for it ! 
 
 To so insult us — us, whose innocence 
 
 Cries for revenge ! O, what a shock it is ! " 
 
 Ida. Your mad insinuations cannot hurt ; 
 I am above your vile vituperation. 
 Noble is that youth, though once misled. 
 
 West. Ah, yes, he's noble ; that will cover all, 
 And he can take such little liberties. 
 He is misled by his young, fiery heart. 
 And what of that ? If I should dare the same, 
 I'm sure you'd pitilessly scratch my face. 
 
 Ida. West, I believe you're right. 
 
 West. I know I am. 
 
 You didn't scratch him, did you ? 
 
 Ida. 0, how I hate 
 
 Your oily insults ! 
 
 West. Do not call them that 
 
 Because I often teU unwelcome truths. 
 I know the world has always much indulged 
 The sins of younger men, not those of old 
 And ugly ones. I don't dispute that right. 
 I know there is too great a difference 
 Between a kiss from me and one from him. 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 85 
 
 But there is still another side to view. 
 Your pardon, friend, cannot decide this case — 
 It has been given with too great a joy. 
 But what win Alice think, is now the point. 
 Will she be satisfied ? She has been wronged. 
 Not you alone, dear friend. 
 
 Ida. I grant 'tis so. 
 
 If you had used some of your eloquence 
 For right as you have done till now for wrong, 
 You could have done much good on earth, dear 
 sir. 
 
 West. Is it a wrong for which I intercede ? 
 True, I confess, your views are very strange. 
 
 Ida. Why, right or wrong, if Alice knew it all, 
 She'd gi-ant forgiveness without much ado. 
 
 West. I do not doubt that she would pardon 
 him; 
 But then her peace of mind were lost and gone, 
 And could not be restored were she assured 
 Of his true, steady love. 
 
 Ida. I well know that. 
 
 This fact alone can prompt me not to teU 
 What Alice ought to know. I must keep silence. 
 Why do you torment me, West ? Wherefore 
 Do j''ou insist that I make known to her 
 The wrong done in a moment of wUd passion. 
 When you know that it will break her heart ? 
 
86 'J^HE FLVTOCEAT. 
 
 ^Yest. Yes, that is true — I did insist on that. 
 And if I did, a reason must have urged. 
 The reason is that it might help me win ; 
 But if you think 'twill do her real harm — 
 And that it will, I only see too well — 
 And if you think it shoiild not be divulged, 
 Then it shall stay our secret : that is all. 
 It costs me much to do this, you must know. 
 But I'll forget, and even will forgive. 
 It is for Alice's sake and yours, my dear. 
 Not in the least for him. 
 
 Ida. That's a surprise : 
 
 I hardly could expect as much as that. 
 You make me think you're going to reform. 
 
 West. Do I, then, need reform? I go to 
 church — 
 It is my only recreation now ; 
 I'm member of a fashionable flock, 
 Where all are sheep with heavy golden fleece. 
 And where we're fleeced by fashion's strict de- 
 mands. 
 
 Ida. Is God to blame for them? Believe in 
 Him; 
 And, if you can, think of a future life. 
 
 Went. I've thought of it, and pleasant was the 
 thought 
 As far as heaven is talked of ; but in heU 
 
TRE I'LUTOCIiAT. 87 
 
 I couldn't believe. If God is merciful, 
 He fathers not monstrosities of pain 
 Which but the meanest cruelty can paint. 
 
 Ida. You make religion suit convenience, sir, 
 And fear has taught you this philosophy. 
 
 West. If there can't be belief without a heU, 
 I can believe in naught ; and verily 
 I do believe in naught. Why should I fear 
 Things which I do not see and cannot grasp ? 
 
 Ida. So you beheve in naught, you say, and 
 yet 
 Grod, heaven, and heU are always on your hps. 
 
 West. 'Tis true, and they're sufficient for the 
 crowd. 
 If men ask for a gift or benefit, 
 They are referred to heaven. They threaten me, 
 I show them hell : it helps me wonderfully. 
 For these men are only held in check 
 By hope of a reward or fear of pain. 
 Their piety is but mere selfishness — 
 They're hirelings of a phantom, nothing else. 
 Now, friend, tell me the truth : does not this fear 
 In somewhat influence your actions too ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, West, it does. I will not lie, it does. 
 I am a sinner, yet my faith is strong. 
 'Tis true that virtue has its own reward, 
 That we should do the good for love of it, 
 
88 THE PLVTOCBAT. 
 
 Not for our selfish motives and desires ; 
 But merely doing right can never give 
 What we call happiness. It is not all. 
 It must be aU to those who lack belief, 
 And even then their life is but a blank — 
 Without strong faith it cannot have an aim. 
 They must be satisfied to live like beasts ; 
 Their pleasures even give them little joy, 
 And soon they feel the more the want of hope. 
 We cannot find true happiness in life. 
 You don't believe in God and future bliss : 
 Now teU me, West, what would you call youi' life 
 If your career on earth should now be closed ? 
 Would you be satisfied with hf e or not * 
 
 West. Don't speak of that. In faith, you've 
 got me there. 
 I surely should describe it as a fraud 
 If I were now to die. With aU my work, 
 I have not yet attained what I desu-e. 
 And not one hour in my eventful hfe 
 Has been a happy one. No, now to die. 
 So near my aim, so near uiy happiness — 
 No, now to (lie would make my Hfe a blank ; 
 And if there is no hell to punish me. 
 This thought is worse than all the hells can be. 
 
 Tda. It only shows the truth of what I said — 
 Sjhi-\\'s that )'ou lack and need that solace true 
 
THE PLUTOCRAT. 89 
 
 Which but religion gives. If strong in faith, 
 We're every moment ready to leave earth. 
 
 West. Yes, you are happy fools ! I'm not like 
 you. 
 
 Ida. You can be if you will. 
 
 West. I'll try to-morrow. 
 
 Ida. No, to-day is the accepted time : 
 Who knows what ill to-morrow's dawn may bring ? 
 
 West. And will you be my teacher, pretty 
 friend ? 
 
 Ida. If I can help you to a better life, 
 I'U do it with the utmost pleasure, West, 
 For well you know your life has needed change. 
 
 West. My heart's enhsted, take my hand ; be> 
 lieve, 
 I will reform, I wiU reform for you. 
 And now, farewell, my dearest, gentlest, best. 
 My only faithful friend. Farewell, farewell. 
 I must attend to weighty things at once. 
 
 [Exit West. 
 
 Ida. Grod, can I believe my eyes and ears ? 
 Grant what he said is really meant by him. 
 For it would end our troubles and our grief. 
 God, Thou didst wonders, and dost wonders stUl, 
 And if Thou wilt. Thou canst reform him too. 
 
 [Exit Ida. 
 
90 TMM FLV'WCUAT. 
 
 Scene III. Boom in West's House. 
 
 West. [To Servant] Call Mr. Henry. He's still 
 in the mill, 
 I see a light — he must be in his room. 
 
 [Exit Berrant. 
 I must get rid of him, then I'll have rest, 
 Can calmly reap the fruit of my designs. 
 If they should meet once more my labor's lost, 
 My structure tumbles, and — 
 
 Enter Henry. 
 
 0, there you are. 
 Young man, what have you done, what have you 
 
 done? 
 To so forget yourself ! Fie, shame on you ! 
 And yet with all my heai't I can condole. 
 You called me names. What do I care for that f 
 I caU no names, but I can pity you. 
 
 Hennj. I do not ask your pity, sir : don't strut, 
 Take off the mask, don't be theatrical. 
 I know that youi enjoy what I have done ; 
 State what you want. Be brief, I pray, and plain. 
 
 West. If that is your desire, I ^-ill, young man. 
 I need not tell you of the deep distress 
 Of those two ladies whom j'ou gToatlv wronged. 
 However, 'tis their wish through me to say 
 
TEE FLUTOCBAT. Ql 
 
 That your engagement must be broken oif. 
 I only add a friend's advice to this : 
 Flee far away ; there's money here — take all — 
 Take aU that you may need, but flee. Be 
 
 quick ! 
 And seek elsewhere the bliss that here you've 
 lost. 
 
 Henry. Ah, yes ! I wiU depart from here — I 
 go. 
 But where I go there is no need of gold. 
 And when I go, I wiU go like a man ; 
 Not like a coward wiU I part from here. 
 Abandon those whom I betrayed and lost. 
 But a few days, and they'll be saved from care. 
 They wUl be rich, be rich in spite of you. 
 What they would not accept from me alive 
 They hardly wiU refuse when I am dead. 
 
 ^Yest. You can do as you please. You must 
 know best ; 
 Your r61e of savior is a childish role. 
 You'd better save yourself if still you can : 
 There is no cause as yet for seeking death. 
 I hope you do not meditate this step. 
 Think of a future life ! 
 
 Henry. What is the use ? 
 
 0, had I but believed in God and heaven, 
 I'd be another man than I am now. 
 
92 THE FLUTOCRAT. 
 
 Had I but had the simple faith of good 
 
 And honest men, I could be happy yet. 
 
 In science and in study is no rest. 
 
 When others slept, I've tortured my poor brain. 
 
 Have tried so hard to fathom aU — and failed : 
 
 The more I thought the more confused I grew,- 
 
 And found myself more wretched than before. 
 
 ^Vest. You, too, you are an unbeliever, man ; 
 You truly do surprise me, 'tis so strange ! 
 
 Henry. I've always tried to lead an upright 
 life. 
 Have helped my brethren all with open hand. 
 Was kind to all, yet happy I was not. 
 I kept alone, denied myself the things 
 Which so delight the thoughtless of to-day, 
 And yet I envied them their thoughtlessness. 
 There was a missing something ia my life. 
 But what it was I never could define. 
 In love I hoped to find the long-sought gift — 
 One moment has destroyed the sweet illusion. 
 How I came to leave my faithful girl 
 I hardly can explain. Life is a riddle. 
 Ida's beauty and her fearless mind, 
 And with it all a woman's weakness ; then 
 Her fearfiil struggles with her passionate heart. 
 Her true, strong love — again her fiery hate — 
 In fine, all these contrasting charms combined 
 
TEE PLUTOCRAT. 93 
 
 Had proved to me a fascination strong. 
 I yearned to help her, and forgot myself, 
 And ere I thought I fell — feU fathom deep. 
 
 West. Enough of that. What will you do I I 
 ask. 
 The sooner it is done, the better done. 
 It saves both sides a vast amount of pain. 
 
 Henry. As long as they are saved, care not for 
 me. 
 What shall I do f I have no chosen road, 
 I do not care if it but leads to death. 
 Now I see clearly. Life is naught. Moreover, 
 Death is naught, and naught to naught is naught. 
 Then let me sink into the merciful 
 And vast abyss of nothingness — to end 
 The pain and anguish of a tortured mind. 
 
 West. Sink, by all means, storm-tossed and 
 fevered youth ! 
 You are quite right, life is a wretched farce, 
 And I cannot advise against your wish. 
 Indeed, I fain would follow you. 
 
 Henry. O, do ! 
 
 'Twould be the best deed that you ever did. 
 
 West. It takes a little courage, but it gives 
 Eternal rest, and what more can we ask ? 
 A quick resolve, with one quick stroke in time, 
 Grives us perpetual peace. Whate'er you do. 
 
94 TEE I'LtJTOCEAT. 
 
 Be quick about it. 'Tis a friend's advice, 
 And is tlie essence of philosophy. 
 
 Henry. Though 'tis a fiend's advice, I take it 
 
 yet. 
 West. Then fare thee well, and good success 
 
 to thee. [Exit Mennj. 
 
 The way is cleared, the last obstruction stormed. 
 And o'er another victim goes my path. 
 But what of that 1 He was not for this world, 
 This grand, good fool, with his soft baby-heart, 
 Too loving and too good to meet success. 
 He'll make them rich, but it wiU be too late. 
 And in the end the harvest wiU be mine. 
 It takes a man like me, who knows no fear. 
 Asks naught from God, from destiny, or fate, 
 To come at last to the long-fought-for end. 
 What do I care for fate I I'm fate myself. 
 And have been fate to aU the gaping fools 
 Who had the hardihood to give me fight ; 
 They are mere puppets in my iron hands, 
 I lead them merrily to death or doom. 
 And yet — and yet — I am not gratified ; 
 There is some truth in aU that Ida said. 
 But what's the use ? Shall I too be a fool ? 
 No, no, I cannot live on hopes, my friend ; 
 Let me go on through life in my old way. 
 And be ye fools as long as you may live. 
 
TUJi I'LVWOliAT. 95 
 
 To-morrow's sun shall see my victor's smile, 
 And I'll retire now to a well-eanied rest. 
 I've bravely fonght, and I have won the fight. 
 G-ood-night, ye tools ! Ye fools, I say, good-night ! 
 
 [Exit West. 
 
 ACT V. 
 Scene I. Room in Mrs. Field's House. 
 
 Alice. I am resigned, and I am happy now. 
 This dusky earth fades from my weary eyes. 
 And heavenly calmness reigns supreme in me. 
 What though that calm is purchased with my life ? 
 What though it contemplates a broken heart 1 
 I'U fade from this into another life. 
 And may that life be one sweet dream of rest. 
 From that fair world beyond I shaU look down. 
 Protecting mother and my dearest friend. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant There must be a big fire in town. Miss 
 Field, 
 We see the flames reflected in the clouds. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 Enter Ida. 
 
 Ida. I hear West's house is blazing, child. 
 Alice. His house 
 
96 The Plutocbat. 
 
 lu flames '! Then I must go to Uncle West ; 
 I can't leave him alone in his distress. 
 
 Ida. Dear child, stay here. I've sent a mes- 
 senger. 
 
 AJirp. I find no rest if I am not with him ; 
 I am so frightened, and my heart declares 
 That something awful must have happened there. 
 
 Ida. Stay, child, be not so rash, stay here with 
 me; 
 "West's not the man to ask a woman's help. 
 
 Alice. Yet he'U be glad to see me, will he not? 
 I'll stand by him as he has stood by me ; 
 He is my friend, with him I stand or faR. 
 If he should die, then I will die with him. 
 
 Id (I. My dearest child, I do not understand; 
 But don't be restive, I wiU go with you. 
 Alice, tell me what has saddened you, 
 That all the smiles have faded from your face ! 
 
 Allrp. Though 'tis no time to smile, I can stiU 
 smile ; 
 But, mother, let me go. 
 
 Ida. O, do not go. 
 
 How pale you are! What ails you, darling? 
 
 Speak ! 
 Your smile is not my merry daughtei''s smile. 
 My poor, dear child, pray tell me why you're sad. 
 
 Alice. No, mother, no, I'm very happy now, 
 
THE FLUTOCBAT. Qf 
 
 And soon I shall be happier still with Him, 
 My Maker, who will take me back again 
 From this life to a never-ending joy. 
 Pray send for Henry — I must see him yet 
 Before my earthly mission is fulfilled. 
 Before I go I'll seal the happiness 
 Of you and him, the most beloved of friends. 
 
 Ida. Ah, now I see. I understand j-ou now. 
 My Grod, why did I once beheve the wretch ? 
 But you're deceived, my child, you are deceived, 
 And all West told you has been worse than lies. 
 Henry forgot himself — 'tis but too true — 
 Yet he has never ceased to love you, dear. 
 And here before my God I swear to you 
 I never loved him more than mothers love 
 The future husband of their dearest child. 
 O God, destroy the treacherous, fiendish wretch. 
 Who ruined me and now will ruin her ! 
 
 [Bings for' Senvnf. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Quick ! go and summon Mr. Henry here. 
 Tell him to come without the least delay. 
 Alice. Did I hear right? Or am I in a 
 dream ? 
 no, 'tis a mistake. Is West not good ? 
 Has he not been to me a faithful friend ? 
 
OS TME PLVTOCltAT. 
 
 Ida. He is the devil in a human shape. 
 M3' life he made a long, unceasing pain ; 
 Your father, I believe, was killed by him. 
 And now he wants to rob me yet of you. 
 My curse on him, the wrecker of my life ! 
 
 Alice. What did I hear? Dear mother, pray 
 be calm. 
 He a deceiver ? Then he is a fiend ! 
 ilen cannot play such wretched, risky part. 
 
 Ida. I did not wish to ever tell you this ; 
 I strove to carry my deep grief alone, 
 Thus to preserve your heart's sweet innocence. 
 Again my sacrifice has been in vain ! 
 
 Enter Henry. 
 
 Henry. Can you still pardon me for what I've 
 done ? 
 
 Ida. I must refer you to my daiighter, sir ; 
 My pardon will be easily obtained. 
 You'll never know the jewel you possessed. 
 If I should tell you what she's done for you, 
 Then you might see the depth of woman's love. 
 Might see how small you are compared with them. 
 Ye men with little love and godlike pride ! 
 She had resigned to see her lover's bliss, 
 Were her own heart to break in the attempt. 
 
 Heimj. I know I am not worth j- of her love, 
 
TUE PLUTOCRAT. 99 
 
 Though I do love her inore than e'er before. 
 Could I describe the agonj' profound 
 That scorched my brain in these few dreary hours, 
 You would dismiss me with one word of hope, 
 And bring my torment to a sudden close. 
 One ray of light I've found in my dark course : 
 I've saved you from the clutches of that fiend. 
 My new invention will free you from care. 
 And you are rich. Am I forgiven ? Speak ! 
 Then I will go — go, never to return. 
 
 Alice. But if I want to keep you, Henry dear? 
 
 Henry. Ah, Alice, do not play with me like this. 
 Our iron age produces no such souls. 
 Your Christian faith dethroned the Grecian god ; 
 For one mistake men are now doomed to heU ! 
 
 Alice. I'm but a simple and a foolish girl ; 
 You give me pain, you make me sad, 'tis true. 
 Yet is there need to tell you how I love ? 
 Yes, love you more than all words can express. 
 Between us naught is changed ; we're as before. 
 But make your peace with Heaven, pray to our 
 
 God, 
 And He wiU hear you in His boundless grace. 
 
 Henri/. But, Alice dear, you can forget, still 
 love? 
 I see there is a God ; I have been blind. 
 The god dwells in your heart — his name is Love. 
 
100 J'^iJ^ l-'LUTOCMAi: 
 
 We all must worship at his altar, or 
 We reap but pain, but misery and woe. 
 Such souls as yours, my child, no mortal's are. 
 'Tis love that keeps this shaky world intact. 
 Without it we are naught but mortal clay. 
 
 Enter Wobkingmen and Servants. 
 
 Paul. Is Mr. Henry here ? 
 
 Henry. Yes, here I am. 
 
 What is it, Paul ? What do you want, my friends f 
 
 Paul. We've come to tell you, sir, that West 
 is dead. 
 
 Henry, Ida, Alice. West dead ? Impossible ! 
 
 Paul. Yes, West is dead. 
 
 He's dead, and though a heartless, wicked man, 
 It was indeed an awful end for him. 
 
 Ida. How did it happen, tell me, my good 
 man! 
 
 Paul. We were awakened by the cry of fii-e ; 
 And rising, soon our sleepy eyes beheld 
 A sea of flame reflected in the clouds. 
 We hurried to the scene of the big blaze. 
 It was West's house — fast burning to the gi-ound. 
 The ser^^ants aU were saved, but West was not ; 
 And soon we saw him at a window high. 
 His life depended on a hieky leap ; 
 He knew it too, we saw it in his face. 
 
'£HE I'LVTUCBAT. 1()1 
 
 He wore Ms usual calm. No cry or moan, 
 No prayer or curse, escaped him'. Hard as flint. 
 He measured still the distance to the earth, 
 When something happened which I'll ne'er forget. 
 The women screamed, " The devU ! See him 
 
 there ! " 
 The hardest men were chilled, chiUed to the bones. 
 When a dark figure, blackened by the smoke. 
 Approached West from behind, and then tried 
 
 hard 
 To drag his victim with him to the fire. 
 It was a fearful battle fought up there, 
 And still grim Fate decreed that West should 
 
 win; 
 And calm and cool he hurled Jack to his grave. 
 Again he tried to make that fearful leap ; 
 He stUl looked down on us with stern disdain. 
 His scornful smile seemed still to say, "Be- 
 ware ! 
 You shan't forget, and you'll repent this hour." 
 When with an awful crash the walls came down, 
 And both are buried in that tomb of fire. 
 May God be merciful and save their souls ! 
 
 Enter Lawyer, who speaJcs to Ida. 
 
 Henry. Then he is dead, this all-defying man. 
 Who tauntingly has challenged his dire fate. 
 
102 TUB I'LVTOCliAT. 
 
 He has deserved it, but I pity him ; 
 
 His awful end pays for his sins and debts. 
 
 Ida. The judgment falls. Oiir God is stem 
 and just. 
 Long He has waited, but the man was hard. 
 His cup was fuU, was floating to the brim. 
 I told him so, he only laughed at me, 
 And unprepared he's gone to meet his doom. 
 But all his sins to me, Lord, wipe them out. 
 They are forgiven. Let ns aU forgive. 
 And may he find forgiveness with Thee too. 
 [To WorMngnieii] And now a word to you, my 
 
 honest friend.s : 
 I must believe that I'm your mistress now. 
 This gentleman, who has been West's attorney, 
 Says that West has willed his all to me. 
 It is a solemn trust that I accept. 
 And with God's help I will now try my best 
 To heal the many woimds which West has torn. 
 Not for myself I take his riches, friends ; 
 From now each is my child, your mother I, 
 And all wiLL be devoted to your good. 
 God grant me all the strength to do my work, 
 With my new son's and with my daughter's aid. 
 
 Hemij. Yes, mounts of gold and seas of blood 
 freed black ; 
 Good-will alone can make the white slaves free. 
 
THE riVTUCIlJT. 103 
 
 Workingmen. Long live our mistress and the 
 happy pair ! 
 For freedom's cause begins a glorious fight ; 
 Out ring our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! 
 
 [Curtain falls. 
 
 The End.