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 A OKAMA 
 
 IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 i'RAMATISED FROM LOVER's CELEBRATED WORK. 
 
 ENTITLED " TOM CROSBIE AXD 
 
 niS ERTENDS."' 
 
 BY JOHN W. WHITJB;;oF- 
 
 • ;;■■ COPYRIQHr ^^.\> 
 
 C'1 
 
 -^ 
 
 
 MOUNT yer:n^on, OillO : 
 
 'KINTED BY JOIIX W. Vv'HTTE, AT THE TELE. iV.^.eU . » ,. H K 
 
 1858. 
 
 ^ 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by 
 JOHJ>T W. WHITE, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Conrt of the Northern 
 District of Oliio. 
 
 
7 4^ 
 
 Dramatis PersoneB. 
 
 GEOPvGE SEYMOUK, 
 GEKALD EOCHEFOET, 
 T03I CEOSBIE, 
 ME. FEANIvS, 
 DENKY CONNEE. 
 8EEVANT. 
 
 MES. EOCHEPOET, 
 EMMA AUBYN, 
 JESSIE FEANKS, 
 LIZZY EOSS, 
 MISS BUEKE, 
 BIDDY. 
 
 iSCE:NE— DUBLi:^. 
 
GEOROE SEYMOUR. 
 
 A C T I .— S C E N E I . 
 
 Parlor. — [George Seymour discovered walking the room.] 
 Enter 3l7's. Rochefoi^t. 
 
 Seymour. — It is long since we met; a,t least, since 
 we met alone. You are greatly altered. (J/y'S. H. 
 scats herself, a7id buries her face in Iter hands.) {Aside.) 
 — Years bring wond'rous changes : I remember when 
 that wrinkled forehead was smooth as polished mar- 
 ble, and that drooping eye, lit up with the fire of pride 
 and beauty ; yet it is not age which has marked the 
 features, but the workings of the heart — the heart 
 itself cannot bo seen, but it writes its history in the 
 face. Her heart was always false — mine to-day, his 
 to-morrow. Yet I loved her once — loved her to be 
 . despised and scorned : but I have been revenged, and 
 will be, until revenge itself can go no farther. (Sey- 
 mour pauses, and looks intently at Mrs. B.) Where is 
 3'our son? 
 
 3frs. Rochefort. — He left us last night, as 1 dare say 
 you are aware, or I should have been spared this visit. 
 
6 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT 1. 
 
 Seyinour. — (^Smiling.) — You are right : 1 am aware 
 that he left you last night — but ichere has he gone? 
 
 Mrs. E. — To London. 
 
 Seymour. — London ! What has taken him there ? 
 
 Mrs. R. — He is gone — he is gone to seek employ- 
 ment, as a means of raising himself from the beggary 
 which your machinations have brought upon him. 
 
 Seymour. — (Smilmg bitterly.) — You seem to forget, 
 Madam, that the beggary of which you speak, is owing 
 more to your conduct than to mine. I have been told 
 3^our son was left an independent property by his 
 father — where is it now? No machinations — as you 
 are pleased to call them — of mine, have deprived him 
 of that, and yet it seems he has it not. 
 
 Mrs. B. — {After a 'pause.) — What is the object of 
 your comiDg now? Why are you here ? 
 
 Seymour. — You shall know. On the morning of that 
 night w^hen last you saw me, your son saved a lady's 
 life — he has since been pa^dng his addresses to her, I 
 am told. Is such the fact ? 
 
 Mrs. R. — I cannot tell ) it may be so. 
 
 Seymour. — Y"ou know full well it is so; and more- 
 over, you know that your heart is set upon the match 
 — the lady is rich, and her wealth would be well ap- 
 plied in patching up your broken fortunes. I will 
 prevent that marriage, and through your means. — 
 Your son shall have to thank his mother for the de- 
 struction of his happiness. 
 
 Jfrs. R. — (Faintly.) — What mean you ? When will 
 this persecution cease ? 
 
 Seymour. — {Sternly.) — When I cease to live ! 
 
 Mrs. R. — May God forgive you, George ! But if I 
 must still suffer from your uurelenting cruelty, wh}' 
 should 3'our vengeance pursue my unoffending child — 
 he has never given you any cause 
 
SCKNE r.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 7 
 
 Seymour — {Furcely.) — He is your son ' and tlierefore 
 I am his enemy I 
 
 3frs. B. — {Bursting into tears.) — My God! my God! 
 What have I done to deserve all this? (Baising her 
 hands in sxipplication to Seymour) — Have mercy, George ! 
 You say you once loved me, and by the memory of 
 that love, I conjure you now to spare my boy. You 
 broke his father's heart, and I will soon be with him 
 in the grave, for mine also you have broken ; but ex- 
 tend not your vengeance to ni}' bo}' — he has deserved 
 it not — why should your hate descend on him ? 
 
 Seymour. — Listen to me, Kate Rochefort ! You 
 have reminded me of the love I bore you once : — I did 
 love you, deeply, madly — and what was the return? 
 Contempt and scorn! I. tell you, woman, that if the 
 dead were to rise from their graves this moment, and 
 kneel before me, they could not effect the change of a 
 hair's breadth in the purpose of my revenge. It is in 
 vain ! By Him who made me ! happiness shall never 
 be the lot of you or yours, so long as I have the power 
 to prevent it ! — (Faces the room hurriedly.) 
 
 Mrs. B. — (Bising.) — Kow listen to me, George Sey- 
 mour. For years — for many bitter years, you have 
 made my life a curse — it vais a happy life until you 
 came, like a spirit of evil, to blast its joy, and destroy 
 its peace forever. Even honor you would have robbed 
 me of, but that I saw my infatuation in time to escape 
 the danger. Still, I could not root you entirely from 
 my heart — first impressions Avere there, and it is 
 hard to blot them out. I forgave you all until I dis- 
 covered your dark treachery to my husband. Now 
 mark me! You say I changed your love to hate; the 
 fiercest hate that ever burned in your heart, was noth- 
 ing compared with the deadly loathing and abhorrence 
 felt towards vou from that moment, and afterwards 
 
8 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 
 
 for years. But time softened it. Had I never seen 
 you again, I would have forgiven you. You came 
 again, though — came as you ever did, with evil tidings; 
 you brought me a tale of my son's having quit the 
 army in disgrace — that was false, and you knew it, 
 but no matter; for the time it helped you in your 
 revenge. He returned shortly after, and for many 
 months I saw 3'ou no more. But at last we met again. 
 You came with exj^ressions of penitence and sorrow : 
 you told 7ne you were about to leave the country, and, 
 as a proof of your contrition, you offered to free me of 
 my embarrassments, by refunding a portion of the 
 wealth of which you had deprived me. I had faith in 
 what you told me then, and, believing your professions 
 were sincere, 1 confided to you the history of my 
 ward, and that, in order to screen some of my follies 
 and mad extravagance from my son, I had spent the 
 fortune bequeathed her by her mother. No sooner 
 had I told you this, than you threw off the mask, and 
 swore that, unless I yielded to the proposal which 
 years before you had made nie, the secret I had thus 
 confided to you should be made public. But God 
 gave me strength, and I defied you. You left me then, 
 swearing that before the lapse of another day, my 
 disgrace should be published to the world. From that 
 hour 1 lived in a state of apprehension and fear, that 
 almost deprived me of my reason. If Gerald was only 
 absent for an hour, I watched his return with the most 
 intense anxiety of fear- — ever dreading that when he 
 did return, it w^ould be to curse his mother for having 
 brought disgrace upon his head: no felon ever looked 
 upon his judge with greater dread, than did I upon my 
 own child I But months went over without the execu- 
 tion of your threat ; — gradually my terrible alarm ^^'ore 
 av/ay, and a strong hope sprang up that you had re- 
 
SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 9 
 
 lented,aiKl had, in realitVj left the coniitrv; thai hope 
 was crushed wlien 1 encountered you on the street on 
 the night of Gerahl's accident, and, from that moment, 
 the tortures of my mind liave been as great as ever. 
 I have long expected this time to come — that moment 
 has now arrived, and I am in yowv power. Use it. 
 Do 5'our worst at once, but let the blow fall on me 
 alone, for I alone deserve it. You shall never make 
 me an agent in your plots against the hapj^iness ol" 
 my child ; he has enough to curse me for already. — 
 May Oiod forgive me ! 
 
 Seymour. — It is well, Madam ; because, up to this 
 time, I have spared j^ou, you think you may, with 
 safet}", defy me now; but you are mistaken. You 
 say truly, that your son has already suthcient cause to 
 curse you, but he shall have more. You declare that 
 you will be no agent in fustrating his happiness! So 
 far, you have declared the truth — /will be i\\Q> agent — 
 3"0u the i>rincipal. Think you, that Mr. Franks would 
 give his daughter to the son of one who has robbed 
 the orphan committed to her charge ? and so sure as 
 I stand liere before you, so surely will I proclaim to 
 him the fact ! 
 
 Mrs. R. — You could not be such a villain ! — You 
 cannot mean to poison my own child against me, and 
 make him hate me. Some remnant of human feeling 
 must still be in j'our nature. 
 
 Seymour. — Human feeling I — What care I for the 
 cant term of the world. My nature itself is changed — 
 1 have no feeling now but one, and that one is hatred of 
 you and yours. I would pause at nothing now, that 
 could be the means of bringing down upon your head 
 the miscrj', the tortures of mind and heart, which you 
 have brought on me. Therefore, expect no mercy at 
 my hands, for none shall vou receive. 
 b 
 
10 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 
 
 Mrs. R. — God pity me f Grod pity me, and spare me 
 my reason ; for a little, a very little more, will destro-y 
 it. Leave me, George Seymour, — (wildy,) — ^if you 
 would not see me a maniac or a suicide ! Go ! in 
 mercy go ! my mind is weakened, and madness is 
 coming upon me. Oh ! may heaven forgive you for 
 all this ! — (^Bursting into tears.) 
 
 Seymour. — Tears are ever ready with woman, and 
 sometimes prove effective ; but with me, you will find 
 them unavailing. There is still one condition upon 
 which you can insure my silence in this matter relating 
 to 3'our ward. 
 
 Mrs. li. — {Eagerly.) — ^Name it ! 
 
 Seymour. — It is simply this, that you will consent to 
 tell Miss Aubyn that, at her mother's death, she was 
 bequeathed to 7n.y care, as well as j^ours — that I was 
 absent in another country at the time, and that I am 
 now returned to claim my guardianship. 
 
 Mrs. R. — It is enough that I have already betrayed 
 my trust — I will do so no farther. 
 
 Seymour. — But if I tell you that your consent to 
 this prox30sal, will be a service to the girl, instead of 
 an injury 
 
 Mrs. R. — I Avill not believe it ! In what way could 
 it be a service ? 
 
 Seymour. — E"o matter ! I tell you it will be, and you 
 must either trust me, or abide the can sequences. 
 
 Mrs. A*.— Then I will abide them. 
 
 Seymour. — That is your resolution? 
 
 Mrs. R.—lt is. 
 
 Seymour. — Then hear me. — Before 1 leave this house> 
 she shall know how faithfull}^ her guardian has ful- 
 filled her dut3^ When I have taught her to despise 
 you, I wall then to Mr. Franks and enlighten him as 
 to the family affairs of his intended son-in-law. Your 
 son himself shall be the next 
 
SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 11 
 
 Mrs. JR. — Stay ! no more, or you will drive me mad. 
 I cannot bear this — it is in vain to struggle. 
 
 Seymour. — Then yield at once ! — consent to my pro- 
 posal, and I will be silent. 
 
 3frs. It. — How can I depend on that ? you have so 
 often deceived me 
 
 Seymour. — You must depend on it, or- 
 
 Mrs. M. — No more ! I will consent, and if Emma 
 is the sufferer, may God forgive me ! 
 
 Seymour.— Your anxiety for her welfare is doubt- 
 less very great, but you need not be alarmed ; I dare 
 say she will lind my guardianship at least as beneficial 
 as yours has been. All I require from you at pre- 
 sent is, that in case she should question you on the 
 subject, you tell her that I am her guardian, but that 
 peculiar circumstances prevented you from giving her 
 such information before. You understand me — you 
 are never to mention the subject to her unless she 
 questions you. 
 
 3Irs. E. — And if she never questions me ? 
 
 Seymour. — Then be silent. 
 
 Mrs. B. — One word more — upon this condition you 
 promise me that my secret shall be safe ? 
 
 Seymour. — I have said so. 
 
 Mrs. i^.— And you will not endeavor to prevent my 
 son's marriage with Miss Franks ? 
 
 Seymour- — I have not promised tliat! but if the 
 marriage should be broken off, it must be the act of 
 your son himself—will that content you? 
 
 Mrs. R. — It must, for I have no alternative. 
 
 Seymour. — Then remember our compact — if Miss 
 Aubyn should, at any time, ask you if it be true that 
 I am her guardian, you tell her, without hesitation, 
 that such is the fact. Break through the condition, 
 and you know the result. [Exeuent. 
 
"i2 UEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 TuM Ceosbie's Room.— [Tom discovered in the act of Shaving 
 — Coat and Vest hanging on a Chair.] 
 
 Tord.—( Soliloquy.) — Money onust be had, that's poz! 
 l/m rcgnhirly done up, and the only " blunt ^^ in my 
 possession is the edge of this confounded razor. Now, 
 a man Avithout money has no more business in society 
 than — thanwliat? — than a woman under the same 
 circumstances, and a woman without money is — more 
 
 than my beard is, with this d d razor — likely to be 
 
 cut. Therefore, money must be had — where, I don't 
 know — how, I don't care — but it must come ! Can't 
 take ifc from Dismal — he's a friend; a man should 
 never borrow from a friend. Must turn school-boy 
 again, and endeavor to fly a "kite" — that's the only 
 plan I sec. Let me think now. Whose name would 
 look vv'cll upon a bit of stiff for fifty ? Cloodmau's ? 
 Oh, yes, indeed, don't I wish I might get it ? Brown's? 
 Brown would'nt accept a bill for his father. Morris ? 
 Oh, yes ! there's Morris — he'd do it in a minute ; but, 
 poor follow ! he's often hard up enough himself, and I 
 would'nt like to ask him. Stop, though, I don't sec 
 Avhy I should'nt ask Dismal — the thing is nob like 
 borrOAving money — it won't cost him a farthing, and 
 ril pay it Avhen it's due. By Jove ! that '11 do -, I'll 
 give Mrs. Taylor her money, cut the concern, take 
 (j^uiet lodgings, go to church every Sunday, look out for 
 a rich Avidow — no, hang it, I'll never marry: that 
 Lizzy Eoss is enough to make a man pitch the sex to 
 the devil; her conduct last night Avas shameful, scan- 
 dalous, disgraceful! I'll never speak to her again as 
 long as I live ; I hate her, I detest her ! (Music mtf^ 
 
SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. li> 
 
 singing heard.) Hash ! that's her voice singing. — 
 (Runs to the door and calls ont.) — I'll be down in live 
 minutes, Lizzy, to take a second in that duet. — (Goes 
 back to dressing table.) I just said that to vex her— I 
 hav'nt a notion of going down — where the devil is 
 that suspender ? I would'nt go if she came up and 
 asked me. Confound this waistcoat ! I put my arm 
 through the wrong hole. I never saw a girl I dislike 
 as much as that ! — there she goes again. — (Opens the 
 door and cries out) — Ah ! can't you wait till I come 
 down, Lizzy? — I'll not be a half dozen seconds. — (Goes 
 to the glass and brushes his whiskers.) I never looked 
 so frightful in my life. Tm not fit to be seen — I made 
 myself look so purposely, to vex that girl ! I'll just 
 walk into the drawing room in this kind of a wa}^ — 
 (folds his arms and knits his brows into a stern frown) — 
 and I won't open my lips — not as much as to say good 
 morning — I'm the very fellow that can do that sort of 
 thing, when I take it into my head — I'll be as stiff as 
 a Lord Chancellor. If she speaks to me I'll just say 
 in this kind of tone, you know, hem! a — ^^Miss Boss, 
 I have the honor to wish you — a — a — hem — joy of — 
 of your conquest last night — Madam l" That'll surprise 
 her a bit, I suspect ; but here's some one coming up 
 
 stairs — a message from her I'll engage. D n this 
 
 coat, it wrinkles most confoundedly about the waist. — 
 (Knocking heard.) — Ah ! there's the knock at the door 
 — now for it — hem ! — Who's there ? 
 
 Biddy. — (Outside.) — It's me, sir — Biddy, sir. 
 
 Enter Biddy. 
 
 Tom. — Oh! you may just say I'm engaged at pre- 
 sent. — I have something else to think of besides sing- 
 ing, just now. 
 
14 GEORGE SEYiMOUR. [ACT I. 
 
 Biddtj. — It's not about singing, your wanting. 
 
 Tom. — Never mind — can't attend to any woman's 
 nonsense at present. 
 
 Biddy. — It's not a woman, sir; it's a boy that's 
 wanting you. 
 
 Tom. — A boy ! why the devil didn't you say so ? — 
 Who is he ? 
 
 Biddy. — I don't know, sir; he's a poor looking cray- 
 ture, but he's very civil spoken. 
 
 Tom. — Did he kiss you ? 
 
 Biddy. — Eh, then, isn't it a shame for you, Misther 
 Crosbie, to be always gettin' on in that fashion. — 
 (IViping her lips on her apron.') I never see the likes 
 of you ! 
 
 Tom. — Well, go down and tell him, whoever he is, 
 that I'll see him in a few minutes. \^Exit Biddy. 
 
 (^Tom returns to the glass, gives his whiskers another 
 touch) and then retires.') 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Deawing Room. — [Lizzj Eoss discovered seated at the Piano, 
 with her back to the door.] 
 
 Enter Tom Crosbie. 
 Lizzy. — ( Taking no notice of Tom, sings:) 
 
 The flower that I loved is withered, 
 Its leaves and its fragrance shed. 
 The destroyer has breathed upon it — 
 
 Mary is dead ! 
 In my ear her loved voice never 
 Shairbreathe in its silver tone, 
 Its music is hushed forever, 
 The light of my heart is gone. 
 
SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 15 
 
 Like the spring time's changing beauties, 
 . As bright, and as quickly lied, 
 "Were my dreams for the hidden future — 
 
 Mary is dead ! 
 My fair-haired bride has left me 
 Deserted and alone, 
 Death hath of hope bereft me, 
 The light of my heart is gone. 
 
 Yet she smiles through the troubled dreamings 
 
 That come to my v/idow'd bed, 
 
 And I weep, for it soothes my sorrow — 
 
 Mary is dead. 
 I weep when the morning wakes me, 
 With the light of the golden sun, 
 For mine is a life of darkness, 
 The light of my heart is gone. 
 
 {^During the singing, Torn listens attentively, forgettincj 
 his frovm and his folded arms. — At the close he stalks 
 across the room like a Bashaio, and, flings himself full 
 length upon the sofa, and commences playing icith his 
 thumbs.) 
 
 Lizzy. — (Carelessly.) — Oh, are yoii there? — (Tom 
 looks wicked.) Yoii seem in a cheerful humour. — {Tom 
 bites his lip.) Don't eat it all I beg of you; pray 
 leave a little bit. — {Tom turns his face to the icall.) — 
 Pleasant creature. — {Tom kicks his boot against the sofa.) 
 Do that again, it's so sensible. — {Tom does it again.) 
 Another little kick. — ( Tom lets his foot fall to the floor.) 
 Would'nt you like to kick it a little more ? — {Tom lets 
 h is other foot fall.) Perhaps you'd wish for your night- 
 cap? — {To7n turns round upon the sofa.) Shall I sing 
 you a lullaby? — {Seriously.) 
 
 Tom. — {Aside.) — Can't stand it much longer. 
 
 Lizzy, —Shall 11 
 
 Tom. — ]^s o I — (i/i a loud voice.) Go^ sing one for your 
 
16 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 
 
 new conquest; — he likes that sort of thinf^, perhaps — 
 1 don't ! 
 
 Lizzy. — Oh ! 3'ou liave found your voice, liave you'/ 
 — (Jjaughing.') 
 
 Tom.— -Yes, Madam, I have found my voice, and let 
 me make use of it to tell you. Madam, that it will bo 
 some time before you shall hear it again. 
 
 Lizzy. — Another silent fit ? 
 
 Tom. — You better not laugh at me, Madam. — (Bising 
 from the sofa, and folds his arms as he intended.) I'm 
 not a— a — hem — not to be trifled with, 1 can tell you ! 
 
 Lizzy. — You would'nt murder me ? — ( With mock ter- 
 ror, shrinJdng back from him.) -*■ 
 
 Tom. — No, Madam, but I might murder somebody 
 else — somebody else, Madam ; perhaps I may make m}^- 
 sclf understood. — (Marches across the room.) 
 
 Lizzy. — Oh ! don't come near me ; I'm afraid you'll 
 bite me I 
 
 Tom. — Good morning, Madam ! — (il/ores toward the 
 door, boicing icith dignity.) I'm going, Madam ! I 
 have the honor to wish you good morning ! 
 
 Lizzy. — Good morning ! — i^With a deep courtesy, and 
 with a grave countenance.) Pray, don't kill yourself or 
 any body else until I see j^ou again ! 
 
 Tojn. — Oh ! you be {Hushes out.) 
 
 Ljizzy. — Tom ! 
 
 To7n. — {Coming back.) — Did you speak, Madf^m? 
 
 Ljizzy. — YouAvould'nt shake iiandswith me? — {Coax- 
 ingly.) 
 
 Tom. — No ! certainly not I 
 
 Lizzy. — You would'nti:' 
 
 Tom. — I'd die first. — {Pnts his haiids behind his back.) 
 
 Lizzy. — I would'nt let you kiss me ! 
 
 Tom. — Perhaps, if Mr. jvoelicfort was here, you 
 mijxht let him ! 
 
80ENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 17 
 
 Lizzy. — I would'nt let you, at all events. — {JDratcing 
 nearer to Mm.') 
 
 Tom. — Oh ! you know / never kissed you ! 
 
 Lizzy. — You never shall again ! 
 
 Tom.— Shan't I ? 
 
 Lizzy. — No — never ! 
 
 Tom. — I would if I liked I 
 
 Lizzy. — I defy you — I'd scj*eam if you did. 
 
 Tom.— You would ? 
 
 Lizzy. — Yes — certainly. 
 
 Tom. — Scream now. then !- — {Catches her round th^ 
 waist, and kisses her.) — There ! 
 
 3Iiss Burke. — (^At the door.) — That's very nice con- 
 duct, upon my word. — ( Walks rnajestically into the room.) 
 
 Lizzy. — My Aunt. \^Exit. 
 
 Tom.— -Miss Burke ! by all that's unlucky I I'm oft" 
 — good morning, ladies. — (Makes for the door.) 
 
 Miss Burke. — Stop, sir I 
 
 jfo??!.— -Another time, my dear Madam, I shall be 
 most happy — at present, particular business 
 
 Miss Burke. — I desire you to remain ! 
 
 Tom. — Can't 'pon my honor ! — going to a friend's 
 death-bed — last gasp- — mind wondering, and all that 
 sort of thing. Can't stop a moment — good morning. 
 — -(Bushes out.) 
 
 Miss Burke.— -And you, Miss Eoss, what have you 
 to say about such scandalous conduct ? — ( Turning, di-i- 
 covers herself alone.) [^Exit. 
 
18 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT. 
 
 SCENE IT. 
 
 pRAWINQ KooM. — [George Seymour discovered sitting, with 
 his elbow resting on a Table. Two or three Chairs in the 
 Koona.] 
 
 Enter Eynma Auhyn. 
 
 Seymour. -{Eising and bowing respectfully.') — I have to 
 make many apologies, Miss Aubyn, for this unceremo- 
 nious intrusion — for intrusion, I fear, you must con- 
 Bidor it. If you will do me the favor to sit down and 
 attend to me tor a few minutes, I will endeavor to ex- 
 plain my reasons. — (^Places a chair for her near his own. 
 Emma seats herself) But, before I begin, suffer me to 
 assure you, you have no cause to fear the approach of 
 any evil, such as, from the answer to my letter, you 
 seem to apprehend. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — You will excuse me, if I request, 
 that I may at once be informed of the object of this 
 visit. 
 
 Seymour. — Pardon me one moment ; there are two 
 or three questions I would first ask you, and though 
 they may appear somewhat impertinent, believe me, 
 I do not mean them to be so, as I am sure you will 
 acknowledge, when matters have been explained. In 
 the first place, then, what is your age ? 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — {Smiling.) — Eighteen my next birth 
 day. 
 
 Seymour. — And when will that be? 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — Oh ! a long way off— the latter end 
 of March. 
 
 Seymour. — (Aside.) — March, and this is the last week 
 in July. {Loud.) — You were born in Paris, I believe ? 
 
SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. IJ^ 
 
 {Emma hows in the affirmative.') Your mother died 
 when your were very young. {Emma weeps. After some 
 moments silence.') — I meant not this, believe me; I am 
 deeply grieved that I should have awakened memo- 
 ries so painful. Can you forgive me ? — {Lays his 
 hand with gentleness on hers.) 
 
 Enuna Auhyn. — {In a broken voice.')- — I have nothing 
 to forgive ; you could not have intended to wound my 
 feelings, nor could I have thought that, after so many 
 years, the mere mention of my poor mother, and of my 
 early home, could have betrayed me into such weak- 
 ness but it is over now. I can listen calmly to any- 
 thing you have to say — pray go on. 
 
 Seymour. — You are already aware that at your mo- 
 ther's death, you were brought over here from France, 
 and placed under the guardianship of Mrs. Eochefort ; 
 but, I believe, you have never yet been informed that 
 there was also another to whose care you were be- 
 queathed. Circumstances have hitherto prevented 
 that other from coming forward to perform his share 
 of duty toward you. In fact, until very latel}'-, he has 
 been absent in a distant land. On his return to this 
 country, he sought out Mrs. Eochefort. He hoped to 
 have found that the care of one guardian had been 
 sufficient, and that you had suffered nothing by his 
 unavoidable neglect ; but he was deceived; instead of 
 that, he discovered that all your interests, present, and 
 future, had been sacrificed by her whose duty it should 
 have been to fulfill toward you the part of a second 
 mother. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — It is false ! grossly false, whoever 
 saj^s it. She has been a second mother to me ; if she 
 had not, what would have become of me, when 1 was 
 thrown on the world homeless and penniless? 
 
 Seymour. — You have been deceived. You were not 
 
m GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT 1. 
 
 left penniless. There was a sum placed in Mrs. Eoche- 
 fort's hands for your use, the interest of which was to 
 be devoted to your education, and the principal to be- 
 come yours when you should reach the age of eighteen. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — Impossible ! If it were really as 
 you say, Mrs. Eochefort would not have kept me in 
 the dark so long. You must be misinformed. 
 
 Seymour. — That is not likely, as I think you will 
 allow, when I tell you Mrs. Eochefort herself is my 
 informant. / am her fellow guardian, and she confessed 
 to me that the mone}'' — a thousand pounds — which 
 was placed in her hands, has been long since squan- 
 dered. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — I will not believe it ; until I hear it 
 from her own lips I will not believe it. What object 
 could she have in concealing from me the fact that 1 
 had another guardian ? or, if money had really been 
 placed in her hands for my use, why not have told 
 me, when she knew that it would have been my 
 greatest pride to offer it for her service ? I cannot 
 believe it ! I will go to her this instant. — {Attempts 
 to rise — Seymour detains her.) 
 
 Seyjuour. — Stay 1 If you would not bring instant 
 ruin on her head, you will keep this interview a secret 
 —-at least for the present. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — Why is all this mystery ? Why not 
 question Mrs. Eochefort on this subject? Or why 
 not, before now, come forward openly, and declare 
 yourself my guardian ? I cannot understand it! 
 
 Seymour.— -^oVieYe me, I had strong reasons for act- 
 ing as I have done. There are circumstances which 
 render it absolutely necessary that Mrs.Eochefort's son 
 should remain for a time in ignorance of my return to 
 this country, and therefore I have taken advantage 
 of his absence to ask this interview. Besides^ I was 
 
SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 21 
 
 not aware, until within a day or two, how your guard- 
 ian had betrayed her trust. You know not all I have 
 discovered — you could never dream of the wrongs 
 that have been done you. 
 
 Emma Auhnn. — One question. — If all you have told 
 me be indeed true, is it with Gerald's knowledge 't 
 
 Seymour. — I believe he knows no more than your- 
 self, that any fortune had been left you ; there are 
 many secrets besides this, which his mother has not 
 thought necessary to confide to him. I am told, that 
 this young man is paying his addresses to a wealthy 
 heiress — do you know her ? 
 
 Emma Aubi/n.-—lf you allude to Miss Franks, I have 
 seen her, but I do not know her intimately, nor have 
 I heard anything of the kind which you speak of; but 
 if it would be for Gerald's advantage, I hope- — I hope 
 it is true. — {^Turns aside to hide her tears.') 
 
 Seymour. — (Coolly.) — It is not hkely to be of much 
 advantage, inasmuch as no marriage will ever take 
 place between them. 
 
 Emma Aifbyn.-(Quickly.)-'Whixtl how know you that? 
 
 Seymour.- — Because, I have it in my power to pre- 
 vent it, and I will prevent it. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — {Aside.) — Oh ! if I could be sure of 
 that, how happy it would make me. 
 
 Seymour. — And now, Miss Aubyn, I have no objec- 
 tion to you mentioning to Mrs. Eochefort this inter- 
 view, provided you make known the nature of it no 
 farther than inquiring of her, whether it was true that 
 you had a second guardian ; but under no circumstan- 
 ces, must she suppose j^ou are acquainted with the fl^ct 
 of any money having been bequeathed you. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — If Sirs. Eochefort acknowledges that 
 you have stated the truth, then I promise to be guided 
 in future by your advice. [Exeuent. 
 
22 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Mr. Franks' Eoom. — [Mr. Franks discovered walking the 
 room hurriedly.] 
 
 Mr. Franks— -{Soliloquy.)— -CoTiioundi that fellow, 
 Gerald Roehefort ! At dinner I invited him to my room, 
 and here 1 have been an hour awaiting his appearance. 
 Confound him, I say. If he did save my daughter's 
 life, 1 can't stand every thing, and 1 won't. Why 
 can't he come forward boldly and say — " Mr. Franks, 
 I love your daughter — will ,you give her to me ?" — 
 That would be behaving like a man ; but, instead, 
 here he comes sneaking day after day, and then sneak- 
 ing off again. I have no patience with such a fellow I 
 Why, when I was a young man — but times have 
 laltered since then ! — when I was a young man like 
 him, damme! I'd have popped the question in five 
 minutes; and if the answer was "No "- — phsha ! what 
 am I thinking of! He knows as well as I do, that it 
 would be no such thing. If he does n't propose for 
 her before ten days arc over his head, hang me if I 
 don't hunt him like a redshank, about his business. 
 There's an end on it ! They are together now— -such 
 a turning up of eyes, and squeezing out of sighs, and 
 
 every d d nonsense of the kind ! Whenever two 
 
 young people are in a room together, and no sounds 
 audible beyond the door, there's sure to be mischief 
 in the wind ! For two pins I'd steal a march, and find 
 out what they're at ; if it's not mischief, there's no 
 harm done; if it is, I'll open their eyes a bit. But 
 " listeners never hear good of themselves," they say — 
 no matter ! Hang me it I don't do it ! I know there's 
 villany going on — and I'll see if I can't make it out. 
 ni astonish them ! [Exit 
 
S€ENE VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 
 
 SCENE Y I . 
 
 Drawing Room. — [Jessie Franks and Gerald Rochefort discov- 
 ered seated on a Sofa — the hand of the maiden reposing 
 quietly in that of her lover. Mr. Franks discovered behind 
 one of the wings watching them.] 
 
 Gerald. — Jessie — Jessie, I am very unhappy. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Humph! — humph; what does he 
 mean by that ? 
 
 Jessie. — {Softly.) — Why should you be unhappy 7 
 
 3fr. Franks. — Because he's an ass ! — that's why ! 
 
 Gerald. — Ever since the first hour I saw you, I have 
 been dreaming 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Ahiiost time for you to wake up then. 
 
 Gerald. — And now, I feel that when that dream is 
 ended, life will have no farther happiness for me. 
 
 Jessie. — But why should you have such feai*s? — 
 dreams have often been realized, you know. 
 
 Gerald. — Mine can scarcely- be — it was too bright. 
 
 Mr. Fraiiks. — Too fiddlestick ! — confounded stuff ! — 
 CanU the fellow put his arm around her neck, like a 
 man, and give her a smack at once, instead of all this 
 nonsense ? 
 
 Gerald. — Too bright — far too bright. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — If he says that again, hang me if I 
 don't rush in and kick him ! 
 
 Jessie. — Are you dreaming now ? or do you want to 
 put me to sleep with that doleful voice and look ? 
 
 Gerald. — Your father 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Ha! now we are going to have it ! I 
 thought there was mischief in the wind ! 
 
 Gerald. — Your father told me after dinner to-day, 
 that he wished to speak to me in private. 
 
 Jessie. — (Anxiously.) — Well ? 
 
24 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 
 
 Gerald. — I was afraid to remain, for I anticipated 
 the nature of his speecli — it would have been to tell 
 me to come here no more. 
 
 Jessie. — You must be dreaming ! — how could you 
 think of such a thing ? 
 
 Gerald. — I feel it ; — and ho is right ; he cannot but 
 have seen my love for you; and {bitterly,^ he knows I 
 am a beggar ! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — I am longing to be at him ! 
 Jessie. — Gerald — (ivithdrawing her hand,^ — you do 
 my father an injustice. If such a motive could have 
 governed him an instant — which is impossible, as you 
 should by this time know, he would never have suf- 
 fered our intercourse to continue. Ko earthly consid- 
 eration could ever induce him to risk the happiness 
 of his child. You do not know my father! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — My child ! my own true-hearted child ! 
 ( Wiping his eyes.) — God bless her ! 
 
 Gerald. — Forgive me, Jessie. — ( Taking her hand and 
 pressing it between both his oivn.) — Forgive me, dearest ; 
 I meant not to offend you, but the fear that I should 
 be separated from you now almost deprives mo of 
 reason. If you could only know the depth of my 
 love, you would not blame me. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Ah ! that's something like ! — the bu- 
 siness will soon be settled now ! 
 
 Jessie. — Is it very deep ? I think it must be, it has 
 taken so long to come to the surface. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Good ! let him put that in his pipe and 
 smoke it ! 
 
 Gerald. — (^Passing his arm round her vjaist, and draws 
 her closer to his side.) — You love me, Jessie ? 
 
 Jessie. — Do I ? 
 
 Gerald. — Such is my hope — is it a deceitful one? 
 
 Jessie. — !Not quite so much so as hopes generally are. 
 
tjOENE VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 25 
 
 Gerald. — You know my poverty. 
 
 Mi\ Franks. — Damn his poverty ! 
 
 Jessie. — Never allude to that again, if you would 
 not wish seriously to wound ni}^ feelings. {Smiluig.) 
 You know riches are so unromantic! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Damn romance I AYe'll have ^' love 
 in a cottage" now — flowers and bowers, eyes and 
 sighs, hearts and darts, and all that sort of thing — pah ! 
 
 Gerald. — They maybe unromantic, Jessie, but they 
 are very necessary, nevertheless, and notwithstanding 
 all your father's kindness to me, I cannot hope that 
 ho would give his consent to our union. 
 
 Afr. Franks. — For .a sixpence, I'd walk in and order 
 the fellow to march — how dare the fellow have such 
 an opinion of me ? 
 
 Jessie. — Gerald, dear Gerald, — shall I confess it ? I 
 have long wished for this hoar to conic. I could not 
 be bund to your love, for my own heart taught mc to 
 read yours ; I knew your feelings, for I knew my own ; 
 but I longed to hear you speak them, for then, dear 
 Gerald, I could tell you how they were returned. 
 
 Gerald. — {Kissing her.) — My ow7i Jessie ! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — All right ! I may soon walk in ! 
 
 Jessie. — {Gerald kisses her again.) — There! that will 
 do — let me finish what I have to say, before you 
 smother me, entirely. Gerald, I know my dear 
 father's nature, and you have but to tell him of — of 
 our attachment, to insure his consent, and his blessing. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — The little villian ! — {i?i an ecstacy of 
 delight,) — the cunning little villain ! how did she guess 
 it ! — {Wijoing his eyes.) 
 
 Gerald. — {Embracing her.) — Now am I happy indeed; 
 but, dearest, may you not be mistaken ? — may not 
 you reckon too fondly on your father's yielding hie 
 consent ? 
 b 
 
 rL 
 
26 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — I'll make him smart for this ! 
 
 Jessie. — No, Gerald, I am not mistaken j my father 
 loves you as well — almost as well as — as well as I do. 
 
 Gerald. — My own darling girl ! — {Drawing her to his 
 hearty and pressing his lips to hers.) 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Come ! this won't do! Hang me if I 
 stand any more of this ! he'll eat her before he stops ! 
 ( Walks into the roo7n.) 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Yes, sir-^Mr. Franks ! Yea, Madam 
 — your father ! You ought to be proud of yourselves ! 
 This is a remarkably nice sort of a duet I have inter- 
 rupted — pray go on with it — oh, pray do I 
 
 Gerald. — {Stammering.) — Indeed, sir. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Well, sir I what have you got to say ? 
 Are you ashamed of yourself ? Do you feel afraid to 
 look me in the face? Do you tremble when you hear 
 my voice? — {Gerald and Jessie smile.) — What are you 
 grinning at, Madam ? How dare jou smile? I won- 
 der you don't sink into the earth with shame! Have 
 you no idea of decency? 
 
 Jessie. — Come, papa, don't be cross. — {Coaxinglyfy 
 ivhile she draws close to him and lays one hand on his 
 shoulder.) — You know you look so terrible when you 
 are vexed ! — {Smiles.) 
 
 Mr. Franks. — {Stepping hack.) — Don't touch me ! — 
 Don't you come within twenty miles of me ! How 
 dare you love any one without asking your father's 
 leave? How dare you do it, I say? 
 
 Jessie. — Please, sir — {droppig a courtesy,) — I couldn't 
 help it ! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — {Turning to Gerald.) — You couldn't 
 help it either, sir, I suppose? 
 Gerald. — {Timidly.) — No, sir. 
 
SCENE VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 27 
 
 Mr. Franks. — And do you dare to tell me that you 
 love my daughter ? 
 
 Gerald. — (Boldly.) — I do, sir ! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — And you would wed her without my 
 consent ? 
 
 Gerald. — I would not, sir : there you wrong me. I 
 would never have urged her to disobedience of your 
 wishes, and, therefore, deeply as I loved her, I have 
 never spoke of it until now. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Say no more! {Turning to Jessie.) — 
 And 3^ou, Madam, would you have become his wife 
 without my sanction ? 
 
 Jessie. — No, father, no ! — (Throwing both arms round 
 his neck.) — You know I would not. 
 3Ir. Franks. — And you love him ? 
 Jessie. — (Nestliyig her head closer to her father's bosom.) 
 — I do. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Here — (taking Gerald's hand,) — here 
 — take her — take my darling, my own beloved child. 
 Cherish her, sir, — cherish her in your heart's core ! for 
 Heaven has given her to you for a blessing ! If ever 
 you neglect her — if ever one cold look should fall upon 
 
 my child — I will curse 
 
 Jessie. — Father ! dear father ! — (Beturning to him, 
 and pressing her lips upon his forehead.) — You must not 
 have such thoughts — we will be so happy now! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — (Slowly and tenderly laying his hands, 
 one after the other, upon her shoulders, and thus holding 
 her at arm's length before him, he gazes at her with affec- 
 tion — he clasps her to his bosom in a passionate embrace — 
 holds her there an instant, and, then, suddenly releases 
 her, places her hand in Gerald's, and raises his hands 
 reverently over their heads.) — May God's blessing, and 
 mine, attend you both ! 
 
 [END OF FIRST ACT.] 
 
GEOHGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II, 
 
 ACT I i .~S C E N E I . 
 
 A EoOM. — [Several Chairs — a Table, upon which is a small Iron 
 Box — several Bundles of Papers — an Ink Stand, and a pair 
 of Pistols.] 
 
 [George Seymour, disguised as an Old Man — long locks of grey 
 hair — huge unshorn beard, descending far down his breast — 
 a long shapeless morning gown conceals his figure, which is 
 considerably bent, seemingly with age — arms folded across 
 his breast — discovered standing at the table.] 
 
 Enter Gerald Rochefori. — [His features partially concealed by a 
 large Cloak.] 
 
 Seymour. — I have waited your coming. — (^Saluting 
 him loith a cold and distant bow.) 
 
 Gerald. — (^Returning the salutation coldly, and speak- 
 ing haughtily.) — Ten o'clocJc was the time appointed — 
 that hour has scarce passed — I think I have been 
 punctual. 
 
 Seymour. — Yes, ten minutes make but little differ- 
 ence ; and yet half, nay a tenth part of that time may 
 suffice a man to do a deed which will hang hke a bitter 
 curse upon his future life — ;witliin tliat little space the 
 wife may become a widow — the chikl an orphan — 
 kingdoms change their rulers — riches their possessors 
 — ^ay I or woman become false, and a man a murderer! 
 lo it not so ? 
 
 Gerald. — I woukl speak with you upon a different 
 Bubject : I — 1 know not what you mean. 
 
SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. -'^^ 
 
 Seymour. — It matters not ; what may bo your plea- 
 sure ? 
 
 Gerald.— Yow already know my errand. 
 
 Seymour. — Ay, I had forgotten ; you require money. 
 
 Gerald. — I do. 
 
 Seymour. — How much ? 
 
 Gerald. — A thousand pounds. 
 
 Seymour. — Humph ! it is a large sum 3 who told you 
 to apply to me ? 
 
 Gerald. — One who is himself your debtor; he told 
 mo I should find you willing to advance the sum. 
 
 Seymour. — His name? 
 
 Gerald. — Captain Robert Harley. 
 
 Seymour. — Oh ! and so because I have been fool 
 enough to lend my money to him, he sends others to 
 rob me of my gold. 
 
 Gerald. — Sir — {haughtily') — you forget your position. 
 Think 3^ou jonr hoarded wealth gives you a right to 
 insult those who are driven to seek 3'our assistance? 
 I came not here to bandy useless words ; can I hayo 
 the money? 
 
 Seymour. — (Smiling.) — You are hasty, young gen- 
 tleman ; you have not yet spoken of security — how 
 am I to be repaid ? 
 
 Gerald. — (After a few moments hesitation.) — For the 
 money, it ma}^ be long before I can return it, bat the 
 interest shall be punctually paid ; and as to security, 
 I have little more than personal to offer. 
 
 Seymour. — Oh ! and pray may I ask you if you are 
 really serious in seeking so large a loan, upon such 
 terms as these ? 
 
 Gerald. — If I were not, sir, the application would 
 scarcely have been made. As I conclude it has been 
 made in vain, I shall trespass no further upon your 
 time, and so 
 
30 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT II. 
 
 Seymour. — Stay, stay, you are over hasty, Mr, Koche- 
 fort, and 
 
 Gerald. — (Starting.) — Kochefort ! how knew you my 
 name ? when I wrote to you about this money, I mere- 
 ly signed the note with an initial, and yet 1 now re- 
 member the answer the boy brought me yesterday, 
 bore my name upon the cover; how is this, sir? 
 
 Seymour. — {Smiling.) — No matter, few are strangers 
 to me. But the money ! You have not the means of 
 repaying the tenth part of the sum, and yet, upon one 
 condition, you shall have it. 
 
 Gerald. — (Anxiously.) — What is the condition ? — 
 (Seats himself.) 
 
 Seymour. — You want this money for a purpose to 
 
 which I am no stranger. Your mother is in debt 
 
 ( Gerald springs from his seat in astonishment.) You 
 
 see, I am acquainted with more of your secrets than 
 you gave me credit for. — (Gerald sinks into his seat.) — 
 Do not interrupt me — your mother is in debt ; — ner 
 reckless, dishonorable extravagance has caused it, and 
 if, within a few days, one at least of her creditors be 
 not satisfied, she will be disgraced forever ; is not this 
 the truth ? (After a few moments silence.) — You do not 
 answer, — you want this money to save your mother 
 from disgrace — stay, you need not speak — I know that 
 such is the fact ; I know more, that, when you were 
 in distress, she refused you the assistance which might 
 
 have saved you from but no matter j remain calm 
 
 another moment ; you want the money, and, as I have 
 said before, upon one condition you shall have it. 
 
 Gerald. — Pray come at once to an explanation upon 
 the subject I 
 
 Seymour. — You are going to be married ! 
 
 Gerald. — ^Ha! it is utterly impossible you should 
 know that ! But what means, sir, hav© you 
 
SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 81 
 
 Seymour. — Nay, nay, you need not be so much 
 alarmed ; greater secrets than this have sometimes 
 come within my knowledge. Is the idea of marriage 
 so very startling to you ? 
 
 Gerald. — {Rising.) — The means, sir, by which mat- 
 ters of such importance to my family and myself, have 
 come to your knowledge, I am utterly at a loss to con- 
 jecture. What interest my private affairs cau possess 
 for you, I cannot possibly imagine; but, as your ob- 
 ject appears to be to question me upon subjects, which 
 can in no way, concern you, instead of confining your- 
 self to the business upon which I came, 1 must say, 
 that you have presumed somewhat too far, and I shall, 
 therefore, leave you at leisure to pursue your interest- 
 ing researches into the history of the next person, 
 whose folly, or misfortune, may drive him to seek 
 your assistance. — (^Turns and walks towards the door ^) 
 
 Seymour. — (Steps forward and lays his hand 07i Ge- 
 rald's arrn.) — Young man, you should ere this have 
 learned to curb the impetuosity of your temper. You 
 came here to-night to seek a sum of money to save 
 your mother from disgrace — hear me, I say, or if you 
 will persist, then go, and let her die and rot within a 
 prison! — {Resumes his seat.-— Gerald paces the roo7n in 
 agitation. After a pause, Seymour resumes.) — It seeniH 
 strange to you, Mr. Eochefort, that I should be aware 
 of circumstances relative you, and your affairs, which 
 you had deemed unknown to any but those persons 
 immediately concerned. I am now, however, about 
 to prove to you, that my knowledge of your affairs is 
 not confined to the past, nor even to the present, but 
 extends also to the future. You doubt it? Be it so, 
 you shall have the proof — ^the marriage which you 
 contemplate shall never take place ! 
 
 Gerald. — By Heaven, old man ! you are presuming 
 
32 GEORGE SEYMOUR^ [ACT II. 
 
 too much upon my patience. AVhatever your motives 
 may be, in prying into the private transactions of my 
 hfe, 1 have before said, X cannot conjecture; but that 
 you should endeavor to impose upon my belief, by pre- 
 tending an insight into the future, exceeds anything 
 you have already said, or done. 1 tell you, usurer, or 
 whatever you are, that no earthly power shall prevent 
 the marriage ot which you speak, and 1 warn you to 
 mention the subject no more. 
 
 Sey7nou7\—-Oh, as you please; then our conference 
 is ended. You will, no doubt, find some other person 
 fool enough to lend you a thousand pounds with the 
 prospect of never being paid, and your mother will 
 thus be saved from the threatened danger. I say, sir, 
 our conference is ended. (.Passing from the room, is 
 detained by Gerald.) It is useless to prolong our in- 
 terview, unless you keep your temper within bounds; 
 he who seeks to borrow, should assume a milder tone. 
 
 Gerald. — You have said, that upon one condition I 
 should have the sum I seek — I again ask vv'hat that 
 condition is ? 
 
 Seymour.— -(After a imuse, and looking intently upon 
 Gerald's face.) — The condition is simply this — that 
 from this day forward, you resign every claim to the 
 
 hand of I need not speak the name ; if you are 
 
 content 
 
 Gerald. — Content! — Content, to yield all I love on 
 earth — to give up every hope of happiness — to bring 
 endless misery upon myself, and to break the heart 
 that has confided in me. .By Heaven ! old man, such 
 jests as this, are not to be calmly borne. 
 
 Seymour. — I jest not ; I have told you the condition 
 — it is for you to consider, whether or not, you will 
 agree to it. 
 
 Geraki-"^Q\QY \ never ! not for the wealth of Eu- 
 
SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. •>;> 
 
 rope — not if I was forced, like a eomuion slave, to 
 work for my daily bread, and that millions were offer- 
 ed me as the reward. I tell yon, old man, if yon are 
 eerions in this demand, there is some hidden villany 
 that I cannot solve ) bnt it shall be discovered, and, 
 mark me, one like j^ou could have no interest in break- 
 ing off this marriage — there must be some damned 
 plot in the transaction ; but, old and feeble as you are, 
 if, by 3^our means, I am robbed of my happiness, no 
 power on earth 
 
 Seymour. — Make no rash vows, young man ; I tell 
 you that upon no other condition shall 3^ou have the 
 mone}', and I tell you more, that whether you yield 
 to it or not, the marriage, on which you have set your 
 heart, shall never take place ! If you agree, the money 
 shall be yours ; if not, within a fortnight your mother 
 will be in a prison — a felon — and circumstances will 
 become known to the world which v,'ill disgrace both 
 you and her forever. ]S[ow, sir, make up your mind. 
 
 Gerald. — Oh, God I — {Fressing his hands npon his 
 forehead.) — See the misery which has been brought 
 upon me in a few short hours — my hopes dashed to 
 ruin, my happiness destroyed, my plighted faith broken, 
 and all, ail, through the cursed infatuation of my own 
 
 no matter, she is still my mother. Old man, 
 
 or devil, whatever you are, if I can find no other means 
 of procuring the sum I want, within a week, I will 
 agree to your condition^ though it rob me of my hap- 
 piness forever. 
 
 Seymour. — I am content, — this night week then, at 
 the same hour, I shall await you. [^Exeuent, 
 
34 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 HALL. 
 
 Enter Denny Conner. — [Denny v/alks to tho Lack of the Stage 
 and leans against one of the wings.] 
 
 Eater Gerald Rochejort. — [Gerald passes across the Stage.] 
 
 Denny. — (Coining forward.^ — Your sarvint, Masther 
 Garald — it's a mighty nate little cabin we're in — a 
 very pleasant place entirely, only the rats isn't over 
 partic'lar in the regard o' food — a bite out of a body's 
 nose, now 
 
 Gerald. — {Aside.^ — Ah! I am not alone. (Tb Den- 
 ny.') — You here, and know me ? 
 
 Denny. — Why, thin, be my faix, you may say that; 
 His here I am, sure enough, an' here I won't be longer 
 than I can help it, you may depind, for I'd just as soon 
 keep my nose on my face while I have it, an' its 
 mighty likely if I'd stop a while longer, the rats 'ud 
 lave me but a small share of it. 
 
 Cierald. — How long have 3^ou been here ? 
 
 Denny. — About three minutes, sir, for yoa see, sir, I 
 was takin' a doze bey ant in the room there. 
 
 Gerald. — I mean, how long have you been in the 
 house? 
 
 Denny. — May be an hour or two, more or less ; I 
 was out walkin' this evening 
 
 Gerald. — Confound your stupidity ! How long have 
 you been living here ? 
 
 Denny. — Musha then, jMasther Garald, I'm not livui' 
 here at all ; it's dyin' I am, sir, dyin' be inches, bekase 
 you see the rats 
 
 Gerald.— \) n the rats! 
 
SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 35 
 
 Denny. — Oh ! amin^ sir, with all the veins of my 
 heart. That's the very thing I say meself, every inin- 
 nit in the day — bad loock may attind th.e same var- 
 mint I sorra bit of a nose 
 
 Gerald. — I wish they'd take your tongue, too, as 
 well as your nose, j^ou stupid rascal — will you answer 
 me — do you sleep here ? 
 
 Denny. — Sleep '/ — sleep is it ? JSTow I only ax your- 
 self, Masther Garald, could you sleep with fifty couple 
 of rats dancing counthry dances over you on the bed — 
 I only ax you that? 
 
 Gerald. — (^Aslde.') — It's perfectly useless to expect 
 an answer from this stupid scoundrel, and yet he seems 
 to know something of me, and might, perhaps, being 
 a servant of this old money lender, solve this riddle, if 
 I could induce him to tell me what he does know. — 
 (Aloud.') — See^ my good fellow, whatever you name is 
 
 Denny. — Denny, sir, Denny Conner, that's the name 
 that's on me. 
 
 Gerald. — Well, then, Denny Conner, as you call 
 yourself, why do you remain here, if you dislike the 
 place so much ? 
 
 Denny. — For the best raison in life then, sir, bekase 
 I have no where else to go, an' it's onloocky to throw 
 out dirty wather until a body can get clane. 
 
 Gerald. — Are you willing to leave this place, if you 
 could find a more comfortable one ? 
 
 Denny. — Ou, wow ! Is a duck willin' to swim, I 
 wrondher — I dunna w^ould a dog ate mate ! Be my 
 60wl, when the rats ate a few more suppers off o' me 
 its a light load my bones 'ud have to carry any how. 
 Am I willin' ? faix that's not so bad I 
 
 Gerald. — Do you know^ any one to give you a char- 
 acter ? 
 
36 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 Denny. — A carrackther is it ? may be 1 haven't oiig 
 iu my pocket this present iniimit — mockins I haven't 
 — only wait a bit — whisht now. — (Proceeds to overhaul 
 his pocket — laying each article on the floor — solilorjuising.) 
 That's a dudheen ; its gettin' bittherer every day, an' 
 no wondher for it, many a bitther thought wint through 
 it wid the smoke. There's one, two, three, four — four 
 buttons ; thini's off my livery ! There's the duplicate 
 of Masther Tom's old wais'coat — fourpinee, the divle a 
 farthin' more they'd give. That's a bad sixpenny ; it's 
 like a raal frind, it'll stick to jou through thick and 
 thin, an' no fear of its ever being changed. A bit of 
 tobakky ; begorra, I'm richer nor I thought — tobakky 
 is an Ingian weed that grows up in the mornin' — lie 
 there beside the pipe for a minnit, I'll be talkin' to you 
 bymby. Arrah,tlie curse of Crummel on you, for one 
 paper, where the mischief are you at all,- at all ? — 
 You'll be the last thing I'll come to, I'll go bail; more 
 Iniste the worst speed, always — whisht, here it is at 
 Jast — there's the least taste of grase on the outside of 
 it, but look at it, Masther Eochefort — may be that 
 i -n't somethin' like a carrackther. — {Handing it to him.) 
 Gerald. — (Taking it tenderly between his fingers, and 
 (■pens it carefully. — Heads.) — 
 
 ''.Be it known to all v.hom it may concern, that the 
 bearer — if the same bo Dennis Conner — is the great- 
 t'rft rascal from this to himself; and that I'll back him 
 — giving the long odds — to do more mischief, tell more 
 lies, and drink more \s'hiskey in a day, than any other 
 man, woman or child, at present extant. If any gen- 
 tleman should feel inclined to take up my bet, just let 
 him inquire at Mrs. Taylor's boarding house, in Den- 
 '/AUq street, for one " Tom Crosbie." 
 
 ( Cf^rald lrnii//i.<: Inuirfil if. ) 
 
SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 37 
 
 Denny. — The divlo, Mustlier Giirald, an' 'ud you bo 
 laakin' merry Avid a poor boy's feelins' l* An' isn't ye 
 be afther jokin', Misther Eocliefort, hinn}^ ? 
 
 Gerald. — No, Denny, I read it just as your friend 
 Mr. Crosbie wrote. ISTot a word did 1 add or leave out. 
 It is a pleasant character he gives you. 
 
 Denny. — {Sis face assuming the most ludicrous ex2)res- 
 sion, half anger, half disappointment. ~) — The divle doubt 
 you tor that same thrick, Masther Tom Crosbie ] sure 
 if I wasn't a fool, I might aisj^ know that's the way 
 you'd sarve me — if I was your mother 'twould be all 
 the same — you'll have your bit of fun, no matthcr who 
 pays the piper ; but only wait ! if I don't be even wid 
 you for the same turn, it's a quare thing ! 
 
 Gerald. — Well, Dennis, I'll see about this to-mor- 
 row ; I know what sort of a gentleman Mr. Tom 
 Crosbie is -, the devil is not always as black as he's 
 painted, and perhaps I can do something for you. I 
 suppose your master up stairs, has been listening to 
 every word. 
 
 Denny. — {Aside.) — Lis'nin' ! indeed ! He'd want 
 long ears to hear us from where he is by this time, I'm 
 thinkin'! {Gerald walks to the door.) Good night, 
 Masther Garald — good nighty sir — and when you come 
 again, may be 
 
 Gerald. — {Sharply.) — What do you know about my 
 coming again ? — have you been listening, too ? 
 
 Denny. — Walls have cars, {slyly,) and so have I, 
 Masther Garald — good night, sir. \_Exit. 
 
 Gerald. — That boy knows more than he pretends, 
 but I'll discover it all before many hours. [Exit. 
 
o8 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 SCENEIII. 
 Dkawino Koom. — [Emma Aubyn discovered rending.] 
 
 Enter George Seymour. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — You have come now to fulfil your 
 promise ? 
 
 t^eymour. — AYhat promise ? 
 
 Mmna Auhyn. — That which you made when I last 
 saw you — that, upon your return you would openly 
 declare yourself my guardian, and end all this strange 
 mystery ? You have come to do this ? 
 
 Seymour. — I have; the promise shall be kept; I will 
 see Mrs. Bochefort at once — where is she ? 
 
 Emyna Auhyn. — In her own chamber. Shall I tell 
 her you are here ? 
 
 Seymoin\ — Presently; but first, I have a question 
 or two to ask. Her son has never been told anything 
 that has passed between us ? has never been informed 
 that you had a second guardian ? 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — Never by me; and, I am sure, the 
 subject has never since been alluded to by his mother. 
 
 Seymour. — So much the better. He must not hear 
 that you have ever seen me before. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — Could not he be told that I had, all 
 through, been aware of the fact of having a second 
 guardian ? 
 
 Seymour. — To what end ? How would this amend 
 matters ? 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — It would, at least, make his mother's 
 conduct appear less unaccountable. 
 
 Seymour. —1A\^ mother, I tell you, has chosen her 
 own line of action, and must abide by it. 
 
SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYIMOUR. 39 
 
 Emma Auhy?i. — But what objection can you have, 
 that it should not be as I say ^ Wby give cause for 
 trouble and unhappiness, if it can be avoided '/ 
 
 Seymour. — It cannot be avoided! It must conie^ 
 and the sooner the better. 
 
 Emma. Aubyn. — AVhat mean you? 
 
 Seymour. — This ! Mrs. Eochefort has robbed you — 
 she must be punished ! 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — Punished? I do not understand 
 you. 
 
 Seymour. — 1 say she has robbed you. — Should not 
 crime be punished ? 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — Still I do not understand you. 
 
 Seymour. — Listen. This is the first week in March ; 
 in three weeks more you will be eighteen. At that 
 age, you were to have received a thousand pounds; it 
 was placed in Mrs. Kochefort's hands for that purpose 
 — she has spent it — it will not be forthcoming. It is 
 my duty to see that justice is done towards you — she 
 shall go to prison. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — Prison! You cannot mean, that 
 she, wdio has filled the place of a mother to me for so 
 many years, should be sent to prison for having done 
 that which I would freely have consented to, had she 
 but confided in me. Why should you try to alarm me 
 in this way ? 
 
 Seymour. — I have no wish to alarm you. I have 
 only told you what must occur. — I merely do my duty. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — Your duty ! Is it your duty to 
 bring ruin on the head of one, but for whom I might 
 have been thrown without a friend or home upon the 
 world? What do you take me for? Do you think, 
 even if she had wronged me to a thousand times the 
 amount, that I would suffer her to be injured — to be 
 accused, much less, punished for it ? 
 
40 GEORGE SKYMOUK, [aCT IT. 
 
 Seymour. — You cannot prevent it : you "svill have 
 nothing to do with it. It must be ! 
 
 Emma Aiihyn. — I tell you it must ncA be I. What ! 
 let my benefactress, my second mother, be brought to 
 shame and disgrace on my account? Never! Am 
 1 lost to all gratitude, think you, that 1 should yield 
 such a return for years of care and kindness? 
 
 Seymour. — Once more, I tell you, you will have no- 
 thing to do with it. You have been shamefully de- 
 frauded, and it becomes m^^ dutj', as a guardian, to 
 take care that you shall at least have justice ! 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — Justice ! Do you speak to me of 
 justice such as this? In what way could it benefit 
 me, should your threats be put into execution? — 
 What service 
 
 Seymour. — Y^ou shall hear. Mrs. Eochefort's son 
 has the remnant of a small property left him by his 
 father — his mother has already dissipated the greater 
 portion of it, but, rather than see her in a prison, he 
 will sacrifice what remains — and then the sum which 
 you are entitled to may be recovered. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — Merciful Heaven ! this is horrible 1 
 What have you ever seen in my conduct, sir, that you 
 should dare to propose to me such a plan as this ? — 
 Oh ! I cannot believe that you are serious — it is cruel 
 to tamper with me in this manner ! 
 
 Seymour. — (^Aside.) — Before I can bring her to my 
 scheme, I must touch a chord that will vibrate more 
 powerfully to her heart, than any feeling I have as 
 yet awakened. (To Emma.) — Emma, you do not 
 know how this woman has wronged you. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — I do — have you not informed me? 
 
 Seymour. — I have not; nor would I now, but to 
 prove to you that she dosorves neither pity nor mercy 
 at voiir linnds. 
 
BCENE in.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 41 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — She deserves both, and she shall 
 find them. Had she not felt pity for me when I was 
 brought to her desolate and friendless, what would 
 have been my fate 't 
 
 Seymour. — If you knew all, perhaps you might 
 change jowy feelings. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — 1 will never change them. 
 
 Seymour. — What if I should tell you that she has 
 interfered with your happiness, in a way you never 
 dreamed of ? 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — My happiness ! What happiness 
 have I ever known ? 
 
 Seymour. — But for her you might have known it. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — I do not understand. What mean 
 you? 
 
 Seymour. — (Looking intently on her face.^ — You loved 
 her son ! 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — Sir ! 
 
 Seymour. — You loved her son ! {Emma covers her 
 face with her hands.) You loved him, Emma, and even 
 now, when his heart is given to another — when he is 
 lost to you forever — you love him still. I will tell 
 3'ou now what you have never known before — your 
 love was returned. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — (Quickly raising her head.) — Who 
 told you this ? 
 
 Seymour. — Ke confided his secret to his mother. — 
 Now, do you comprehend how she has wronged you? 
 
 Emma Aiihyn. — No, no, I can comprehend nothing. 
 I feel as though it were all a dream ! Tell me — oh, 
 tell me at once I 
 
 Seymour. — Gerald had been but a short time at home, 
 after his return from abroad, when he began to feel 
 toward you something more than brotherly affection 
 
 — this feeling grew rapid I v into passionate love 
 
 f 
 
42 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — Stay ! If this indeed be true — it it 
 be possible — why did I never know it — or by what 
 nieans has it been made known to yon? 
 
 Seymour. — You shall hear presently; but let me 
 finish. He was poor — he saw no prospect of ever 
 possessing sufficient wealth to marry ; and honor pre- 
 vented him from endeavoring to win your affections, 
 when unhappiuess alone would be the result. He 
 determined to leave his home, lest the strength of his 
 passion should overcome his resolution : with this 
 intent he sought his mother, told her his determina- 
 tion, and con tided to her the cause 
 
 Em7na Auhyn. — He did this ? His mother, then, 
 knew it ? 
 
 Seymour. — She did. ' His determination to leave did 
 nit suit her — it would have lessened her means, already 
 small. Neither did she like the idea of his marrying 
 you, for her last hope w^as, and is, that he should 
 obtain a wealthy bride, by means of whose riches, 
 she hoped to be restored to the station she bad lost. 
 This hope was a thousand times dearer to her than 
 either your happiness or that of her son. To accom- 
 plish this, her resolution was instantly taken. It was 
 this — to make Gerald believe that you already loved 
 another 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — My God ! can this be true ? 
 
 Seymour. — It can, and is. No considerations have 
 the slightest weight with her, w^here her personal in- 
 terest is concerned. 
 
 Emr/ia Auhyn. — But Gerald could not have believed 
 this? 
 
 Seymour. — He did believe it. His mother told 
 her story too artfully, to let him feel a doubt on the 
 subject. 
 
 Emm,a Auhyn. — What else did she tell him ? 
 
SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 43 
 
 Seymour. — This — that shortly before his return you 
 had been betrothed to a 3'oung Collegian, who had 
 been suddenly obliged to depart with bis father, on a 
 three years' tour to the Continent. Gerald's distress 
 on hearing this was great; he thought it would be 
 worse than dishonorable to continue his attentions, 
 and from that moment he determined to conquer his 
 passion, by every means m his power. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — My God ! my God ! that I had 
 known this before it was too late ! 
 
 Seymour. — It may not be too late yet. 
 
 Emma Atibyn. — (^Eagerly.) — How — not too late? 
 
 Seymour. — It is possible that it may not be; if you 
 wish it, it shall be probable. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — Probable ! you would not trifle wdth 
 me now ? it would be cruel — very cruel ! 
 
 Seyw^our. — Suppose this Miss Franks should never 
 become his wife 't 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — Ah ! you spoke of this before. 
 
 Seymour. — 1 did — all depends on you. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — On me ! how ? 
 
 Seymour. — You can assist me in breaking off this 
 match. 
 
 Emma. Aubyn. — (^Raising her head proudly.') — I as- 
 sist you ! Do you think, sir, because I have been be- 
 trayed into this weakness before you, that I would 
 be capable of descending to such an act as this ? Do 
 you think I vv^ould be guilty of such baseness as to se- 
 cure my ow^n happiness, by the destruction of an- 
 other's? What have I done to deserve this insult? 
 
 Seymour. — (Coldly.) — Pardon me — I was mistaken. 
 You led me to suppose that you still loved this young 
 man. I find I have been in error. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — It is because I do love him still, that 
 I scorn such an act as you propose. If he ever had 
 
44 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 any affection for me, it is past; he has given it to an- 
 other — he loves her now — let them be happy — I — I — 
 hope they may. — {Holding down her head and iceeping.) 
 
 fiieymour. — We will talk no more on this subject, 
 since it gives you so much pain ; and, believe me, I 
 would not have mentioned it at all, if I had not thought 
 it would have been for your good, I will see Mrs, 
 Bochefort now. 
 
 Enwia Aubjjn. — Before I tell her you are here, let 
 me ask you once more, if you are perfectly assured of 
 the truth of all you have just told me ? 
 
 Seymour. — I am perfectly. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — It appears so impossible to me, that 
 I find it very hard to belie ve^ — very hard. Pardon 
 me, but by what means has it come to your knowl- 
 edge ? 
 
 Seymour. — Mrs. Bochefort, with her own lips, con- 
 fessed it to me— and, eyen more than this, boasted of 
 it. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — God of Heaven ! how cruelly 1 have 
 been deceived ! You have caused me much misery, 
 sir — -very much miser}^. It would have been far 
 kinder to have left me in ignorance of all this. You 
 have taught me almost to hate her whom I loved with 
 a child's affection : but for you I would never have 
 known how cruelly she has wronged me : I would still 
 have had a mother. Now, I am alone—alone in the 
 wide world : for, from this night—even though I 
 should be driven to beg for my support— this shall no 
 longer be my home. 
 
 Seymour, — Let my home be j^ours, Emma — as your 
 guardian, I pray you accept my offer. All I have told 
 you, I meant in kindness, and in the hope of securing 
 jour future happiness. If I have erred, forgive me — 
 Bay you forgive me, Emma, ray daughter ? Will you 
 
SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 45 
 
 be my daughter? I am rich; my wealth shall be 
 yours — I am childless ; all my heart's love shall be 
 centered in you — lam alone in the world; we will be 
 companions to each other: you will be my daughter? 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — I do, I do forgive you. You have 
 done it for the best. If a daughter's duty and affec- 
 tion—if the devotion of my future life — can prove my 
 gratitude, they shall be yours. 
 
 Seymour. — Lot this kiss seal our covenant. Hence- 
 forth we are father and child. And now to business. 
 You will leave this house with me to-night? 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — No — not to-night — not to-night. — 
 I wish before I go, to — to — see — G-erald. 
 
 Seymour. — It must not be, Emma. Give over this 
 wish, my child, and I promise that you shall meet 
 again before many days. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — But when he discovers that I am 
 gone, what can he think ? 
 
 Seymour. — He shall know the truth : to his mother 
 shall be left the task of informing him. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — What? Of every thing? 
 
 Seymour. — Of every thing. Unless, as quite possi- 
 ble, she should invent another story to deceive him. — 
 I will, however, take care that he shall know the 
 facts. As soon as we reach home, you may write 
 to him, and also, his mother, explaining to them the 
 circumstances under which you acted, and which 
 caused you to seek another home. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — Then I will go with you, and if I 
 am acting ungratefully, may God forgive me ! 
 
 [^Exeuent, 
 
46 GEORGE SEYxMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 HALL. 
 
 Enter George Seymour. — [Disiguised in a large Cloak — his faco 
 almost entirely concealed by a large fur collar — his Hat 
 pressed down over his forehead.] 
 
 Seymour. — Boy 1 — {Calling.) 
 
 Enter Denny Conner. 
 
 Bevmj. — Good mornin', sir; it's a j^leasant mornin' 
 for walkiii', sir. 
 
 Seymour. — So much the better, for you are about 
 to walk. 
 
 Dtnny — I'm not sorry for that same. 
 
 Seymour. — Could not you contrive to hold youv 
 tongue for half a moment, while I give you your com- 
 ma n ds ? — (^Sharply.) 
 
 JJenny. — I'll do my best. 
 
 Seymour. — Well, then, do you know where Mr. 
 Franks lives? 
 
 Denny. — Be my sowl ! if walkin' up and down the 
 door two or three hours of an evenin' 'ud make me 
 know it, I ought to be able to find the way by this 
 time 
 
 Seymour. — Silence, fool ! and listen to me. 
 
 Denny. — Yes, sir. 
 
 Seymour. — (^Sternly.) — You had better not interrupt 
 ine again. 
 
 Denny. — No, sir, I won't say another word. 
 
 Seymour. — Listen to me then. 
 
 Denny. — I'm lis'nin', sir. 
 
SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 47 
 
 Seymour. — Take this letter 
 
 Denny. — Yes, sir. 
 
 Seymour. — Silence I I say. 
 
 Denny. — Mum's the word. 
 
 Seyiiiour. — Take this letter^ and go at once to Mr. 
 FrauK's 
 
 Denny. — I'll go this rainnit, sir. 
 
 Seymour. — Will you hold your tongue? 
 
 De,nny. — -Am'n't I houldin' it? 
 
 Seymour. — See Mr. Franks himself, cind give it into 
 his own hand 
 
 Denny. — But if he's out, sir ? 
 
 Seymour. — Then wait until you see him- 
 
 Denny. — But if he sends down word that he loonH 
 see me? 
 
 Seymour. — Psha I no matter how you do it, give him 
 the letter, and be sure you bring the answer safe 
 
 Denny. — But if I get no answer ? 
 
 Seymour. — Tell me what he says; 
 
 Denny. — An' if he says nothin'? 
 
 Seymour. — Confound the boy! Do as I desire you. 
 Lose no time. — (^Handing the letter.^ 
 
 Denny. — I won't be while you'd be sayin' thrapstick ! 
 
 Seymour. — Take care you keep that letter safe. 
 
 Denny. — I thought you bid me give it to Mis^ther 
 Franks ? 
 
 Seymour. — So I did, you stupid scoundrel. 
 
 Denny. — An' now you bid me keep it. 
 
 Seymour. — Was there ever such a brute ! Begone 
 this instaat ! 
 
 Denny. — Are jow goin' tosto-p here ? 
 
 Seymour. — You'll find me here when you return. 
 
 \-ExU. 
 
 Denny. — May be you think I'm not wide awake for 
 you I — maybe you think I don't know what you're 
 
48 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT H. 
 
 about ! but I'll soon let you know what's what. I'm 
 wideawake! I'm up to snuff ! AValls have ears, and 
 so have I ! Ah ! Dinny, me boy ! I have it ! There's 
 that Tom Crosbie : he desaved me about my carrack- 
 ther. the divle roast him ! But he's a frind of Masther 
 Garald, an' if an}^ thini>-'s wrong in this letther, he'll 
 help me find it out. I)ivle a word can I read, or I'd 
 open it rneself. The old hay then, he little thought he 
 had two pair of ears lis'nin', when he threatened to 
 put Masther Eochefort's mother in prison. Oh, the 
 nayger! But walls have ears, and so have II So here's 
 to Masther Tom's. {Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 DRAWING ROOM. 
 
 Enter George Seymour. — [After walking the room hurriedly for 
 a few moments, approaches the Table and rings the Bell.] 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Seymour. — Tell your Mistress that Mr. Seymour ia 
 here, and wishes to see her instantly. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Rochefort. 
 
 Mrs. R. — (^Advancing towards Seymour.) — Villain I 
 what is this you have done? What frightfal crime 
 do 5-0U contemplate, that you have forced this young 
 girl from her home ? 
 
 Seymour. — When you have quite done performing 
 the part of a Pythoness, and think proper to use Ian- 
 
SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 49 
 
 guagc a little less violent^ I may perhaps give the in- 
 lormatioii yon require. 
 
 iUrs. B. — Oh, (rod ! grant me patience, for my trials 
 are great ! Man ! I ask you what is this you have 
 done '/ ^yhy have you taken away this child r* 
 
 Seymour.-— As to what I have done, you can be at 
 no loss to know ; and as to having taken aAvay your 
 ward, I beg at once to undeceive 3^ou, by refering you 
 to her letter, from which you vv'ill perceive that she 
 has acted of her own free will. 
 
 Mrs. i?.-— Yes ! her own free will ! But what des- 
 perate villany has influenced her to exercise that wiliy 
 What arts and falselioods have 3^ou used to poison her 
 mind against me ? 
 
 Seymonr. — Kone whatever, Madam. If you will be 
 good enough to recollect yourself for a moment, I 
 think you will allow that the simple truth would be 
 quite sufficient. This I have told her^ but nothing 
 more. 
 
 3Irs. R. — I will not believe it ! I cannot believe 
 that the mere fact of my liaving 
 
 i^eymour. — Robbed her I 
 
 3Irs. R. Having appropriated her fortune, could 
 
 make her take this step^ without a word of notice or 
 explanation. 
 
 Seymour. — Oh, everj^ one may not think so lightly 
 and forgivingly of the crime of robbery as Mrs. Koche- 
 fort. 
 
 Mrs. R. — (^Covering her face with her hands, and sink- 
 ing into a chair.) — G-od mij me, for this man has no 
 mercy. 
 
 Seymour. — Mercy ! what mercy have jow deserved ? 
 Where was your mercy when you crushed the heart 
 that loved you better than all things on earth, or in 
 lleavon— -when you drove to madness and desperation 
 
50 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 one wlio, but for you, might have won from the world 
 a proud and honorable name, instead of being plunged 
 into a career of vice and viilany — changing this world 
 to a hell, that leaves no terrors for the next. Woman ! 
 you have changed me to a devil !- — (^Dashes his \hand 
 against Ms forehead.)— -Yon ask me Avhy I have taken 
 away this girl. Listen, and you shall hear— -to be an 
 instrument of panishment for the wrong you have 
 done to her ; and to aid me in the fulfilment of that 
 revenge which I have sworn against you and yours. 
 
 3frs. JR. — Aid you ! how ? She has never injured 
 5'ou. You would not destroy her ? 
 
 Seymour. — Her ! Not for a thousand worlds ; I will 
 cherish her while I live, and at my death she shall 
 be mistress of all I possess on earth. When you are 
 rotting in a jail, or begging from door to door, the 
 orphan you have robbed, whom you would have left 
 to starve, shall shine the proudest amongst those who 
 have cast you oif forever, and with wliom in future 
 your name shall be a bye-word and a scorn I If you 
 can glean any comfort from this knowledge, you are 
 welcome to it ! 
 
 Mrs. B. — {Bising calmly from her chair, and speaking 
 in a clear distinct tone.) — You are deceived — you are 
 deceived in thinking that 1 will submit to this : the 
 worm at last will turn upon the foot that crushes it. 
 My course is now clear before me, and you shall find 
 that I, too, can be determined ; this night my son 
 shall be informed of everything. 
 
 Seymour.- — Such is my intention. For that purpose 
 I am here 
 
 Mrs. jR.-— What I and you will dare to face him 
 when he has learned all your viilany ? 
 
 Seymour.-—! will dare more than that. Madam ; for 
 with my own lips I will tell him all that I have done ; 
 
SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 51 
 
 and moreover, all that you have done ! So you sec 
 you are not likely to gain any great advantage by 
 your determi n ation . 
 
 3Irs. B. — If lie knew — if my boy knew one half of 
 the miseiy you have caused his parents — one tithe of 
 the insults ^-^ou have offered to his mother — he would 
 crush you to the earthy if you had a thousand lives ! 
 and he sliaJl know it ! 
 
 Seymour. — (^Askle.') — This will be a losing game un- 
 less I play my cards more skillfully. It will not 
 answer to meet Gerald, or have his mother see him, 
 before I can recover my power over her. ( To Mrs. 
 R. — seizing her arm.') — Mark me ! the time has now 
 come when all scruples must be thrown aside — Heaven 
 nor hell shall baulk me in what 1 have sworn to per- 
 form I Attend Avell now to what I am about to say, 
 for it will be for your own advantage as well as mine, 
 that you should act as I direct. You must tell your 
 son the same story which I have already told Emma, 
 and which 3'ou liave confirmed, namely, that I am in 
 reality her guardian. You can invent what excuses 
 3'ou please for never having informed him of such a 
 fact until now, and that will end the matter. 
 
 Mrs. JR. — (Smiling scornfully.) — You need say no 
 more -, I will rather bear everj^ evil your malice can 
 inflict, than be an 3^ longer at your mercy. AYere I 
 now to act as you desire, you would to-morrow break 
 through all your promises as you have done before. 
 Your power is over, tempter ! I defy you ! 
 
 Seymour. — Think again, — think again before you 
 refuse. You had better. 
 
 31rs. R. — I have thought already — my resolution is 
 fixed — unchangeably fixed. Once more I tell you I 
 defy you ! 
 
 Seymour. — Tlien, by Heaven ! 3'ou shall curse the 
 
52 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 hour you did so ! Had you yielded to my will, I 
 might have spared you — for the sake of her who shall 
 henceforth be my child, I might have spared you ; but 
 now, now, I will crush you, mind, and heart, and soul, 
 as 3^ou have crushed me, without pity, and without 
 
 remorse 
 
 3Irs. it. — I no longer fear you, for 1 have resolved 
 to atone for the past, by pursuing a right course for 
 the future, and the consciousness of this good resolu- 
 tion gives me new strength to uphold me in my pre- 
 seiit trial. AVhat more is there in j^our power than to 
 tell m}^ son that which 1 am myself resolved to tell 
 him! and you will then be more in his power than 
 either he or I in yours. What infatuation has been 
 over me that 1 have not done this before ! 
 
 Seymour. — AVoman ! you do not know what I am 
 capable of doing, if you drive me to desperation ! 
 
 Mrs. li. — You mistake ; I knov/ ftdl well that you 
 are capable of every villany that could enter the mind 
 of man. 
 
 Seymour. — And, believing this, 3'ou still defy me ? 
 
 Mrs. M. — Yes ! a thousand times, yes I 
 
 Seymour. — Then mark me ! 1 will do that which 
 shall make you sucli an object of loathing to your 
 child, that, rather than live the son of such a mother, 
 he will lift his own hand against his life — that he will 
 forfeit his soul in tlie next world, rather than endure 
 in this the disgrace that your name will bring upon 
 him — and go to his doom calling down curses on you 
 with his dying breath ! 
 
 Mrs. M. — Oh, God! what a fiend has this man be- 
 come ! 
 
 Seymour.— A. fiend ! yes, and who has made me one ? 
 But you little dream of Avhat I will yet do to deserve 
 the name! You think, ])erhaps, that my threats arc 
 idle:'' 
 
SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 58 
 
 Jlrs. Ji. — I care not what they are. I despise thein ! 
 
 Seymour. — (Aside.) — There is still one desperate 
 chance left me — let that fail and m}' power over her 
 is ended. Her honor ! all that slie has left to cling- to ! 
 — I will hazard the scheme ! (To Mrs. R.) — Eeniem- 
 ber you have driven me to this -, a few words might 
 have saved you — might yet save you, if you consent 
 
 Mrs. R. — Never ! I hold no faith with you in future 
 — do your worst ! 
 
 Seymour. — Listen, then ! — (Advances close to lier.) — 
 Your son alread}^ knows the stor}^ of his lather's ruin 
 — he knows that I was the cause of it — that the en- 
 tire of his property w^as mortgaged to me, and is still 
 in my possession ; — and, knowing this, what think 
 you, will be his feelings, when he discovers that since 
 that father's death, you have carried on an intercourse 
 with me — that you have done so secretly — and that 
 within the last few months, you joined with me in a 
 plot to make your ward believe that I, as well as you, 
 had been named her guardian — when he discovers all 
 this, I say, what can he think? Must he not believe 
 that you had some powerful motive for acting as you 
 have done '( and, once suspicion awakened, will it not 
 be a task of but little difficulty to convince him that 
 (Pausing.) 
 
 Mrs. i^.— What ! For God's sake, v/hat ? 
 
 Seymour. — Can you not conjecture ? 
 
 Mrs. B. — No, no ! in mercy, speak at once ! What 
 ■would you convince him ? 
 
 Seymour. — (Stooping his head close to her ear and 
 hissing fiercely.) — That his fiither was dishonored! 
 
 3Irs. li — (Springing to the middle of the fi.oor — she 
 gazes at him for an instant icith distended eyes — pres.^cs 
 her hands upon her forehead — staggers to a table — bnt for 
 
54 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 
 
 the su2)port of which she icoidd fall to the floor.) — God of 
 mercy ! can such a villain be the work of thy hand ? 
 Can a man made in thy image, be given a mind to 
 promjDt him to such hellish thoughts ? 
 
 Seymour. — I told you you little dreamed of what I 
 was capable ; remember you have driven me to it -, 
 the consequences be upon your own head ! .But, even 
 still it is in j^our power to avert your ruin — consent 
 to make to your son the explanation I desire^ and I 
 hold my peace. — (Draws near her.) 
 
 Mrs. B. — ( With a look of loatldng motions him hack.) 
 If 3^ou are human — if a remnant of manly feeling yet 
 lingers in your nature — leave me ! My brain is turn- 
 ing to fire — my heart is bursting — reason can bear no 
 more! — (With clasped hands and straining eyes, she 
 stands before him.) 
 
 Seymour. — Let there be an end to this acting; j^ou 
 should, by this time, have learned its fruitlessness, to 
 change my purpose. Turn j^our thoughts to what 
 may still save you — a few minutes more, and it will 
 be too late, for, so sure as there is a Heaven above us, 
 if your son returns while I am here, I will fulfill my 
 threat ! Consent to what I have demanded, and I 
 leave you now — forever ! 
 
 Mrs. R. — (After a iKtuse.) — This is terrible ! — horri- 
 ble ! Oh ! my son ! my noble boy ! God keep him 
 from the slightest suspicion of this foul attempt to 
 poison his mind against his mother! Harm him not, 
 sir ! I accept your promise of leaving me for the rest 
 of my life in peace, and I promise to do as you desire ! 
 (Dropping on her knees and clasping her hands.) — Oh, 
 God ! aid me in this terrible struggle ! — (Falls.) 
 
 (Seymour looks on with a smile of triumph.) 
 
 END OF SECOND ACT. 
 
SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 55 
 
 ACT III .— S C E N E I . 
 
 HALL. 
 
 Enter Dcnnii Conner. 
 
 Denny. — Sliurc, he can't ate me, any how, an' if the 
 worst comes to the worst, may be he might come oft' 
 second best afther all ! If he isn't the divle — Lord 
 betune us an' harm — we'll tache him a thrifle before 
 he's much older — we'll let him know what's what — 
 yis, be me sowl, cakes an' ale we'll give him. I'm a 
 fool ; oh ! 3^8, of coorse I am — I couldn't find out a 
 saycret at all — I couldn't listen through a kay hole — ■ 
 oh, no ! is it me ? I can do nothin' — not a ha'p'orth 
 — it '11 be a while afore I ate house beetles for my sup- 
 per, for all that. Wondher where the ould divle is — 
 he said he'd be here when I returned. Faix, when I 
 got into the strate, a snddint pain tuk me right there 
 — (flits his knee,) and I couldn't walk — oh, no ! not a 
 bit. — (Dances.') I got into a cart, — the cart got lost 
 — an' the boss died, an' the driver ran oft' an' got 
 dhrunk, an' left me in the cart fast aslape ! I'll look 
 into the rooms an' see if he's here, anyhow ! Who's 
 alraid I — (Opens the doors and looks into the different 
 rooms opening into the Hall.) — Be gorra, he's not here, 
 any how, — got tired waitin' for me. I'm thinkin' I'll 
 take a sate. — (Seats himself near tlie front, R. H., facing 
 audience.) 
 
 Seymour. — (Out side.) — Boy ! 
 
 Denny. — (Looking round the Hall to ascertain whence 
 the voice j^roceeded.) — AVhy, then, where are you at all, 
 sir ? 
 
56 QEOROE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 
 
 Enter George Seynunir — [Behind Dcnnj — Disguished in a large 
 Cloak, his face hidden by the collar.] 
 
 Seymour. — Here ! — {Denny turning round, discovers 
 Jiiin.) 
 
 Denny. — (^Syringing from his seat.) — Lord save us ! 
 did you come out of the wall ? 
 
 Seymour. — (Sharjjly.) — What has detained you? 
 
 Denny. — (After a little hesitation.) — He ^Yas out; sir. 
 
 Seymour. — Who was out ? 
 
 Denny. — VvMiy, Misther Franks, of ooorse. 
 
 Seymour. — Then you did not see him ? 
 
 Denny. — IS.o, sir. 
 
 Seymour. — Give me the letter. — (Denny IooI<s confu- 
 sed.) — Grivc me the letter, I say. 
 
 Denny. — The letther, sir 'I 
 
 Seymour. — Yes, give it to me. 
 
 Denny. — Do you want it back, sir ? 
 
 Seymour. — Yes, I say — where is it? 
 
 Denny. — I thought I was to give it to Misther 
 Franks ? 
 
 Seymour. — You say you did not see him 
 
 Demiy. — But may be I might see him in the evenin'. 
 
 Seymour. — (Harshly.) — Cease this trifling, boy, and 
 give me the letter. 
 
 Denny. — 'T would be hard for me. 
 
 Seymour. — What ? ^Vhere is it ? 
 
 Denny. — (Boldly.) — Lord knows ! 
 
 Seymour.— (Furiously. )-\N\\^t have you done with it ? 
 
 Denny. — I have done nothin' with it. 
 
 Seymour. — Where is it then ? 
 
 Denny. — ( Carelessly.) — Lost I 
 
 Seymour. — (Starting hack.) — Tjost ! 
 
 Demiy. — Yis, lost ! I hope nothin' partiklar was in 
 i(. 
 
SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 67 
 
 Seymour. — {Sternly , and seizing Denny by the throat.) 
 Scoundrel! you have done something with that let- 
 ter. 
 
 JDenny. — {Innocently. — Oh, Lord ! — is it me ? What 
 in the world 'ud I do with it ? 
 
 Seymour. — Mark me, boy ! if I find that you have 
 been trifling with me, j^ou shall pay dearly for it. Can 
 you read ? 
 
 Denny. — I wish I could. 
 
 Seymour. — Will you swear that you have not that 
 letter still in your possession ? 
 
 Denny. — (Seizing the back of his chair.)— 'Be this book ! 
 
 Seymour. — Psha ! follow me up stairs. 
 
 l^Exeuent. 
 
 SCENE 11 ; 
 
 Sitmour'8 Room. — [Furnished same as in Scene 1, Act 2, with 
 the exception that the Table is clear.] 
 
 Enter Oeorge Seymour and Denny Conner. 
 
 [Seymour seats himself at the Table, and motions Denny to coma 
 nearer. Denny glances suspiciously around him.] 
 
 Seymour. — You have a mother ? 
 
 Denny. — I have, sir ; an' two brothers an' a little 
 sisther. 
 
 Seymour.— I need not ask if they are poor ? 
 
 Denny. — They are. — {Feelingly.) — God help 'em I 
 
 Seymour. — You shall have means to make them rich, 
 if you serve me faithfully. Can I trust you ? 
 
 Denny. — {Evasively.) — I'd do anythin' to earn an 
 l^onest penny. ■ 
 
 h 
 
5^ GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 
 
 Seymour. — ^Have you a father ? 
 
 Denny. — {In a low voice.) — He's dead, sir, — the Lord 
 have mercy on him ! 
 
 tSeynioiir.—And your family have no support but you ? 
 
 Denny. — Barrin' the thrifle my mother aims for 
 dain' a day's work here and there, an' that's but little. 
 
 Seymour. — She shall have plenty, if 1 can but trust 
 you — can 1 do so ? 
 
 Denny. — {Evasively.) — Did I ever do anythin* to 
 make you doubt me since I came here ? 
 
 Seymour. — l^ever, until to-day. 
 
 Denny. — An' why to-day, sir ? 
 
 Seymour. — That letter. 
 
 Denny. — {Innocently .~) — Sure I couldn't help losin^ it, 
 
 Seymour. — Well, I will believe you ; but if you should 
 play me false, you shall suffer dearly. Answer me, 
 yes, or no — may I trust you ? 
 
 Denny. — {Aside.') — I must say yis, or how the divle 
 will I find out his plans — yis, that's the only chance. 
 ( To Seymour — boldly.) — You may, sir. 
 
 Seymour. — Then listen. You know the gentleman 
 who was here a few nights since — Mr. Eochefort ? 
 
 Denny. — Yis, sir. 
 
 Seymour. — Well, attend now to what I am about to 
 tell you. I overheard j^our conversation the other 
 night, and it is probable he may take you as his ser- 
 vant. If he does, you will have an opportunity of 
 providing me with a knowledge of his actions, which 
 would be of great use to me. Are you willing to un- 
 dertake this ? 
 
 Denny. — Is it to be a spy ? 
 
 Seymour. — Call it what you will, but it will be for 
 Ms benefit as well as mine. 
 
 Denny. — {Indigyiantly .) — An' is that wliat you call 
 bein' faithful ? 
 
BCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. ^9 
 
 Seymour. — You say I can trust you, and this is the 
 service I require. 
 
 Denny. — {Indignantly.') — Why, thin, a dirty sarvice 
 it is. 
 
 Seymour. — What ? — (Starting from Ms seat.) — Have 
 you been trifling with me? 
 
 Denny. — {Recollecting himself.) — Is it me, sir ? J^ot 
 meself, in troth ; I was only thinkin' that may be 
 some people wouldn't considher it a very dacent soort 
 of emplo^'-mcnt ; but I'll do it with a heart and a half 
 — I'll watch him like a cat watchin' a mouse — there 
 isn't a turn of his hand, from the time he gets up in 
 the mornin' till he goes to bed at night, that I won't 
 have my eye on. 
 
 Seymour. — So far bo good ; and now you must com- 
 mence at once. But, stay ! you have known him be- 
 fore ? 
 
 Denny. — No more than the child unborn, barrin' to 
 see him once or twice. 
 
 Seymour. — Well, then, you shall have another letter 
 to Mr. Franks this evening. Mr. Rochefort will pro- 
 babl}^ be there. If he is, watch him, and tell him you 
 have been turned away from this place for speaking to 
 him the other night — you understand me 't He will be 
 sure to take you into his service at once, for, even as 
 it is, he is anxious to learn my secrets, and he thinks 
 you can discover them. Tell him you have lived with 
 me for some time — that I am a rich old miser — that I 
 live here iilone, never seeing a human being but those 
 who come to look for money, and that j'our business 
 was to watch the house during m}*" absence, and run 
 of messages now^ and then. You must never divulge 
 anj'thing you may have seen or heard since you came 
 here, but you may invent as many lies as you please, 
 the greater the better — concerning me. Do you un- 
 derstand? 
 
^ GEORGE SEYMOUR. [AOT III. 
 
 Denny. — It's as plain as the nose on my face. 
 Seymour. — That will do. [Exit. 
 
 Denny. — Oh ! you dasaiving ould villain of the 
 world — ^yoii thundherin' ould Turk of a vagabone ! — 
 Tm up to your thricks — I'll watch, never fear, but it's 
 3^ourself, an' nobody else — you make me rich — you 
 give my mother plinty ! I wouldn't touch your goold, 
 novv^ that I know you, not if I was starvin' ; an' I'd 
 sooner see my mother stretched lyin' dead before me, 
 than she should handle a fardin' or half a fardin' of 
 the wages of villany an' dasate. If we're poor we're 
 honest, an' where's the man, woman, or child, that 
 could point a linger at aither of us this minnit, an' say 
 we ever done 'em an ill turn ? That's more than he 
 can say the dishilute ould haythen-— it \s.--{Wal1xS 
 'proudly through the room.) 
 
 Re-e7iter George Seymour. 
 
 Seymour.— -1 have changed my mind; I shall not 
 write to Mr. Franks until to-morrow. But see Mr. 
 Bochefort to-night if possible, and let me know in the 
 morning how you have succeeded. 
 
 Denny. — Am I to slape here to-night, sir ? 
 
 Seymour. — No, I shall not want you. To-morrow 
 early you will find me here— -meanwhile be cautious. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Denny. — He's not the divle afther all, or I couldn't 
 dasaive him that way : but faix he's a near relation, 
 I'm thinkin', lExit 
 
SCENE III.] GEORGE SJuYMOUR. 01 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Gerald RocHEroRT's Room. — [Gerald discovered writing.] 
 
 Enter Tom Crosbie. 
 
 Tom, — Gerald, my boy, how are you ? Delighted 
 IVe caught you at home. Come, throw aside that 
 billet-doux, for the present — you can finish it by ^nd 
 by — the lady will lose nothing by the delay, for I'll 
 help you with a few metaphors when business is con- 
 cluded. Swan-like neck, snowy bosom, golden hair, 
 diamond eyes, ruby lips, pearly teeth, and all that sort 
 of thing. We'll make her out a sort of animated 
 Golconda, or compare her to one of the pieces of raw 
 beef brought up by the eagles from Sinbad's " Valley 
 of Diamonds.^' There's an id-ea for you, you dog I — 
 QSlaps him on the shoulder.) 
 
 Gerald. — Well, Crosbie, — (laughing,) — I believe if 
 you were sentenced to speak seriously for five minutes, 
 it would be your death. Were you ever serious since 
 you were born ? 
 
 Tom. — Serious ! Sir, you insult me by the question ! 
 In comparison to me, Calvin was a clown, and Martin 
 Luther a merry andrew ! When I was Prime Minister 
 to the King of Ashantee, his Majesty surnamed mo 
 
 the , I needn't repeat the words, since you 
 
 don't understand the language, but in the vernacular 
 they signify — the '^Sugar-stick of Sense," and the 
 " Winnowing Machine of Wisdom." What do you 
 think of that, sir ? Was Sir Eobert Peel ever called 
 a sugar-stick of sense, let me ask you? or Lord Mel- 
 bourne, a winnowing machine of wisdom ? No, sir ! 
 nor never will ! The Majesty of England has its gold- 
 
62 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 
 
 Stick; and its silver-stick, but it never yet has been 
 able to find a man sufficiently saccharine to enable 
 him to be called a sugar-stick I 
 
 Gerald. — (^Laughing.) — I humbl}^ ask pardon of your 
 sweetness; in future I shall consider Solomon a fool 
 to you, and the '^ Wise Men of Gotham '' a society of 
 numscuUs. Pray, b}^ seated. .But, what's the matter 
 with you now ? you seem to have grown thoughtful 
 all in a minute ; nothing unpleasant has occurred, 1 
 hope ? 
 
 To7n. — In the first place, my dear Gerald — and 1 
 know 3^ou won't think me intrusive, for thus interfer- 
 ing in so delicate a matter — I must tell you that I 
 have discovered one or two of your secrets, which, 
 perhaps, you would rather had not come to the ears 
 of such a harum-scarum individual as your humble 
 servant. But just let me tell you how it happened. — 
 A few da^^s since Dennis Conner came to me in great 
 confusion of mind. Says I, " why you ragged rascal, 
 what brings you here ? What evil deed is in the wind ?" 
 ^^ That's it,'' replied Denny, " the ver}^ thing I come 
 about — I'm afeard some evil deed is in the wind, Mis- 
 ther Tom." "Well," I replied, '-out with it at once 
 — what the deuce is it ?" " Mischief," says Denny, 
 ^•that's what it is; an' schamin',an' all sorts of vagabone 
 thricks — divle a less." Well, after a little persuasion, 
 he informed me he was living with an old man — a sort 
 of money lender — that you paid him a visit not long 
 since, and were closeted with the old man for some 
 time. Having known you, he felt curious to find out 
 the purport of your visit — in short, that he listened at 
 the key hole, and that he heard enough to make him 
 suspect all was not right. The old man had intrusted 
 iiim with a letter, cautioning him to be particular and 
 let no one have it but Mr. Franks. ISlot being able to 
 
 I 
 
SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 63 
 
 read himself, Deimy thoiigbt he'd hriog it to me be- 
 fore he'd deliver it to Mr. Franks. There being no 
 direction. on the envelope, 1 conchided to open it, fov 
 I thought if there was any mischief afloat against you, 
 I woukl like to know it. — I opened the letter, and, 
 after reading it, concluded to retain it, and send Den- 
 ny back to watch the old man, to see if he could dis- 
 cover anything more. This morning Denny came to 
 me again. It appears the old man has employed Den- 
 ny to pretend to have been discharged for speaking to 
 you on the night of your visit, and try and get you to 
 take him as 3'our servant. This just suited the plan 
 formed by Denny and myself, so he agreed at once to 
 the proposal. This he told me this morning. But, 
 read that, perhaps it may open your eyes a bit. — • 
 {Handing letter.') 
 
 Gerald. — ( Reads.) — " Sir — If you value the happiness 
 of your daughter, you will, for the present, at least, 
 suffer matters to proceed no further between her and 
 the person you have chosen for her husband. The 
 writer of this caution, though, for certain reasons, ho 
 cannot, as yet, appear in his proper person, is a friend 
 who is deeply interested in both parties, and it is solely 
 with their welfare in view that he now acts. His ad- 
 vice, however, is, that the visits of Mr. Eochefort may 
 be permitted to continue as usual for a few days, in 
 the course of vfhich, circumstances now involved in 
 some doubt, shall be investigated, and the result made 
 known to you." 
 
 Gerald. — By Heavens I — (dashing his hand on the 
 table,) — the old villain shall pay dearly for this ! I 
 will go to him this instant. Crosbie, you will accom- 
 pany me ? There is some mystery here that must bo 
 unravelled 
 
 Torn. — Take things quietly, my dear fellow. We'll 
 
M GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 
 
 walk into him before long, with the blessing of the 
 Lord ; the longer we let him run his course, the surer 
 we'll have him at the end. He's a nice specimen of 
 that respectable class called " elderly gentlemen,'' I 
 fancy. But, Gerald, have you any idea of his motives 
 for acting toward you as he has done ? 
 
 Gerald. — Not the slightest. Until a night or two 
 ago, I never saw him to my knowledge. 
 
 Tom. — It is the strangest thing I ever heard; for 
 my part, I can make neither head nor tail of it, but, 
 please the fates, it won't be so long — it's odd if we 
 don't unkennel the old fox, and lohen we do, perhaps 
 we won't run him to earth in a style that Melton 
 himself might be proud of ! Yoicks ! my boy ! cheer 
 up; he little knows, this morning, the pleasant sur- 
 prise that's preparing for him ! But I quite forgot to 
 tell you that Denny the Cute is outside waiting all 
 this time. 
 
 Gerald. — We'll have him in this moment ; but be- 
 fore he comes, Crosbie, I must tell 3^ou how deeply 1 
 thank you for jowv conduct in this affair. I trust I 
 may yet have it in my power to do you a similar ser- 
 vice. 
 
 Tom. — Thank you kindly, you're mighty civil, but 
 if it's all the same to 3"0u, I'd rather you'd never have 
 the power to do any such thing. I'm bad enough, 
 Lord knows, already, without being made the second 
 edition of the Mysteries of IJdolpho. No, no, Gerald, 
 my boy, nothing of the kind ! And as to thanks — just 
 keep them until I ask for them. [^Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Tom Croshie ivith Denny Conner. 
 
 Gerald. — Well, my friend, so I find that j^ou've been 
 committing felony on my behalf Sit down, and telt 
 me all about it. — {^Denny seats himself.) 
 
SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 65 
 
 Tom. — Now, Dinny, you scoundrel, tell Mr. Eoelie- 
 fort every thing you have already told me, and don't 
 be all day about it. 
 
 Benny. — I won't be while a cat ^ud be lickin' her 
 ear. You see, sir, I'se a poor boy with a mother, two 
 brothers an' a sisther to support, an' in gettin' along I 
 am compelled to sarve all kind of rich raskels an' 
 vagabones — I lived with Misther Tom Crosbie, here, 
 once, your honor, for two years. Well, about [sax 
 months ago this ould haythen I am now with, come 
 across me, an' tuk me to run of errands an' watch 
 that ould house where you come the other night, 
 while he ^ud be away at his house in another part of 
 the city 
 
 Gerald. — AVhat ! do you tell me, that this employer 
 of yours does not live in the old house where I visited 
 him? 
 
 Denny. — Yis, sir; sure enough he doesn't. If he 
 did he'd be mighty apt to know what sort of a bite a 
 rat can give; for of all the places ever I seen, that same 
 ould house flogs for the infernal varmint — bad loock 
 to thim ! 
 
 To7n. — But you know where he does live, Dinny, 
 don't you ? 
 
 Denny. — May bo I could make a guess. 
 
 Tom. — Come, then, out with it ! 
 
 Denny. — Oh, faix, a snug spot he lives in — a body 
 might slape there long enough afore the rats 'ud come 
 to ate a supper off his nose — divle sind thim an appe- 
 tite ! It's thim that's hard to plase ! But sure it's no 
 wondher the poor ignorant bastes should bite the nose 
 off a poor bo}^ like me, whin I hear people say the 
 quality ate the j^ojye's nose — Christ save us I— (Crosses 
 himself.) 
 
 i 
 
QB GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 
 
 Tom. — How did you discover the fact of your Mas- 
 ter having a diiferent residence ? 
 
 Denny. — Bedad, Masther Tom, the same way a 
 Htorney — (sweet bad loock to thim !) — once behaved 
 Kke a christian — by chance. — That's how it was. 
 
 Tom. — Well, let us hear it. 
 
 Denny. — Hear which, sir ? About the ^ttorney, is 
 it? 
 
 To7n. — (Furiously.') — No ! the attorney be damned ! 
 
 Denny. — All in good time ! It's how I found out the 
 ould thief's saycret you want to hear ? 
 
 Tom. — Yes — and let me warn you to say nothing 
 more about either rats or attorn eys, or any other ver- 
 min whatever. — Mind that. 
 
 Den7iy. — Well, you see, gintlemen, the way of it was 
 this. On the night Masther Garald visited the old 
 miser, I had began to be suspicious of the ould hay- 
 then, an' 1 tuk it into my head to watch, an' see if I 
 couldn't make some discoveries — so I put my ear 
 to the kay hole, an' heard every blissid wortl atween 
 the ould vagabone and Masther Grarald, an' I thought I 
 could see a piece of schamin' divlement, that a tailor 
 'ud be ashamed of. Afther Masther Garald wint away, 
 I thought 1 would lave the ould house to take care of 
 itself awhile, an' stroll through the town for an hour 
 or so. Well, afther walkin' here a bit an' there a bit, 
 I come on to Baggot strate, and just as I got forninst 
 a fine house, I seen a gintlcman going into the door. 
 Just as the gintleman turned round to close the door, 
 the light of the hall lamp shone bright in his face, an' 
 I discovered he was no other than my ould Turk of a 
 Master. The white hair an' beard were gone, an' so 
 was the stoop in the shoulder. Oh, ho ! thought I, 
 this is a mighty purty piece of bus'ness ! 
 
 G-erald. — l)o you mean to tell me, that the person 
 
SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 67 
 
 I saw and conversed with at that mined house, is not 
 an old man ? 
 
 Denny. — Truth it's just the very thing I do mane. 
 
 Gerald. — And that his hair and beard were not real ? 
 
 Denny. — I don't say that; they are rayal enough, I 
 dar' say, but the hair never grew white on his head, 
 an' mighty little shavin' 'ud go a great way with that 
 beard, I'm thinkin'. 
 
 Gerald. — By Heavens ! there is some terrible villany 
 here ! but I cannot understand it. My brain is every 
 instant becoming more and more confused. Crosbie, 
 what is to be done ? 
 
 Tom. — Stop a bit ; tell me this, Dinny — how long 
 have you been in the service of this man ? 
 
 Denny. — Four or five months, off an' on ; some times 
 he'd say he was lavin' town, an' send me home for a 
 fornight ; more times he'd have me slape there with 
 the rats, bad loock to thim ! 
 
 Tom. — And you never suspected, all that time, that 
 he was anything but what he appeared to be ? 
 
 Denny. — l!s"o, in troth ; I knew he was as rich as a 
 Jew, for I ofthen seen hapes of bank notes the height 
 of my knee on the table before him, an' divle a much 
 I cared what he was, while he paid mo my wages. 
 But whin he began this bis'ness about Masther Garald, 
 an' uset to sind me to watch him goin' and comin' 
 from Masther Franks', I began to smell a rat — an' be 
 my sowl I ought to know the smell of thim purty well 
 by this time ! So I just tuk it in my head that he 
 was no great shakes, an' now I am sure of it. 
 
 Tom. — Did he ever sleep in that old house himself? 
 
 Denny. — Oh, yis, indeed ! What a fool my granny 
 was ! 
 
 Tom. — Did he eat his meals there ? 
 
 Denny. — Not as much as 'ud blind a midge's eye ever 
 
68 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 
 
 crossed his lips in that same house, barrin' a biscuit 
 now an' thin, an' a glass of wine. 
 
 Tom. — Did any one ever meet him there ? 
 
 Denny. — Ofthen. Men ofthen came there, an' were 
 closeted up with him hour afther hour. 
 
 Tom. — Wliy didn't you put your ear to the keyhole 
 then, Din-ny ? 
 
 Denny. — Bekase I was a fool : that's just the rason ! 
 
 Tom. — Did you ever hear his name ? 
 
 Denny. — Never with Ms knowledge. 
 
 Gerald. — Then you did hear it ? 
 
 Denny. — I did, sir. The night I found him out, I 
 wint an' axed the sarvints next door 
 
 Gerald. — Well, well ? Quick, man ! what was it ? 
 
 Denny. — Misther Seymour ! 
 
 Gerald — {In a loud ciuick tone.) — What ! did you say 
 Seymour ? 
 
 Denny. — That's the very word. 
 
 Gerald. — I sec it all ! I understand it all, now ! 
 The desperate villain ! 
 
 Tom. — Then you know him ? 
 
 Gerald. — Know him! Do I know the man who has 
 made me a beggar, and worse — a thousand times worse 
 
 — who has {Pauses.') — Crosbie, you shall hear the 
 
 entire story to-night. In the meantime, I will take 
 the necessary steps to unravel a portion of this mys- 
 tery ; and Dennis, until then, do you return to your 
 employer ; watch him well, and bring me intelligence 
 of anything that happens. You have done me a 
 greater service than you think, and you shall not 
 want a friend as long as I live. 
 
 Denny. — Don't spake of that, Masther Garald ; you 
 saved the life of my poor ould mother whin she had 
 the sickness, glory be to God ! an' Denny Conner, for 
 all his rags, has fcelin' in his heart. — {Turns his head 
 and loipes a tearfrotn his eye.) 
 
SCENE IV.] GEOROE SEYMOUR, G9 
 
 Tom. — ^Yell, Gerald, my boy ! I told you we'd un- 
 kennel the old fox I [Exeuent Tom and Gerald. 
 
 Denny. — I'm as happy as a king ! an' as to you, my 
 ould Masther, you thunderin' vagabone ! your bread 
 is baked ! Only wait a bit ! \_Exit singing, 
 
 I'll let you know, 
 Before you go, 
 What a beau your granny was ! 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Paklor. — [Mr. Franks discovered walking the Eoom.] 
 Enter Gerald Rochefort. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Oh I good morning, Mr, Kochefort ! 
 When did you come to town ? 
 
 Gerald. — I have not been out of town. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Oh, you haven't, haven't you? then 
 may I take the liberty of asking you, where you have 
 been? 
 
 Gerald. — Indeed, sir, my absence has been unavoid- 
 ble. I am sure you must know that anywhere but 
 here I could not be happy. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — I know no such thing, sir ! I don't 
 believe a word of it. In my time it was the fashion 
 for a man, if he loved a girl, to spend at least some 
 portion of his time in her society 
 
 Gerald. — Indeed, sir 
 
 Mr. Franlis. — Fiddlestick ! sir. Don't interrupt me. 
 I say, in my time, such was the fashion, and let me 
 tell you, that if Jessie took my advice, she'd have 
 
70 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 
 
 nothing more to say to you. Do you hear that, sir ? 
 If you neglect her so shamefully 5e/o?'e marriage, what 
 may she expect afterward ? 
 
 Gerald. — But, my dear sir 
 
 Mi\ Franks. — Make no excuses, sir ! I'll not listen 
 to them. I suppose you would not come even now if 
 you had not been sent for ? 
 
 Gerald. — I assure you, sir, I was just leaving the 
 house to come, when I received Jessie's note. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Well, I suppose I must believe you. 
 Ah, yes, poor Marj^ Trevor, it was at her request 
 Jessie sent for you. Sit down ; I am in no happy hu- 
 mor this morning, Grerald, so you must excuse any- 
 thing I have said. Yesterday morning I received the 
 information of the death of one of my former clerks. 
 He had, for ten years, been in India, and I was not 
 aware of his return, until I was informed of his death. 
 His daughter and Jessie, when children, were as sis- 
 ters, and I immediately sent for Mary. It appears 
 they had returned about seven years since, nearly all 
 of which time he had been confined to his bed, with a 
 disease contracted while in India. On the eve of his 
 embarkation he was intrusted with a package, and, 
 although every effort was made on their part to dis- 
 cover the person to whom it was addressed, they were 
 not fortunate enough to do so. In a conversation 
 between the two girls, Jessie happened to mention 
 your name. This brought to Mary's memory this 
 mysterious package, and, it appears that, however 
 strange the coincidence may seem, this paper is ad- 
 dressed to you. 
 
 Gerald. — To me ! There must be some mistake. 
 What was the name of the person from whom your 
 former clerk received it ? 
 
 Mr. Franks. — That I cannot tell. However, as to 
 
SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 71 
 
 a mistake, you will soon have an opportunity of con- 
 vincing yourself, for J essie has the paper. — ( Rings.) 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Inform your Mistress that Mr. Eochefort is here, and 
 bid her to come here. \^Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter Jessie Franks with the Package. 
 
 Jessie, my love, I have explained to Mr. Eochefort the 
 circumstances under which this paper came into poor 
 Trevor's hands. — (Jessie hands the ixichage to Gerald, 
 who glances eagerly over the superscription.) 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Well, Gerald, is it for jow. ? 
 
 Gerald. — It certainly must be, sir; the address puts 
 it beyond all possibility of doubt. — (Beads the address.) 
 "To be delivered into the hands of Gerald Eochefort, 
 Esq. — only son, and heir of John Eochefort and 
 Catharine Austyn, his wife. Or, in the event of his 
 death, to be opened by his mother, the said Catharine 
 Eochefort ; but should both be dead, then this paper 
 to be destroyed, as the contents can be of no service 
 to any other person whomsover." 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Then you had better lose no time in 
 making yourself acquainted with its contents. But 
 perhaps you would rather return home before you do 
 so. 
 
 Gerald. — With your leave, my dear sir, I will read 
 it here, it can contain no secret which should be hidden 
 from 
 
 Jessie. — Me ! Come, Gerald, open it at once, and let 
 us hear what frightful plot it is intended to reveal. I 
 am dying with curiosity. 
 
 Gerald. — Then your curiosity shall speedily be grat- 
 
72 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 
 
 ified. — {Breaks the seals. The package coyitains several 
 papers — letters and notes — promissory notes and bills. — 
 One paper, the largest, is sealed and direeted in a similar 
 maimer to the outside envelope. This Gerald oyens and 
 runs his eyes over the contents.') 
 
 Gerald. — My dear sir. — {Seizing Mr. F. by the hand 
 and shaking it heartily.') — My dear sir, congratulate me ! 
 Jessie, congratulate me! — {Clasps her in his arms, 
 kissing her several times.) 
 
 Mr. Franks. — As soon as you have smothered my 
 daughter, and while somebody is going for the coroner, 
 perhaps you'd have the goodness to inform me, upon 
 what grounds a man should be congratulated on becom- 
 ing a candidate for Bedlam ! 
 
 Jessie. — If it is quite the same to you, papa, I would 
 much rather he'd postpone the smothering, and let us 
 have the explanation first. 
 
 Gerald. — My dear sir, my dear Jessie, I'm the hap- 
 piest man alive ! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Then I must say, I hope I may never 
 see any one happy again, if my fingers are to be 
 ground to mummy, by wa}'' of expressing his delight. 
 
 Gerald. — Will no one wish me joy? — Jessie, why 
 don't you wish me joy ? 
 
 Mr. Franks. — What the devil should we wish you 
 joy for ? Is it for losing your senses? 
 
 Jessie. — You forget, Grerald, dear, you have not told 
 us the contents of that paper. 
 
 Gerald. — By Jove ! I believe I have lost my senses! 
 But just listen to this: — {Beads:) 
 
 "I, Walter Stevenson, being in the last stage of a 
 fatal illness, and about to appear before my God, do 
 make this confession, believing it to be in all p>arts 
 true, and in the sincere hope that it may be the means 
 
SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 73 
 
 of repairing the fortunes of a family, in whose ruin, I 
 acknowledge, with deep remorse, I was made au agent. 
 I had for years been the principal confederate and only 
 confidant of George Seymour, Vv^ho, for some reasons 
 which he would never avow, had conceived an intense 
 and unconquerable hatred against Mr. John Roche- 
 fort. I was introduced to Mr. Eochefort by Mr. Sey- 
 mour, as a man of large fortune, for the purpose of 
 inducing him to gamble for immense sums. At first, 
 we played fairly, but, finding that we could not succeed 
 speedily in the destruction of our victim, we had re- 
 course to cheating and foul play of every description. 
 An agreement was made by Seymour and myself^ by 
 which he was to receive all sums of money and per- 
 sonal securities won from Mr. Eochefort, and 1 to be 
 paid a certain amount as my share of the spoils. 
 When we had stripped Mr. Eochefort of all his ready 
 money, Seymour advanced him immense sums on 
 mortgage, which sums quickly found their way back 
 again into Seymour's hands, and again advanced, un- 
 til, by degrees, the entire of Mr. Eochefort's property 
 came into Seymour's hands. Vvhen this consum.mation 
 of his villan}^ was accomplished, Seymour paid me my 
 share of the spoils, andinsisted on my leaving the coun- 
 try — which was part of the compact between us. I had 
 been but a short time in India, when I heard of Mr. 
 Eochefort's death ', and, from that hour, 1 have never 
 known a moment's peace of mind, but rem.orse, prey- 
 ing on my health, gradually reduced mo to the brink 
 of the grave, and now, on my death bed, I make this 
 confession, as the only restitution in my power. The 
 enclosed bills are some of those obtained from Mr. 
 Eochefort, and kept by me without Seymour's knowl- 
 edge, and the letters, some of which are in vSeymour's 
 own handwriting, and some copies, will prove llie 
 j 
 
T-1 GEORGE SEiTMOUR. [ACT 111. 
 
 truth of the above statements, and may probably be 
 of service, in enabling the wife or son of Mr. Koche- 
 fort, to recover the property which he had thus been 
 robbed of. Walter Stevenson. 
 
 " Attest, 
 
 " ElCIIARD SaNDFORD, 
 
 '' Eector St. Paul's Church, Calcutta." 
 Underneath is written : 
 
 " A few hours after the above was completed, Wal- 
 ter Stevenson departed this life — I sincerely trust for 
 a better and a happier one. At his request, 1 deliver 
 this document into the hands of a gentleman who was 
 a kind friend to him during his last illness, and who, 
 being about to return to England, has promised to 
 fulfil his wishes respecting it. 
 
 " Charles Bellmear, Clerk. 
 
 " Calcutta, August 24, 1814." 
 
 Mr. Franks. — (^Grasping Gerald's hand and dancing.') 
 Hurrah, my boy ! three cheers ! The damned villain ! 
 Jessie — the infernal villain I Jessie, I say — ^oh, the 
 desperate villain ! Jessie, why the devil don't you 
 sing? You have no more feeling than that table — 
 why don't you throw your arms round his neck and 
 wish him joy ? 
 
 Jessie. — I'm afraid of being smothered, papa ! 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Afraid of the devil, Miss ! Walk over 
 here this minute. 
 
 Jessie. — Well, then, when the coroner comes, remem- 
 ber you are the cause of t(\j death ! — (^Approaches 
 Gerald and holds out her hand.) — Dear G-erald, I con- 
 gratulate 3"ou with all my heart. 
 
 ]\f.r. Franks. — (Walks behind her, and, with a vigor- 
 
SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 75 
 
 Otis push, sends her into Gerald's mnis.) — For three 
 straws I'd horsewhip you ! standing there shilly-shal- 
 lying, when you know, in your heart, you're dying to 
 be at him! Bah! I hate such humbugging !^ Kiss 
 him, I say — the damned villain ! 
 
 Gerald. — Sir ! 
 
 31r. Franks. — Oh, a thousand pardons — I meant 
 that damned villain, Seymour ! Is he alive ? 
 
 Gerald. — He is, sir ; not only alive, but at this very 
 moment in Dublin. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — In Dublin ! Just wait while I get my 
 hat. — (Bushing towards the door.) 
 
 Gerald. — Stay, my dear sir ; we'll have him ; time 
 en ough 
 
 3fr. Franks. — Have him ? AYe'll hang him, sir ! up 
 by the neck ! He shall be hanged, drawn, and quar- 
 tered — and 7'oast, sir, roast alive ! 
 
 Jessie. — After his being quartered, I suppose ? 
 
 3fr. Franks. — Leave the room, Ma'am ! you're a 
 disgrace to your sex, and your sex is a disgrace to the 
 world. 
 
 Jessie. — And the world 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Consider yourself no longer my 
 daughter — you'll pack off — to the poor house before 
 to-morrow morning. 
 
 Jessie. — JSTow, my dear father 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Dear granny ; hold your tongue, Miss ! 
 
 Jessie. — Forgive me this one time, — Qjxdking to- 
 wards him, with the palms of her hands together, and 
 luhimpering,) — this one little time, and I'll never do it 
 again T 
 
 Mr. Franks. — If you dare come near me, I'll— I'll 
 puli your nose ! 
 
 Jess^■e.— Only this one little timQ.— {This is repeated, 
 while Jessie approaches her father slowly, uniU she is 
 
7G GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 
 
 within a short distance, lohen, loith a sudden spring, she 
 throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him.) 
 
 Mr. Franks. — There^ now, run away with yourself. 
 I forgive you. 
 
 Jessie. — And you won't horsewhip me? 
 
 3Jr. Franks. — 'No — no — there be off. 
 
 Jessie. — l^or send me to the poor house ? 
 
 Mr. Franks. — 'No, I tell you. 
 
 Jessie. — In or pull my nose ? 
 
 Mr. Franks. — No — unless you provoke mo to it by 
 staying here any longer. 
 
 Jessie. — Well, then, / forgive yoUj so there's another 
 kiss for you. iFxit. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — That's the way she always makes a 
 fool of me. — She's the plague of my life. But come 
 to my library. This Seymour, sir — we'll hang him 
 high as Haman. 
 
 Gerald. — Excuse me this morning. Mr. Crosbie 
 was to meet me at my rooms at ten. I'll be with you 
 this evening. In the mean time, what say you to 
 Jessie and yourself dropping in at mother's, and pre- 
 pare her for receiving the details of thi.s startling dis- 
 closure? I'll meet you there as soon as Mr. Crosbie 
 and myself hunt up this Seymour. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — With all my heart. Although I am 
 but a poor hand at such jobs, yet Jessie, bless the 
 darling, can, and 'svill, do the thing up neatly. 
 
 liJxeuent, 
 
SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 77 
 
 **:". 
 
 SCENE V . 
 
 SITTING-ROOM — SEYMOUR'S HOUSE, BAGGOT STREET. 
 
 [Seymour discovered seated at a Table.] 
 
 Seymour. — {Rising.) — Thirty years ! Ah ! what a 
 change ! Then, basking in the smiles of love's young 
 dreams — -the future bright and glorious, with the sweet 
 girl on whom I had lavished all the love of a heart 
 free from guile, by my side, I slept on and dreamed. 
 But, oh ! the waking from that dream ! A needy ad- 
 venturer stepped in and robbed me of all — my love — 
 my dream of happiness — my honor ! We met — upon 
 the green sod I left my rival weltering in his own 
 blood, to die — as I hoped — as I prayed ! But it was 
 not to be! — he recovered! What was left me! No 
 peace, but revenge ! No joys, but her tortures and 
 her groans ! But her, Kate Eochefort ! Well do I 
 remember her words — " I now despise you ! " Aye, 
 then I cursed her, bidding her, when she was writhing 
 beneath the power of the spirit she had despised, to 
 remember, that the tortures she was enduring, were 
 but the workings of my revenge ! I fled ! Seventeen 
 long years I was a stranger to my home. I returned ! 
 The princely estate of my rival vanished, and hailed 
 me as it owner! He died, broken hearted they say! 
 Jleve7ige_! The widow lived on in penury and wretch- 
 edness, my hatred following her, step by step, until 
 she confessed to me having used the wealth confided 
 to her care, for the use of the orphan Emma. True, 
 no other crime could be attached to that, than a sim- 
 ple breach of trust. — ^Yet she knew it not. Her fears 
 placed her still farther in my power ! Revenge ! 
 
78 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 
 
 Gerald knew not the manner in which his mother had 
 i*eceived her ward's fortunef and, when informed of the 
 circumstances, took it for granted, that she had placed 
 herself within the power of the law, and saw no way- 
 tor her escape, but by replacing the money ere her 
 w^ard reached majority. I had sworn vengeance 
 against her and hers, and to reach Gerald most eftec- 
 tively was through his love for Miss Franks. He is a 
 noble boy, and is willing, to save his mother from 
 harm, to sacrifice that love ! Were the motlier dead, 
 I could forgive the son. Since Emma has been my 
 companion, a gentler spirit has been awakened. She 
 is the only being I have met, since I reached man's 
 estate, who has touched my heart. She loves Gerald 
 sincerely, and for her sake, I will pretend, when I meet 
 him to-morrow night, that the reason for breaking 
 oif the match, no longer exists, and will give. him the 
 money required ; and, then, in the character of guard- 
 ian to Emma, I will demand it from Mrs. Rochefort. 
 Then, with my adopted daughter, I will bid farewell 
 to Ireland forever. But I will see Mrs. Rochefort 
 again, and probe that proud spirit of hers to the 
 quick, \_Exit. 
 
SCENE VI.] " GEORGE SEYMOUR. TO 
 
 .SCENE Y I . 
 
 GERALD ROCHEFORT'S ROOM. 
 
 Enter Gerald Rocheforf and Tom Croshie. 
 
 Tom. — AYell, I do declare, Gerald, your history beats 
 tlie Mysteries of Udolplio all hollow ! By the Lord ! 
 this is the greatest day that ever came for old Ireland I 
 Just oblige me with a loan of twenty or tliirty thou- 
 sand pounds, will you ? It's a mere trifle to you, you 
 know ! Why, man alive, Croesus was a beggar-man to 
 you ! Stop a bit — there's a pack of fox-hounds for 
 sale atDycer's to-morrow, and Frank Studdert's hunt- 
 ing-stud is to be had for a song — I saw the most per- 
 fect thing at Hutton's j^esterday, in the way of a light 
 mail — there's a splendid 3'acht advertised in this morn- 
 ing's '^ Saunder's " — the best grouse-mountain in the 
 kingdom is to be let — the 
 
 Gerald. — For God's sake, my dear Crosbie, be serious 
 for a few minutes. I want your advice in this matter. 
 
 Tom. — Oh! that's a different thing. Imagine your- 
 self addressing Solomon — now for it. — (Seats hhiiself.) 
 
 Gerald. — AVith this paper in my possession, I think 
 I may boldly demand from Seymour the restitution of 
 my father's property 
 
 Tom. — Think ! what do 3'ou mean hj think ? Don't 
 you know very well you may ? 
 
 Gerald. — Yes; but he may deny the entire state- 
 ment. 
 
 Tom. — Plow the devil can he do that, when you 
 have his own letters to Stevenson ? 
 
 Gerald. — He may deny them also. 
 
 Tom.. — Then, blow his brains out ! and^ indeed; un- 
 
80 GEORGE SEYMOUR. " [aCT III. 
 
 der any circumstances, I don't see bow you can avoid 
 that I 
 
 Gerald. — Kevertheless, I most certainly will avoid 
 it. The law shall deal with him. 
 
 Tom. — Law be damned ! justice, sir, before law, any 
 day — the scoundrel must he shot! 
 
 Gerald. — JSTot by me, Tom; you may shoot him if 
 you have any fancy for it, but 
 
 Tom. — Don't say another word ! I'll pepper him — 
 I'll do him the undeserved honor of sending a bullet 
 through his kidney. He's a dead man before this time 
 to-morrow. You must caxvj the challenge, Gerald, 
 my boy ! — (Starts to prepare it.) 
 
 Gerald. — (Laughiyig .) — Come, come, Crosbie, you 
 must give up this blood-thirsty notion. 
 
 Tom. — ril tell you what, there's no use in talking, 
 but if you don't let me jpepper that infernal rascal, I'll 
 never forgive 3^ou ! 
 
 Gerald. — Well, we'll speak of that directly. But 
 what had I better do first? 
 
 Tom. — xifter all, I think the best thing you can do 
 is to go straight to his house this moment, and, before 
 he has time or opportunity to defend himself, accuse 
 him boldly of the charges made against him in that 
 confession of his unfortunate confederate. I can 
 shoot him afterwards. 
 
 Gerald. — I will take your advice. Will you come 
 with me, Crosbie ? 
 
 Tom. — ^Will I ? I wouldn't lose the meeting for a 
 thousand pounds ! I told you we'd unkennel him — 
 and now to be in at the death ! No fear we shall "miss 
 our tip/^ my boy. .But don't you think that we might 
 want Denny Conner in this affair ? 
 
BCENB VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 81 
 
 Enter Denny Conner. 
 
 Denny. — An' av you want him, you have him. 
 Spake of the divle, axin' yer pardon, gintlemen, for 
 mentionin' the baste ! — (^Touching the brim of his hat.) 
 
 Tom. — Why, Dinny, what brings you here ? 
 
 Denny. — Faix, I'm takin' a walk. Sorro a ha'p'orth 
 else. 
 
 Tom. — 1 thought you went back to your worthy 
 Master's when you left us this morning. 
 
 Denny. — So I did, sir, but I knew he wouldn't be 
 there afore night, so I just come to look at the ladies ! 
 
 Tom. — Well, so much the better. We have found 
 out the " ould Turk/^ as you call him, and are going 
 to pay him a visit. 
 
 Denny. — Oh, thunder-alive ! is it in airneat you are, 
 Masther Tom ? downright airnest ? 
 
 Tom. — Yes, come along. When we have holed tho 
 fox, we may want you in at the death. 
 
 Denny. — I'll tell you what it is, that ould thief in- 
 sulted me, when he axed me to fi^;)j Masther Garald. 
 You're a gintleman, Masther Crosbie, an' can undher- 
 stand how a poor boy, without a fardin' in his pocket, 
 or a skreed on his back, has his feelings as well as 
 thim that rowl about in carri'ges — the ould naygur 
 insulted me, I say, an' if it was for nothin' else than 
 that, I'll have my revenge of him. — (^Dashes his hat 
 on the floor.) 
 
 Tom. — Well, Dinny, you rascal, I'll forgive you all 
 the mischief you ever did, and all the lies you ever 
 told, while you were my valet, for your conduct on 
 this occasion. You^re not so great a scoundrel as I 
 thought. 
 
 Denny. — I'm no betther nor my neighbors — I'm no 
 betther nor my neighbors, Masther Tom: but I'd 
 k 
 
82 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 
 
 scorn to be a spy. But stop, Masther Garald — since 
 I left you this mornin' I've had my eye on the ould 
 Turk ; an' I dogged him from Baggot strate till yer 
 mother's door, where you'll find him now, I'm afther 
 thinkin'. 
 
 Gerald. — Indeed; then Tom, we've no time to lose. 
 
 [Exeuent Gerald aiid Tom. 
 
 Denny. — Hurroo! hurroo ! yer sowl ! — (Throws his 
 hat up several times, kicking it as it falls.) — Hish ! tako 
 that ! Bad loock to poverty ! Whoo yer sowl ! — 
 (^DemolisJies his hat. — Starts for the door — suddenly stops 
 and scratches his head in deep thought.) — Be the howly 
 Saint Pathrick — I have it ! I'll to Baggot strate, an' 
 tell the young lady there, that the ould haythen 
 wants her till Misthress. Eochefort's; an' by the curse 
 of Crummel, we'll smother the ould Turk wid the pre- 
 sence of his frinds. 
 
 [Exit singing and capering. 
 
fOENE VII.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 8S 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 DRAWING EOOM — MRS. ROCHEFORT'S HOUSE. 
 
 [Mrs. Rochefort discovered seated, gazing upon a Miniature.] 
 
 Enter George Seymoitr. 
 
 Mrs. B. — {Looking up.) — Again, sir ! have you dared 
 ■{Eisi7ig.) 
 
 Seymour. — Aye, Madam, I have dared more than 
 this. Eemember ! 
 
 3Irs. ii^.— Would to God that I could forget! Why 
 have you come here now ? 
 
 Seymour. — To bring you news ! 
 
 Mrs. R. — ^News ! — what news have you brought me? 
 You were ever the bearer of evil tidings. 
 
 Seymour. — And am now — and ever shall be to you 
 and yours. Have you felt my power yet, Madam ? 
 
 Mrs. JR. — Oh, I have ! I have ! but spare me now. 
 — {Sinking hack into her seat.) 
 
 Seymour. — ^or now, nor never ! You shall feel it 
 to the last! 
 
 Mrs. R. — Speak, then, at once ! Let me hear the 
 worst ! I can bear anj. thing now ! What new evil 
 has your malice in store for me ? 
 
 Seymour. — As I have been a vulture to thy heart, 
 so will I be a raven to thy ear. Thy son 
 
 Mrs. R. — {Springing from her seat and grasping Sey- 
 mour's arm.) — Gerald ! What of him ? Speak ! 
 
 Seymour. — Your son, Madam, knows all j^our crimes, 
 and has consented to break off his marriage with Miss 
 Franks, to save his mother from dying in prison, on 
 condition I loan him the required amount, to make 
 
M ©EORGE SEYMOUR, [AOT HI. 
 
 good to Mis8 Aubyn, the fortune left her, and which 
 you so basely squandered. 
 
 M?'S. R. — Oh, God ! comfort my noble boy ! Begone, 
 Bir ! M}^ son would, were he here, chastise the coward 
 
 Enter Mr. Franks and Jessie. 
 
 who thus dares insult his unprotected mother, fallen 
 though she be. Eeware, George Seymour ! In this 
 you have gone beyond forbearance — the worm will 
 at last turn and sting the heel which is crushing it to 
 the earth ! Your pa.rt in this transaction shall now 
 be made known to Gerald. Would he were here to 
 sweep the reptile from my sight. 
 
 Seymour. — Ha! ha! ha! Comes it then to this? 
 Know then, woman I thy wrath and thy scorn falls 
 harmless at my feet. Both thou and thy boy, ere 
 to-morrow's sun, shall breathe the foul air within a 
 prison's walls. 
 
 Mr. Franks. — Seymour ! Seymour ! Ah ! the very 
 man Gerald and Mr. Crosbie have gone to chastise — 
 the villain ! What I have witnessed since I came 
 here, would have convinced me, that you could have 
 been no other than George Seymour, without having 
 heard the name. Jessie, hold my hat and coat, while 
 I show this jackanapes, that he is not to insult a wo- 
 man in my presence, without meeting his just deserts. 
 Watch him, Jessie, and don^t let him escape by the 
 door, while I am rolling up my sleeves. 
 
 Enter Gerald Rochefort arid Tovi Crosbie. 
 
 Gerald. — Hold, Mr. Franks ; let me relieve you of 
 this disagreeable job. Attend to the ladies. 
 
 Seymour. — May I ask to whom I am indebted for 
 this interference? 
 
•CINB VII.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 85 
 
 Gerald. — It is an idle question, sir: the pretext of 
 ignorance will avail but little. You have not now to 
 learn who I am. 
 
 Tom. — And ap; to me, if you have any particular 
 anxiety to kuow my name, you will find it there. — 
 (^Throws his card on table.) 
 
 Seymour. — What is the meaning of this outrage ? 
 You are both strangers to me. 
 
 Gerald. — It is a ftilsehood ! and, in order to spare you 
 the degredation of uttering such another, permit me 
 to inform you, at once, that I am acquainted with the 
 entire of your villany, from beginning to end. 
 
 Seymour. — {Passing his hand rapidly across his fore- 
 head.) — You force me, sir, to leave you. 
 
 Gerald. — By Heavens ! this is more than I can bear. 
 Look you, for the sake of my father's memory, I 
 would spare you public disgrace if possible; but, so 
 help me Heaven ! if you carry on this farce one in- 
 stant longer, 1 will denounce you to the world for the 
 villain that you are ! I knoio you, sir, — you would 
 have ruined me, as you have done my parents. Even 
 now, I should have been your victim, but that the 
 hand of Providence placed the means of escape within 
 my reach. You are at this moment in my power, so 
 that, by a word, I can crush you to the lowest depths 
 of disgrace and infamy ; but it rests with yourself 
 
 whether that word shall be spoken 
 
 Seymour. — {In a low voice.) — What is all this? 
 Why are you here ? 
 
 Gerald. — {With gentleness.) — Mr. Seymour, I will 
 explain in a few words why I am here. Since the 
 night when I made an application to you, supposing 
 the character you then assumed, to be your real one, I 
 have discovered many secrets of your life. When I 
 tell you that the greater part of them have been made 
 
86 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 
 
 known to me through Walter Stevenson, I presume, 
 it is unnecessary to add, that I am aware of tlie means 
 by which my poor father's ruin was affected. 
 
 Seymour. — Ah! Hell and damnation! foiled! Foil- 
 ed at the very moment of triumph, and that, too, by 
 the death-bed repentance of the tool I fostered for its 
 accompHshment. Death to my dreams of revenge! 
 Aye, and death to thee, who would thus triumph in 
 my fall. — {Attempts to stab Gerald, hut is prevented by 
 Crosbie, tvho hurls Seymour to the floor, stunning him by 
 the fall.) 
 
 Ejiter Emma Aicbyn, folloioed by Denny Conner. 
 
 Emyna Aubyn. — What means this ? {Seeing Mrs. B.) 
 Oh, mother, tell me quickly, why this scene ? 
 
 Mrs. R. — {Embracing Emma.) — It means, my love, 
 that an all-seeing Providence has laid bare the devilish 
 deeds of that m'an, — {points to Seymour,) — who, in re- 
 venge, attempted but now the death of my noble boy. 
 
 Emma Aubyn. — What ! the death of dear Gerald, and 
 by my guardian, too ? 
 
 Mrs. R. — Guardian ! No guardian, but a base plot- 
 ter to mar the happiness of others, and riot in their 
 misery. In my youth, that man was a woer for my 
 heart and hand. For his fierce and ungovernable 
 passions, his suit was rejected. For that act, no means 
 has he left untried, to wreak his vengeance on me and 
 mine. My husband — my fortune, — both have felt his 
 power, — my fortunes fled — my husband lies in his 
 grave, the victim of this fiend, and of a broken heart. 
 M}^ own existence has been made miserable by his 
 helhsh arts. At last, to secure his silence, in a mo- 
 ment of anguish, I confessed I had used the fortune 
 committed, with you, to my care. From that day to 
 
SCENE VII.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 87 
 
 this, not a moment's peace have 1 known. To aid 
 him in his designs to get you in his power, as a farther 
 act of vengeance on me, he extorted Irom my fears, 
 an acknowledgment of his false pretensions to your 
 guardianship. You listened to his words, and left me. 
 My boy's happiness has not escaped his machinations; 
 and but now he sought his life. 
 
 Emma Auhyn. — My God ! this is terrible ! 'Tis true^ 
 he did persuade me, as my guardian, to flee your house, 
 and dwell with him as his adopted daughter, but not 
 until he had rung my heart with the wrongs he 
 made me believe I had sufl'ered at your hands. This 
 story of his guardianship being false, oh, what cre- 
 dence can I now give to the rest ? Oh, my God ! sup- 
 port me, in this, my hour of misery. — i^Falls into Mrs. 
 B.'s arms iveejnng.) 
 
 {During this scene Seymour revives, and is aided to his 
 feet by Gerald and Denny.) 
 
 Seymour. — Emma here ! Ah ! then all is lost ! Oh I 
 Vengeance, I have followed thee too far, and to re- 
 ceive me hell blows all her fires ! Caught ! caught in 
 my own snare ! Betrayed by my own instrument ! 
 This comes of human weakness. Had I strangled 
 the tool, when his services were no longer needed, my 
 amour would have been proof — proof! 'Tis hard to 
 die, with health beating in every pulse, the powers of 
 enjoyment unpalsied, the means of gratifying them 
 in my grasp ! Courage ! courage I Better death than 
 the idle gaze of the curious, or th© pity of unrelenting 
 foes. Eevenge ! stand firm, and interrupt his wishes ! 
 Revenge ! on whom ? — no matter — earth and Heaven 
 would blush, should I forbear ! Now ! — (^Stabs himself 
 —falls — partially raising himself) — Come hither, Em- 
 
88 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT HI. 
 
 ma, let me hear thy pardon ere I bid farewell to earth. 
 — {Eyiima kneels — supports his head) Child, I meant 
 thee no harm, but aimed to do thee good. Gerald, be 
 kind to poor Emma. Love, fare thee well ! — {Dies.) 
 
 THE END. 
 
BOOK OF CHROMCLES! 
 
 BEING A FAITHFUL AND TRUE HISTORY OF THE 
 DISSENSIONS AMONG THF. 
 
 F KNOX, 
 
 UPON THE 
 
 KANSAS QUESTION I 
 
 TO WHICH IS ADDED 
 
 THE CALLS FOB THE LECOMPTON Al^D 
 THE ANTI-LECOMPTON MEETINGS. 
 
 WRITTEN BY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 MT. VERNON, OHIO: 
 
 PRINTED AT THE NATIONAL BOOK AND JOB OFFICE 
 1S5S.. 
 
'f!'-^^'' P 
 
THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 ^ mm ^ 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 N the first year of the reason of his having with- 
 
 reign of James the Se- stood the allurements of tha 
 
 cond, called by his fairest portion of the land, 
 friends "Old Buck," by 
 
 2. A great commotion 
 arose in the laud of Kansas, 
 which spread throughout the 
 length and breadth of the 
 land of America, reaching 
 even unto the land, of Knox. 
 
 3. And James the Second 
 sent to the land of Kansas, 
 one of his Chieftains named 
 Lecompton, to subdue and 
 rale over the turbulent spir- 
 its; of that robelliou'- land. 
 
 4. Rut \hc v^'rath of thr 
 
 people thereof waxed hot, 
 and they arose, to a man, 
 and would not have this man 
 Lecompton as their ruler. 
 
 5. And James the Second 
 was sorely troubled, and he 
 issued his co)nmands to the 
 people throughout the land, 
 to receive this man Lecomp- 
 ton, and to fall down and 
 vv-orship him. 
 
 H. But a gondh- portion 
 
 of thn par.pl ♦> of fhc IftnH of 
 
THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 America, under the lead of 
 Stephen, the -'Little G-iant," 
 rebelled against this com- 
 mand. 
 
 7. And the wrath of James 
 the Second waxed hot, and 
 he swore in his anger, that 
 his commands should be obc}-- 
 ed, and that all the people 
 who would not swear allegi- 
 ance to this man Lecompton 
 should lose their heads. 
 
 8. Xow, when this com- 
 mand reached the land of 
 Knox, the Chieftains thereof 
 trembled in their boots. 
 
 9. And word was sent to 
 the Chieftains, to assemble 
 themselves together, to coun- 
 sel one with the other. 
 
 10. And when the Chief- 
 tains assembled themselves 
 together, Edward the Wit- 
 less, Eli the Miller, John the 
 Chief Consul, Matthew the 
 Irritable, Samuel the Israel- 
 ite, Samuel the Expectant, 
 whose sir name is Axtell, Wil- 
 liam the would-be Congress- 
 man, and William the Beam- 
 ite, declared valiantly for the 
 cause of James the Second, 
 and his great Chieftain Le- 
 compton. 
 
 11. But William the Gas- 
 tonite, Jacob, of the house of 
 Ly Brand, Jacob the Bank- 
 er, Charles the Scribner, Ka- 
 guet the Spouter, James the 
 Keeper of the Iron Horse, 
 Zimmerman, the Deposed, 
 uaac, of the tribo of Hodley. 
 
 Robert the Irvinite, and Har- 
 vey, who had diligently 
 sought to count the treasures 
 of tlie people, manfully step- 
 
 ^ ped forth into the ranks of 
 
 ' the Little G-iant. 
 
 12. But William, the 
 Master of the Posts, bowed 
 his knee, and kissed the toe 
 of the great Lecompton, fear- 
 ing, peradventure, the wral^ 
 of the King. 
 
 13. And Lecky the Ha#'- 
 per, being afraid of the wrath 
 both of the Little Giant and 
 of the King, fled, and hid 
 himself within his Castle, and 
 placed a strong guard of horse 
 shoes round and about him. 
 
 14. At this the wrath of 
 Eli the Miller, waxed exceed- 
 ingly hot; fi'om his nostrils 
 came forth steam as from a 
 furnace heated seven times 
 hotter than the fiery pit ; his 
 eyes shone like two balls of 
 living fire ; his tongue be- 
 came swollen with the venom 
 of his heart, and his mouth 
 belched forth words of bitter- 
 ness and of gall. 
 
 15. So great was his wrath 
 that his leg;s tottered, and he 
 fell to the ground as dead. 
 
 16. And great was the 
 commotion thereat, and Hen- 
 ry, of the house of Banning, 
 brought forth water, and, 
 casting it upon the face of 
 the prostrate Chieftain, he 
 revived. 
 
THE BOOK OF CHR0NICLE8. 
 
 17. Among the Chieftains 
 of the land of Knox, were 
 Baldwin the Renegade, and 
 John the Know Nothing, 
 whose record caused the 
 friends of the King to look 
 upon them with distrust. 
 
 18. The taint of Aboli- 
 tion smelt strong upon the 
 garments of Baldwin ; yea, 
 stronger than the stones of 
 the land of Danville; and 
 from the hair of John creep- 
 eth forth the filth of the 
 Know Nothing dens. 
 
 19. Now, these thing& 
 stank in the nostrils of the 
 friends of the King, and 
 causeth their stomachs to 
 turn against them. 
 
 20. And Baldwin the- 
 Kenegade, and John the 
 Know Nothing, reasoned one 
 with the other, and came and 
 bowed themselves down at 
 the feet of Lecompton, swear- 
 ing fealty for the future, re- 
 ceiving the brand of infamy 
 for the past. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A 
 
 ^HERE dwelleth in a 
 small village called 
 
 ir Squealtown, in the 
 .aTg^ land of Knox, one 
 ^^^ Joseph, of the house 
 of An Keny, a Chieftain 
 mighty in his way. 
 
 2. Now, this Chieftain 
 sorely troubled both the 
 friends of the King, and of 
 
 the Little Giant, for he vain- 
 ly attempted to do battle both 
 in the cause of the King and 
 likewise of the Little Giant. 
 3. And when the friends 
 of the Little Giant issued 
 their commands to the peo- 
 ple of the land of Knox, to 
 assemble them.^eives together 
 at th.e Castle in ibe CUv of 
 

 
 THK nOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 Vernon, on the sixth day of 
 the month of March, in the 
 second year of the reign of 
 James the Second, Joseph 
 caused his name to be attach- 
 ed thereto, and great was the 
 dismay of the friends of the 
 King, for they looked not for 
 this desertion on the part of 
 one whose antecedents led 
 them to look for better things. 
 
 4. At the grief of the 
 friends of the King, the heart 
 of Joseph softened, and he 
 cast about striving to re- 
 trieve himself from the odium 
 his course had brought upon 
 him, and to cause the face of 
 the King to smile as of old. 
 
 6. Now, it appears, this 
 act of rebellion upon the part 
 of Joseph, was caused by hia 
 
 listening to the pleadings of 
 James, the Keeper of the 
 Iron Horse, a favorite Chief 
 of the Little Giant. 
 
 6. And, to make James 
 the Scapegoat, to bear to the 
 mountains, the burden of his 
 sins, Joseph, through the 
 columns of the Banner, de- 
 nounced him as the betrayer 
 of his unsophisticated inno- 
 cence, and the cause of hia 
 making the face of the King 
 to clothe itself in the habili- 
 ments of sadness. 
 
 7. And smiles of joy illu- 
 minated the face of the King, 
 and Joseph was received a- 
 gain into favor, while James 
 was cast out, as utterly un- 
 worthj"^ of a place in the af- 
 fections of the King. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MONG the Chieftains 
 friendly to the cause 
 of the King, was one 
 Absalom the Thrift- 
 ful, who dwelleth in 
 
 the City of Frederick, in the 
 
 land of Wayne. 
 
 2. In times past, the peo- 
 ple of the land of Knox hon- 
 ored him greatly, and confi- 
 ded to his care the safe keep- 
 ing of the malefactors and 
 the unruly people of the land: 
 
 3. In the discharge of the 
 duties appertaining to hi.s 
 post Af ini>i1, \\{\ crrfflllv pl«^n.M- 
 
 ed his friends, so much so, 
 indeed, that he retired from 
 office with little or no opposi- 
 tion. 
 
 4. Now, when the friends 
 of the Little Giant declared 
 against the King and his 
 Chieftain Lecompton, Absa- 
 lom took his place in the 
 ranks under the King, having 
 in his eye the post he former- 
 ly held, and he battled dili- 
 gently in the cause of his 
 Master. 
 
 5. And the praise of his 
 rnifjhtv de^^-d'* wi^re on thr 
 
THK BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 tcnguea of all the faithful : 
 
 6. And the fame thereof 
 reached even unto the ears of 
 the Law-makers who assem- 
 bled themselves together in 
 the City of Columbus, to de- 
 vise ways and means to pre- 
 vent the Treasury of the State 
 from becoming too greatly 
 burdened with the issue of 
 banks, and of the coinage of 
 iilver and of gold. 
 
 7. And the Law-makerg 
 ijuued their mandate to the 
 
 people of the land of Knox, 
 not to interfere with nor mo- 
 lest the great Black Kepubli- 
 can Chieftain, Underwood, 
 until the year one thousand 
 eight hundred and sixty, and 
 the first day of the month of 
 January thereof. 
 
 8. Now, this mandate of 
 the Law-makers, troubleth 
 Absalom sorely, for, from his 
 long fast, he hath become an 
 hungered, and longeth for a 
 suck at the public teat. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 MONG the Chieftains 
 of the land of Knox, 
 whose names were 
 not placed on record 
 _ _ in tne first Chapter, 
 were Montgomery the Sheriff 
 and Cotton the Scattering 
 Candidate. 
 
 2. Now, both these Chief- 
 tains were mighty in their 
 ■wav, and had aided power- 
 fully in placing the King up- 
 on the throne. 
 
 3. In the first year of the 
 reign of James the Second, 
 Montgomery the Sheriff, 
 journeyed unto the land of 
 Kansas, and dwelt therein. 
 
 4. And on his return to 
 the land of Knox he manful- 
 ly stepped forth, and declared 
 for the cause of the sover- 
 eignty of the people, and 
 
 joined the forces under the 
 Little Giant. 
 
 5. But the Chieftain Cot- 
 ton, who was a mighty Nim- 
 rod, in hunting after places 
 in the gift of the people, vi- 
 brated like unto a pendulum 
 between the forces under the 
 King, and the forces under 
 the Little Giant, fearing, per- 
 adventure, lest he strike on 
 the weaker side. 
 
 6. Knowing this hanker 
 ing after places of power, by 
 the Scattering Chieftain, 
 
 7. The friends of the King, 
 in the First Ward of the City 
 of Vernon, agreed one with 
 the other, 
 
 8. That if he would de- 
 clare for the King, and go 
 against the impounding of 
 swine found running at large, 
 
THt: BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 they would give him the seat 
 with the City Fathers, then 
 occupied by the great Black 
 Republican Hauk. 
 
 9. And thereupon Cotton, 
 
 the Scattering Candidate, 
 stepped forth, and enrolled 
 his name with the follow^ers 
 of the King;. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ^OREMOST among those 
 who declared for the 
 King, and against the 
 cause of th.e people, 
 _^ stood the great Chief- 
 tain Young, whose Castle is 
 reared among the hills in the 
 land of Monroe. 
 
 2. In all the land there 
 are none more ready to do 
 :unto the King homage than 
 the Crippled Chieftain. 
 
 8. "When the knees of the 
 hitherto undaunted followers 
 .of the King became helpless 
 
 flmf gfegpq ii c 
 
 ^hau r^ 
 
 as the limbs of sucklings, 
 through the great fear that 
 was upon them, this Chief- 
 tain stood forth dauntless, as 
 though cased in armor, and 
 the echo of his war cry rang 
 throughout the land. 
 
 4. On the fifth day of the 
 month of April in the second 
 year of the reign of James 
 the Second, the famous battle 
 of Monroe was fought^, be- 
 tween the followers of^' tiie 
 King, under the lea(Ji#3ltp 
 af the Chieftain Young, and 
 
 
 
TKE BOOK OF CHRONICLER. 
 
 H 
 
 the forces of tlie gallant 
 Black Kepublicaiis, who so 
 numerously infest the lulls 
 and the valleys of that dark 
 and benighted hind. 
 
 5. A battle so sang-uinav}' 
 in its results that the Ciironi- 
 eles of histoiy, sacred or pro- 
 fane, containeth not its equal. 
 
 6. To its glories, the 
 strings of the lyre of Lecky 
 the Harper awoke, and the 
 fame thereof sounded sweetly 
 in the ears of the King, and 
 his followers became merry 
 as though gladdened with the 
 .spirit of new made wine : 
 
 7. And it Mas likened un- 
 to the ennfiict upori tht.' |)laiTi.s 
 
 of Salamis,Plate:i, ]Vlarathor^,' 
 Tliermon3'la?,Waterloo, But - 
 ker Hill, Yorktown, New 
 Orleans, Buena Yista, PalO 
 Alto, ii^id one hundred otirei's, 
 inconvenient for the Harper 
 to attune his lyre to the glo- 
 ries thereof. 
 
 8. Xow, although the for- 
 ces of the Black Republicans 
 were defeated, 3'et they are 
 not dismayed at the war cry 
 of the Chieftain Young, nor 
 the lyric of the Harper, but 
 they withdrew from the well- 
 contested Held, bearing with 
 them twenty niore of their 
 foes than at a former battle. - 
 
 (" HAPT?iR VI. 
 
 OIIX the Chief Consul, 
 
 !• journej-ed unto the 
 
 Castle of the King, in 
 
 .^,^ the land of Washing- 
 
 U>i\, r.H-iuiUg uiito liim llie 
 allegiance of his friends, 
 and the defiance of the rebel- 
 lauts. 
 
10 
 
 THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 2. When the King heard 
 these tidings of the rehellion 
 ill the land of Knox, he bow- 
 ed his head and wept : 
 
 3. And he swore in his 
 wrath, the rebellious Chief- 
 tains must be subdued and 
 return to their loyalty, or 
 John the Consul should not 
 see the land of France. 
 
 4. And John the Consul 
 stood amazed, for he looked 
 not for this treatment from the 
 hands of the King, to whom 
 he sold his integrity. 
 
 5. And he returned to the 
 land of Knox, sorrowing, for 
 his heart was set on a journey 
 to the land of France. 
 
 6. And word was sent to 
 the Chieftains of the land of 
 Knox to assemble themselves 
 together, and take steps to 
 appease the wrath of the 
 King; 
 
 7. And the Chieftains as- 
 sembled themselves togeth- 
 er, and hearkened unto the 
 commands of the King, and 
 reasoned one with the other, 
 and those who had declared 
 for the Little Giant, as with 
 one voice, refused to recede 
 from the stand they had ta- 
 ken at their former counsel. 
 
 8. And the Chieftains who 
 had knelt at the feet of 
 the King, and taken the 
 Chieftain Lecompton to rule 
 over them, 
 
 9. Issued a call to the 
 people of the land of Knox 
 
 who were friendly to the 
 cause of the King, and who 
 were willing to take the Chief 
 Lecompton to rule over them, 
 
 10. To assemble themselves 
 together at the Castle in the 
 City of Yernon, in the land 
 of Knox, on the fifteenth day 
 of the month of March, in 
 the second j^ear of the reign 
 of James the Second, 
 
 11. And to sweep from off 
 the face of the earth, all those 
 dilapidated Chieftains who 
 had declared against the rule 
 of the Lecompton Chieftain, 
 and who hath watered in the 
 face of the King. 
 
 12. Perad venture, lest the 
 Chieftains, who were friendly 
 to the cause of the King, 
 should prejudice the minds 
 of the people of the land of 
 Knox against those who had 
 rebelled against the rule of 
 the Chieftain Lecompton, ■ 
 
 13. Another call was is- 
 sued, commanding tlie people 
 of the land of Knox to as- 
 semble themselves together 
 at the Castle in the City of 
 Vernon, 
 
 14. On the sixth day of 
 the month of March, in the 
 second year of the reign of 
 James the Second, 
 
 15. To hearken unto the 
 reasons which had caused 
 them to join the forces under 
 the Little Giant, and to array 
 themselves against the King. 
 
 16. And the "noise and 
 
THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 11 
 
 confusion," created by their 
 proceedings, penetrated the 
 wails of the Castle of Lecky 
 the Harper, 
 
 17. Causing him to moan 
 and writhe in agony, for, in 
 the triumph of either the 
 King, or the Little Giant 
 in the land of Knox, the 
 "bread and butter" of his 
 existence would fall to the 
 ground. 
 
 18. And Lecky the Har- 
 per issued forth from his 
 stronghold, 
 
 19. And for the space of 
 six days flew, like a bird of 
 passage, from one contending 
 force to the other, 
 
 20. Praying with the one, 
 and counselling with the oth- 
 er, to withdraw their sum- 
 mons to the people, 
 
 21. ' 
 and command the people of 
 the land of Knox to gather 
 themselves together in one 
 assembly, and 
 
 22. * To express themselves 
 for or against this Lecomp- 
 ton Chieftain, and to swear 
 fealty to the King, or to join 
 the forces under the Little 
 Giant, as the voice of the ma- 
 jority might declare. 
 
 23 And the Chieftains 
 who had rebelled against the 
 
 And unite together 
 
 King, confident in their 
 strength, and firm in the in- 
 tegrity of their purposes, 
 
 24. Listened to the songs 
 of the Harper, and pledged 
 themselves one with the oth- 
 er to withdraw their summons 
 to the people, and submit to 
 the voice of a majority there- 
 of. 
 
 25. But the Chieftains 
 who had resolved to stand by 
 the King, hearkened not un- 
 to the songs of the Harper, 
 and grew exceedingly wrathy 
 at the pusillanimity of the 
 Chieftain of Horse Shoe 
 Bend, who was too fearful to 
 declare for or against the 
 King, and drove him forth 
 from among them, and he 
 took refuge within the walls 
 of his stronghold. 
 
 26. And he called around 
 him the spirits of the mighty 
 dead, and for the space of 
 fifteen days he dwelt in the 
 presence of those who had 
 arisen from their graves. 
 
 27. And throughout his 
 Castle resounded the rappings 
 of the departed, and so great 
 was the noise thereof, his 
 Castle was shunned by the 
 people as a place wherein 
 dwelleth the ungodly. 
 
iz 
 
 THE BOOK or ,(.'HHOMCLE«. 
 
 CHAl^TEE YTI 
 
 >i the sixth day of the 
 month of March, in 
 the second year of the 
 j^blCn rfeign of ■ James the 
 'i^C^ Second, the people of 
 the h\nd of Knox nssenibled 
 themselves to'gether at the 
 Castle, in the Citj^ of A''ernon. 
 
 2. And they came from 
 the valleys, and from the hiil 
 tops, and from the extreme 
 corners of the land, to the 
 number of four*hundred and 
 three score and ten. 
 
 3. And they camo in so- 
 berness, for they were of that 
 class who loved to reason to- 
 gether, and to hearken unto 
 the words of v/isdom. 
 
 4. And McWiliiams, of 
 the Itind of Clay, Ayjis clioseu 
 to preside over them, and Ja- 
 cob the Banker selected :is 
 Scribe. 
 
 5. l\ow, among' the Chief- 
 tains in the land of Ohio, who 
 iiad rebelled acjainst the 
 King, and refused to kneel to 
 The cap of the great Lecomp-- 
 ton, were Henry the Painful, 
 of the land of Cuyahoga, 
 and Daniel of Toledo, in the 
 land of Frogs. 
 
 ' G. Now these Chieftains 
 once stood high in the favor 
 of the King, and had receiv- 
 ed many tokens of esteem 
 .'Vom his ha7ids 
 
 7. But when the King 
 comnumded his followers to 
 fall down and worship the 
 cap of the great Lecompton, 
 they rebelled, and joined the 
 forces under the Little Giant, 
 and they stood forth read}^ to 
 do battle manfully for the 
 cause they had espoused. 
 
 8. And they journeyed 
 from their homes in the land 
 of Cuyahoga and in the land 
 of Frogs, and pitched their 
 tents in the land of Knox. 
 
 0. And in tiie words of 
 truth tlie}' spake unto the 
 people, of the wrongs and in- 
 iquities attempted to be por- 
 petratr-d upon the ])eople of 
 the land of Kansiis, by the 
 King, and by the Chieftain 
 Lecom}>ton, sent to rule over 
 theuL. 
 
 10. And the people ot*the 
 land of Knox hearkenea un- 
 to their words, and arose to 
 a*ian, and said: 
 
 11. •• This mighty evil shall 
 not be, and they swore ie 
 their wrath that they would 
 not have this man Lecomp- 
 ton. as their ruler. 
 
 12. ATn<^ng the Chieftains 
 of the land of Knox, who 
 had rebelled against the 
 King, was "William the Gas- 
 fonite, 
 
 1.'> Whom ihe Kinti: nnd 
 
Tin: BOOK Oi' CUKONTCLES. 
 
 l:i 
 
 his Chieftains hud brouiiht 
 Irom the \i\nd of Jefierson, 
 to do battle in his cuupo, und 
 to rescue the hind of Knox 
 from the hands of a might^y 
 people called Black liepubli- 
 caiis. 
 
 14. And the Leoom])tt>n 
 Chieftains were incensed at 
 his rebellion, and they swore 
 in their wrath, that he sliould 
 not dwell in their midst, for 
 they were fearful the people 
 would hearken unto his voice. 
 
 15. And AVilliam the Gas- 
 tonite also spake unto the 
 people, of the frauds and in- 
 iquities attempted to be for- 
 ced U])on the people of the 
 land of Kansas by the King, 
 
 If). And the people assem- 
 bled were amazed at his w^ords 
 of truth, and they girded on 
 their swords anew, resolved 
 to conquer or die in th(,' cause 
 of justice and truth. 
 
 17. Now, when tlie Le- 
 compton Chieftains heard 
 th(>so resolves of an incensed 
 l)eople, they were as dumb- 
 founded, and they reeled 
 through the streets as swine 
 afllicted with the kidney 
 worm. 
 
 IS. And for the space of 
 three daj-s they remained 
 within their Castles, fearing, 
 peradventvu-e, lest Steele, the 
 Marshal, should impound 
 them under the provisions t f 
 the ordinance restraining sick 
 swine from running at large. 
 
 19. And Matthew the Ir- 
 ritable journeyed throughout 
 the land of Ohio, in search 
 of Chieftains friendly to the 
 cause of the King, and wdio 
 w'cre in possession of the gift 
 of gab, to speak unto the 
 pG0}>le on the fifteenth day of 
 t!ie month of ^larcli. 
 
 CHAPTKIl AlII. 
 
 .N tlie morning of the 
 fifteenth day of the 
 month of March, in 
 ^^]S the second year of the 
 ^i^(^ reign of James the 
 Second., God caused the rain 
 of heaven to descend upon 
 the earth, and the great 
 thoroughfares leading to the 
 City of Ternon, by reason 
 thereof, became almost ini- 
 ])nssable. 
 
 2. So liuicli so, indeed, 
 that but few of the people of 
 the land of Knox ventured 
 forth froyi their hearthstones. 
 
 3. But those who loved 
 the spirits, both of the de- 
 parted, and c>f corn, came 
 forth in their strength, and 
 made the streets of the City 
 to resound with the discord 
 of babbling tongues and of 
 rampant passions. 
 
14 
 
 THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 4. The number thereof 
 were computed by those skill- 
 fal in the science of figures, 
 to have reached three hun- 
 dred and two score and five. 
 
 5. And Lecky the Har- 
 per issued forth from his Cas- 
 tle, and appeared in their 
 midst, vociferating' with a 
 loud voice and wild mein : 
 
 6. Long live the King 
 and his great Chief Lecomp- 
 ton! 
 
 7. And the people were 
 •amazed at his words, and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 8. Cast this man forth 
 from among us, for by his 
 teachings, have we not lost 
 the spoils of office, and has 
 not the cause of the Black 
 liepublicans triumphed to 
 the utter destruction of the 
 cause of the King in the land 
 of Knox? 
 
 9. And Lecky the Har- 
 per bowed his head and wept, 
 and, with a pitiful voice, he 
 cried : 
 
 10. Cast me not forth to 
 the tender mercies of mine 
 enemies, for the Black Ee- 
 publicans will have me not, 
 nor will the Yellow Kepub- 
 licans fellowship with me, 
 and if ye cast me forth with 
 the brand of infamy on my 
 brow, " where shall I go?" 
 
 11. And the hearts of the 
 King's friends softened, and 
 they said, with a Toice of 
 distrust : 
 
 12. Since we brought ye 
 from the land of Pennsylva- 
 nia, on probation, ye may 
 tarry with us for the space of 
 one year longer, for in that 
 time ye will have performed 
 your mission, the utter de- 
 struction of the cause of the 
 King in the land of Knox, as 
 has come to pass in every 
 land where ye have pitched 
 your tent. 
 
 13. Now, when the people 
 had assembled themselves to- 
 gether in the Castle, they 
 chose from amongst the Chiefs 
 John the Consul, to preside 
 over them, and installed as 
 Scribe, Baldwin the Rene- 
 gade. 
 
 14. Among the Chiefs who 
 came from afar, were Samuel 
 the "War Horse, William the 
 Bologna Sausage Chief, Bel- 
 den the Chief Prosecutor, 
 Safford the Senator, Prentiss 
 the Chief Spy, and Mat the 
 Martin, a Stipendary in the 
 Treasury Department in the 
 land of Washington. 
 
 15. Now, all these Chief- 
 tains, excepting Safford the 
 Senator, were in the pay of 
 the King, and the people 
 marvelled greatly amongst 
 themselves, why they deserted 
 their posts to travel unto a 
 far land to speak unto them. 
 
 16. And the people mur- 
 mured one to the other, say- 
 ing: 
 
 17. In the days of good 
 
THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 15 
 
 old King Hickory, these 
 things would not have come 
 to pass, for the good old King 
 would have sworn in his 
 wrath, "By the Eternal! the 
 man who leaves his post shall 
 die ! " 
 
 18. And when the people 
 had ceased their murmuring, 
 Matthew the Irritable came 
 forth smiling, and said : 
 
 19. Behold ! I present to 
 you the great Chief, Belden 
 the Prosecutor, who hath 
 been swiftly converted from 
 his heresies, and from follow- 
 ing of the Little Giant, by a 
 small parchment, with the 
 King's name thereunto at- 
 tached, making him the 
 King's Attorney over the 
 people of the land of North- 
 ern Ohio. 
 
 20. And the Chief Prose- 
 cutor pat forth his hand and 
 commanded silence, for the 
 people murmured one with 
 the other, saving : 
 
 21. Why should the King 
 go forth into the ranks of his 
 enemies, and buy, with the 
 gold of office,his Chief Speak- 
 ers ? Have we none faithful 
 to the cause of the King 
 among us ? 
 
 22. And when silence pre- 
 vailed, the Chief Prosecutor 
 spake unto the people, say- 
 ing: 
 
 23. In times gone by he 
 spake unto a great people 
 called by t^-o names — the 
 
 people Democratic, and the 
 people Black Eepublican, but 
 now I find three : by what 
 name shall this third people 
 be called ? 
 
 24. And Matthew the Ir- 
 ritable cried with a voice of 
 anguish, for the divisions 
 among the people Democratic 
 vexed him sorely : 
 
 25. Call them the "Di- 
 lapidated Democrats!" and 
 thereat the face of John the 
 Consul was seen to smile, for 
 the name suited him to a T I 
 
 26. Then the Chief Prose- 
 cutor shook his curly locks, 
 and wiped his flattened nose, 
 and said : 
 
 27. No ! the name sounds 
 stale — call this third peo- 
 ple "Yellow Eepublicans!" 
 it suits my complexion best I 
 
 28. Again came forth 
 Matthew the Irritable, lead- 
 ing Samuel the War Horse, 
 saying : 
 
 29. Hearken unto my 
 voice, ye people of the land 
 of Knox, and give heed unto 
 my words, that ye may learn 
 wisdom. 
 
 30. This is the mighty Old 
 War Horse, the fame of 
 whose ravages hath reached 
 even unto the remote?t cor^ 
 
6 
 
 THE EOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 ners of the land of America. 
 81. So terrible were his 
 dopredntions in tlie land of 
 Ohio, that the people thereof 
 beseiged the Castle of the 
 King, and sutrered him not 
 to rest in peace, until he f^ave 
 heed unto their com pi a i Tits. 
 
 32. And the King com- 
 manded his head groomsmai 
 to journey with the Old War 
 Horse unto the green pasture;, 
 of the land of Minnesota, 
 and to east him loose amoni* 
 the Half Breeds of that land. 
 
 33. And tin; head groom.-- 
 naan and the Old War Horse 
 journeyed unto the land of 
 Alinnesota, and the head 
 groomsman, by command of 
 the King, made the Old "War 
 Horse Governor over tlio 
 Half Breeds of that land. 
 
 34. And in the short space 
 of six months thereafter, the 
 Half Breeds of the land of 
 Minnesota, assembled them- 
 felve.g together, and, forming 
 for themselves a Constitution, 
 beleaguered the doors of Con- 
 gres.s for jjdmission into the 
 I'nion fir, a Hover<'-ign State, 
 
 .<() di'vastating l]ad been thii 
 depredations of the Old V>'ar 
 Horse. 
 
 35. And tlio King tooic 
 rompassion upon the Half 
 Breeds of the land of ]Minne- 
 .-ota, a?id gave unto tlie Old 
 War Horse six thousand 
 ilollars worth of oats in tbe 
 City of Columbus, in the 
 land of Ohio, fearing, per- 
 adventure, le^^t the heels of 
 the Old War Horse should 
 be found kicking against the 
 throne ofthe King, with the 
 determination to aeeomplisb 
 the d<\<:truetjnn tboroof. 
 
I'HE JiOOK OF CIIRONICLIiS. 
 
 1 
 
 3o. And the people oftlie 
 land of Knox wondered one 
 with the oilier, sayinj^-: 
 
 V>7. What hath this Pedi- 
 gree of the Old War Horse 
 to do Avith the direful divi- 
 sions among the people De- 
 mocratic in the land of Am- 
 erica, as to the ruling of the 
 Lecompton, Chieftain. 
 
 38. Again came forth 
 Matthew the Irritable, and, 
 in a voice like unto the bark- 
 ing of a do<r, cried : 
 
 39. BelK.ld the great Bo- 
 logna Sausage Chief, William 
 the Sawyer, of the region of 
 Hoop-poles, in the land of 
 Auglaize. 
 
 40. The fame of whose 
 deeds, while in the councils 
 of the nation, are yet odorif- 
 erous in the land of Colum- 
 bia, for great was the havoc 
 among the canines of the 
 land, and the- matrons 
 mourned for their first born, 
 and refused to be comforted, 
 for the}' were not. 
 
 41 . And the people of the 
 bind of Columbia rebelled, 
 for their goods were exposed 
 to the midnight plunderer, 
 for so destructive was the 
 war of the butcher, that not 
 a guardian dog wa-^ spared ;i> 
 
 C 
 
 a momunent lo the .•satiated 
 stomach of the Bologna Chief. 
 
 42. And the people drove 
 him forth from among them, 
 and he became a wanderer in 
 the land of his brethren. 
 
 43. And his fame follow- 
 ed him Avhichsoever way he 
 went ; and even noM% al- 
 though liis teeth have be- 
 came like snags, tlie dogs are 
 
 ^earful of showing their fa- 
 ces within three score and 
 ten miles of his whereabouts, 
 lest, peradventure, they go 
 the vray of their departed 
 brethren. 
 
 44. Then the jicople of 
 the land of Knox, who were 
 assembled in the Castle, arose 
 if> their feet in disgust, and 
 departed for their homes, 
 
 45. For they came not 
 together to hearken unto the 
 depredations of the Old War 
 Horse, and to the glutton- 
 ous exploits of the Bologna 
 Chief, 
 
 46. But to give heed unto 
 the words of the friends of 
 the King, and to hearken 
 unto the reasons why the 
 Chieftain Lecompton should 
 rule over the people ofyth'^ 
 land of Kansas. 
 
l^S 
 
 THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 CHAPTEK IX 
 
 N the cveiiiiig of the 
 fifteenth day of the 
 month of March, in 
 the second year of the 
 reign of James the 
 John the Consul 
 prepared for the followers of 
 the King in the land of Knox, 
 a feast. 
 
 Second 
 
 2. And Castle Woodward 
 throughout the day, resound- 
 ed with the sound of the ham- 
 mer and the buzz of the sa^'. 
 
 3. And Abel the Reader 
 of the Globe, worked dili- 
 gently from the rising of the 
 sun to the going down there- 
 of, in preparing-" the board for 
 the reception of the good 
 things of the land. 
 
 4. Now. John the Consul 
 had brougiit with him from 
 a former journey to the land 
 of France, some of its exhil- 
 arating vintage : 
 
 5- x\nd the fame Ihereoi' 
 had reached e\'eu unto the 
 remotest corners of the land 
 of Knox, 
 
 1). And till- eves oj" the 
 
 Xephites were made to glisten 
 witli its virtues, and their 
 tongues were loosened to sing- 
 its praise. 
 
 7. And as the King had 
 commanded John the Consul 
 to gather together his follow- 
 ers, in the land of Knox, and 
 to obtain their endorsement, 
 that he was right "on the 
 goose," before he humbled 
 himself at the foot of the 
 throne, it became the Consul 
 to administer spirituous con- 
 solation to the hearts of the 
 people. 
 
 8. And John caused his 
 servants to bountifully supply 
 the table with his choicest 
 wines : yea, even the Avine of 
 the land of France. 
 
 9. And his servants bore 
 unto the Castle Woodward 
 five thousand tlireo hundred 
 and three score and two bot- 
 tles of the vintage of the land 
 of France. 
 
 10. And iu the centre of 
 the east table was placed a 
 pyramid of sweetened dough, 
 and on the top thereof was 
 placed the Horn of the Kijig, 
 and the points thereof Avere 
 red, as with the blood of 
 Bleeding Kansas. 
 
 11. And the followers of 
 ihe K'nio- bowed themselvi>- 
 
THE BOOK or niROMCI-ES. 
 
 19 
 
 and did hoinagt^ unto the 
 symbol of Majesty. 
 
 12. At the outer gate of 
 the Castle stood Fordney the 
 would-be Assessor, to receive 
 the tax of the people, for an 
 assessment of twenty-live 
 cents per caput had been laid 
 upon the revellers at the Con- 
 sul's feast. 
 
 13. The number thereof 
 was computed at two hundred 
 men, women, boys and dem- 
 ocrats. 
 
 14. And all the Chiefs 
 who had wive-* took them to 
 the feast, and those who had 
 no wives took two, and the 
 beauty, both matron and 
 maiden, of the citj', were 
 there in all their hoops and 
 sparkling gems. 
 
 15. And when the guests 
 had assembled themselves to- 
 gether in the baufjueting 
 room, 
 
 10. MattJicw the Irritable 
 presented himself before the 
 guests, and spake unto th'em, 
 saying : 
 
 17. Men, women and de- 
 mocrats ! Ye that have ears 
 hearken unto my voice, and 
 heed the wisdom of my loyal 
 words. 
 
 18. Who so eminently 
 qualified to sit at the head of 
 the feast, as the great Bolog- 
 na Chief, M'hose history jq 
 have this day listened unto. 
 
 19. A Chief whose head 
 is silvered o'er with the bi- 
 
 ting frosts of Democracy, 
 and whose aged limbs totter 
 with the weight of the Kin"-'s 
 favors : 
 
 20. A mighty Chief who 
 knows no kindred, save those 
 who worship at the shrine of 
 power, and sell themselves 
 for a mess of spoils: 
 
 21. A Chief, at the men- 
 tion of Avhose name, the elder 
 dogs refuse to bark, and the 
 little puppies subdue their 
 whine : 
 
 22. A Chief whom God 
 has given just sense enough to 
 be a Democrat, and to trem- 
 ble at the frown of the King : 
 
 23. A Chief high in favor 
 with the king, and who is even 
 now journeying unto the land 
 of Minnesota, to rule over 
 one of the land oflices of that 
 people, and who is to receive 
 therefor the sum of nine 
 thousand dollars annually of 
 the revenue thereof. 
 
 24. Again spake Matthew 
 the Irritable unto the assem- 
 bled guests, saying : 
 
 _ 25. This i^*' Mat the Mar- 
 tin, a Stipendary in the pay 
 of the Treasury Department 
 iii the land of Washington. 
 Though small in stature, he 
 is yet mighty in the cause of 
 the King : 
 
 26. As a child, fit the 
 breast of his maternal parent, 
 he sucked in Democracy, and 
 from the day he was weaned 
 unto the reign of James the 
 
•^i) 
 
 THK HOOK OF OriBOXTf'T.ES. 
 
 Second, he has been u sucker 
 at the public teat, and like 
 Oliver Twist, his cry is still 
 for 'Mnore!" 
 
 27. And the guests at the 
 Consul's feast murmured, one 
 to the other, for they came 
 not to hear these sayings of 
 Matthew the Irritable, but to 
 partake of the good things 
 prepared by the Consul, and 
 to drink of the famous wine 
 of the land of France. 
 
 28. Now, among the rev- 
 ellers, was Saiiord the Sena- 
 tor, from the land of Ross, 
 whose brain had been work- 
 ing, and the Chieftains of 
 the land of Knox were fear- 
 ful that, unless he were per- 
 mitted to deliver himself, he 
 would go straightvv'ay ainl 
 do something desperate. 
 
 29. And they took com- 
 ]\assion upon his bowels, and 
 led him to the side of the Bo- 
 logna Chief: 
 
 30. And for the space of 
 two hours his voice was heard 
 rumbling through the Ban- 
 queting Hall, like unto the 
 noise of an army afflicted 
 with tlie summer complaint. 
 
 31. Again spake Matthew 
 the Irritable unto the Bolo- 
 gna Chief, saying: 
 
 32. There is an old back- 
 wood's axiom, that this was 
 a very good frolic, but a long 
 lime between drams ! 
 
 33. Then the guests arose 
 tii tluMr feet, .".nd took their 
 
 places around the festal board, 
 and the vintage of the land 
 of France was in great de- 
 mand, and the guest became 
 merry, and they reeled to and 
 fro, as men maddened with 
 the rectified spirit of corn. 
 
 34. And the tongues of 
 the Hard Sock Chief, the Old 
 War Horse, Baldwin the 
 Renegade, Belden tlije Prose- 
 cutor, and Lecky the Harper, 
 became as the tongues of the 
 possessed, and inundated the 
 guests with a diarrhoia of 
 words. 
 
 35. And Safl'ord the Sen 
 ator became as one escaped 
 from the Lunatic Asylum, 
 and exclaimed, with the voice 
 of a maniac : 
 
 36. "Save me, Sam I or 
 I perish!" and ho fell into 
 the arms of the Old War 
 Horse as dead. 
 
 37. Now, among the guests, 
 were a number of tlie youths 
 of the land, styling themselves 
 '* Young America," and they 
 made themselves merry with 
 the sayings and doings of the 
 wavering Chieftains. 
 
 38. And Matthew the Ir- 
 ritable waxed wroth at the 
 gibes of Young America, and 
 he commanded them to leave 
 his presence. 
 
 39. But, having paid their 
 assessment at the gate, the}' 
 heeded not his conimand.^, 
 but tarried in their midst. 
 
 40. And the hands of 
 
tut: book of CHRONlfLES. 
 
 21 
 
 Matthew became incensed iit 
 the words of Young America, 
 and the iingers thereof chisp- 
 ed the thorax of the young 
 Chieftain Brown, amf Wil- 
 liam the Master of the Posts, 
 caught tlie raiment of Mat- 
 thew by the hinder part there- 
 of. 
 
 41. And great was the 
 commotion thereat, for the 
 3^oung Chieftain Brown was 
 a slight youth of some seven- 
 teen summers, and the guests 
 trembled, lest, perad venture, 
 he suffer violence at the hands 
 of his incensed enemies. 
 
 42. And the muscles pass- 
 ing through the arms of Mat- 
 thew, were seen to expand 
 and contract, as though they 
 were of gutta perclia. 
 
 43. And in a voice hoarse 
 with passion, he vociferated : 
 
 44. " You infamous scoun- 
 drel ! I have known you for 
 twenty years ! and you have 
 always opposed the Democra- 
 tic party I" 
 
 45. And the clarion voice 
 of the Chieftain Brook, of the 
 House of Terry, rang through 
 the Hall: "Young Ameri- 
 ca ! to the rescue !" 
 
 46. Likewise the voice of 
 Prentiss the Sp}'-, was heard, 
 saying: "Ho! ye followers 
 of the King ! to the rescue of 
 our Irritable Chief!" 
 
 47. But the counsels of the 
 more prudent prevailed, and 
 the belligerent forces with- 
 
 drew from the well fought 
 held, and pitched their tents 
 for the night within sight of 
 the camp-lircs of the enemy. 
 
 48. ^N'ow, fearing the tur- 
 bulent spirits of the followers 
 of the King, 
 
 49. John the Consul, Mat- 
 thew the Irritable, William 
 the would-be Congressman, 
 William the Beamite, and 
 Samuel the Israelite, had is- 
 sued their written commands 
 unto 
 
 50. Kolin the Judge, Mc- 
 Clelland the Commissioner, 
 Warden the Merchant, Nor- 
 ton the Old War Horse of 
 Whiggery, and to Huntsber- 
 ry the Tinner, all mighty 
 Chiefs in the, ranks of the 
 Black Eepublicans, 
 
 51. And likewise unto Jo- 
 seph the Law3 er. the puissi- 
 ant Chief of the undivided 
 Yance force, 
 
 52. Commanding them to 
 bo present at the festival of 
 the Chief Consul, hoping, 
 thereby, from their respected 
 and well known virtues, to 
 keep in subjection the warlike 
 proclivities of the followers 
 of the King. 
 
 53. But the Chieftains of 
 the Black Kepublican forces, 
 and the Chief of the Yance 
 party, hearkened not unto 
 their commands, saying : 
 
 54." " Let them alone ! — 
 They whom the G-ods wish to 
 tlestrovthev first make mad." 
 
•?«> 
 
 TIIK BOOK OF CHR0NTCLF.9. 
 
 (" H A P T E R X - 
 
 MONG the Chieftains 
 who had declared for 
 the King, were Ed- 
 ward the Witless, and 
 Samuel the Israelite. 
 But the assembling to- 
 gether of the people of the 
 land of Knox, on the sixth 
 day of the month of March, 
 in the second _year of the reign 
 of James the Second, caused 
 them to falter in the course 
 they were pursuing. 
 
 3. And Edward journeyed 
 to the North, even unto the 
 land around and about the 
 deep waters of the Lakes. 
 
 4. And he tarried among 
 hfs friends until after the as- 
 sembling together of the peo- 
 ple on the tiftecnth day of the 
 month of March, and he came 
 not near the forces of the 
 King, nor unto the Banquet 
 prepared by the Chief Consul. 
 
 5. But Samuel the Israel-' 
 ite journeyed not away, but 
 tarried in the land of Knox ; 
 
 6. And on the thorough- 
 fares leading to the Cit}^ of 
 Vernon, he advocated the 
 cause of the King, but at the 
 hour of battle he came not 
 forth, nor was his presence 
 noted at the Banquet of John 
 the Chief Consul. 
 
 7. And the friends of the 
 King marvelled greatly one 
 to the other, saying : 
 
 8. What inean-^ this 1 Is 
 Samuel the Israelite aping the 
 Pughing Senator from th» 
 land of Ohio, in advocating 
 by speech the cause of the 
 King, and then giving aid 
 and comfort to the cause of 
 the Little Giant, by refusing 
 to eat at the Chief Consuls 
 table ? 
 
 9. Is it his desire to fill 
 the seat in the Councils of the 
 Nation, now occupied by thr' 
 Burning Chieftain of the land 
 of Coshocton ? 
 
 10. Or has he Vis eye fix- 
 ed uj)on the far otf port of 
 Marseilles in the land of sun- 
 ny France ? 
 
 11. Now, this division 
 among the people Democra- 
 tic, sorely vexed the Israel - 
 itish Chieftain, 
 
 12. And he compared it 
 like unto a monkey climbing 
 a pole, and exposing his west- 
 ern extremities to the gaze of 
 an applauding people, saying: 
 
 13. Although the face De- 
 mocratic has brass enough in 
 its composition to imitate the 
 monkey, yet let us not uncov- 
 er ourselves before the Blacii 
 Eepublicans, for they already 
 see enough of our nakedness, 
 to mantle our cheeks with 
 the blush of shame I 
 
 l-i. Now, therefore, being 
 a Chieftain of great cunning. 
 
THE BOOK or CURONIOLES. ^^ 
 
 Samuel kept aloof from all pie, hoping, thereby, to pre- 
 these gatheringij of the peo- serve a spotless reGord. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 M O N G all 
 
 the Chief- 
 tains in the 
 land of Knox 
 there are 
 more faithful 
 to the cause of the 
 King, than Abel the 
 Reader of the Con- 
 gressional Globe. 
 
 2. Now, Abel is 
 both a wise and a 
 good Chief, for dur- 
 ing the days allot- 
 ted to labor, he dil- 
 igently studies his 
 Bible, and on the 
 seventh day he rests 
 from his toil, and 
 communes w i t h 
 the teachings of the 
 Globe, and is ex- 
 ceedingly refi'eshed 
 thereby. 
 
 3. *^And he abides not 
 the presence of those taint(3d 
 with the slime of the Know 
 Nothing dens, but shunes 
 them as a pestilence. 
 
 4. Even the Sanctuary of 
 the Most High, soothes not his 
 resentment against them, but 
 in his wrath he Pilchers from 
 under the droppings of th(^ 
 Gospel, at the sound of lli^' 
 V(.)ice (>i" a Lumauile- 
 
 5. And the heart of Ab^^ 
 taught him to shun the Ban- 
 quet of the Chief Consul, as 
 a place lit only for the ungod- 
 ly, and all its guests he fer- 
 vently consigned to the land 
 of Gehenna. 
 
 6. And he came not unto 
 Ihe Banquet, but on the g(^- 
 incif down of the sun, he re- 
 tired iiiitM hi.^ Castle, and 
 .-Icpt tlip slopp of the robf^r. 
 
24 
 
 Tili; iVHJK or CHRONICLES. 
 
 C H \ V T E ii XII. 
 
 .N the first day of tliu 
 month of April in 
 the second year of the 
 reign of James the 
 Second, news came to 
 fh^ people of the land of 
 Knox, that the forces under 
 the King in the land of 
 Washington, had been dis- 
 comfitted, and that the Chief- 
 tain Lecompton h a d 11 e d 
 from his 
 post, leav- 
 i n g his 
 dead un- 
 bur i e^d , 
 and Sis 
 wounded 
 in the 
 hands of the Little Giant. 
 
 2. Now, these tidings 
 struck the hearts of the fol- 
 lowers of the King in the 
 land of Knox with dismay, 
 for the King had sworn in 
 his wrath that in sixty days 
 Lecompton should triumph, 
 or he would die ! 
 
 3. And Eli the Miller, 
 Matthew the Irritable, Wil- 
 liam the would-be Congress- 
 man, and the other Chief- 
 tains in the land of Knox 
 who were friendly to the 
 King, bowed them tlieniscl vcs 
 down, and wept, refusing to 
 be comforted, for they were 
 f^orely grieved i\t the fear of 
 the iving".'^ death, for they 
 
 placed great confidence in 
 his word. 
 
 4. 13iit on the second day 
 of the month of April, the 
 spirits of Matthew revived, 
 and he coJiverscd with his 
 friends, saying : 
 
 5. Prophecied I not these 
 things unto you ? This de- 
 feat of the King for several 
 days have I expected and 
 looked for ! 
 
 6. And the people were 
 amazed at his sayings, for the 
 "oldest inhabitant" remem- 
 bered not his proi")hccy. 
 
 7. But William the would- 
 be Congressman, abided not 
 the smiles of the friends of 
 the Little Giant, but fled from 
 their presence, and taking his 
 fishing line and rod, and a 
 box of worms, cast himself 
 down on the banks of the Ko~ 
 kosing and bobbed for eels. 
 
THE BOOK OF CKRONICLES. 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ►HROITGHOUT t h e 
 land of Washington 
 the groans of those 
 wounded in the battle 
 ^ between the followers 
 ufthe King and of the Little 
 
 Giant, mingled with the \;ia- 
 cry of the victors. 
 
 2. And the King becanie 
 exceedingly alarmed, lest, pv i-. 
 adventure, he ehould fall iiiu> 
 the hands of his enein.i(!s, 
 
 :^, r">r'-*^x*'* ^^ap-..'!: %, 
 
 3. xVnd to the East, and 
 to the "West, and to the North, 
 and to the South, he sent 
 f(>rtli Messengers to gather in 
 his forces, and to buy up with 
 the gold of office, or with 
 Majestic smiles, the luke- 
 warm, and the timid. 
 
 4. For the King, though 
 defeated, had resolved " nev- 
 er to say die !" 
 
 5. To the sordid lie prom- 
 ised coinage of gold and sil- 
 ver ; to the eyes of the ambi- 
 tious, ho presented visions of 
 ottices of honor and profit : 
 
 C- And unto the vain and 
 the proud lie spread forth 
 '•ostly and fine raiment, and 
 
 clothed them in garments t<> 
 appear in the presence of tlie 
 King. 
 
 7. Among the Chieftains 
 in the Councils of tlie Nation, 
 was the Burning Chieftain 
 from the land of Ohio. 
 
 H. Now, this Chieftain )iad 
 Itft his Castle in the land of 
 Coshocton, to take his seat 
 Y/ith the Law-makers in tlu' 
 land of Washington, a bold 
 and nois}' follower of the Lit- 
 tle Giant, and had vaantinglv 
 declared that before his prow- 
 ess, the mighty Locompioa 
 should flee as though pui'sued 
 by an army witb i3anners. 
 
 y. An he journoytd L^ 
 
26 
 
 THB Ii<X>K OF CHRONICLBS. 
 
 nursod his wrath, so much 
 imieed, that his face became 
 terrible to look upon. 
 
 10. And while passing a 
 place known in history as 
 Mason and Dixon's line, la- 
 boring under an hallucination 
 of the brain, that his foe was 
 within his grasp, 
 
 11. So mighty were his 
 efforts to destroy his adversa- 
 ry, that he tore his shirt, 
 
 12. And the heart of the 
 Shirtless Chieftain wilted at 
 this calamity, and he fled to 
 the bosom of the King as a 
 place of refuge for the naked. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IGH in the favor of the 
 Little Giant stood 
 the Lilliputian Chief 
 from the land of 
 i^ Ohio, familiarly call- 
 'by h* friends the " Great 
 Old Sunset," but by his fond 
 parents baptised Samuel Sul- 
 livan 
 
 2. So mighty was he in 
 his onslaugh upon the King 
 and his followers, that the 
 people were amazed, for they 
 dreamed not so much valor 
 was contoined in so small a 
 space. 
 
 8. And the praiae of hii 
 deeds sounded sweetly to the 
 ear, and his heart waa made 
 glad thereat, 
 
 4. But at the praise of the 
 Sunset Chief the King trem- 
 bled as in the presence of a 
 goblin, and he became as one 
 bereft of reason, for in all 
 the ranks of the rebels were 
 there none so much to be 
 feared as this geminatioua 
 Chieftain. 
 
 5. For he boldly rushed 
 into places where others fear- 
 ed to tread. 
 
 6. Now, to appeaae the 
 wrath of this Chieftain, the 
 King commanded his Cour- 
 tiers to go forth and to reason 
 with him. 
 
 7. And the Courtiers of 
 the King did as they were 
 commanded, and the legs of 
 the Sun-down Chief tottered, 
 and he fell po*trate, so pow- 
 erful was the effect of an En- 
 glish bribe. 
 
 8. And the litttle Giant 
 
THB BOOK OF CHBONlOliBS. 
 
 and his followers were aa 
 dumb-founded, for they look- 
 ed not for this desertion on 
 the part of one who had pro- 
 phecied that sooner than de- 
 sert the cause of the people, 
 
 9. All the Hickory trees so 
 majesticly flourishing thro'- 
 out the forests of the mighty 
 "We«t, should be eradicated 
 by the roots, 
 
 10. And their dead bodies 
 erected into a funereal pyre, 
 upbn which to immolate hin 
 vaulting ambition. 
 
 11. Now, when the tidings 
 of the deowertion of the Sun- 
 
 down Chief reached the ears 
 of the people dwelling in th-i 
 City of Columbus, 
 
 12. They stood aghast, and 
 would not be convinced thai, 
 this thing had came to pasft. 
 
 13. And they ^ent unto 
 him word commanding hitn 
 to appear in their profcenco, 
 and show cause why he h&d 
 done this foul thing. 
 
 14. And he hastened unto 
 the City and appeared before 
 them, and rendered an ac- 
 count of his stewardship. 
 
 16. But the wrath of the 
 people would not be appealed, 
 and they drove him from 
 their presence amid tauuis 
 and gibes for his faithlessness. 
 
 16. And the crejstfallen 
 Chief made great speed back 
 to the King, and reprcsenttKl 
 unto him 
 
 17. That throughout tbe 
 length and breadth of his 
 District, there prevailed a 
 terrible epidemic, threatening 
 the King and ail his follow- 
 ers with the fate of the Syrian 
 cohorts, but more ei^peoirJlj 
 unto him the lat* gl^orioiis 
 Sunset Chief. 
 
THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 CHAPTEB XV. 
 
 :0W, when the King 
 had gathered togeth- 
 er the sti'agglers, and 
 secured to his cause 
 _ _ the weak and the vi- 
 hratory, 
 
 • ,2. He caused the com- 
 mand to be given along the 
 iline, that on the morrow he 
 4siiould move his forces, and 
 ^Lve battle unto the enemy, 
 
 o. And on the morning of 
 the thirtieth day of the month 
 ')f April in the second year 
 '.n his reign, the forces of the 
 Xing encountered the forces 
 '>f the Little Giant, and drove 
 them from the field with 
 great slaughter. 
 
 4. And the joy of the 
 King thereat was exceeding- 
 ly great, for his strength was 
 nearly spent, and had his for- 
 ces, been repulsed, the King 
 would have died. 
 
 5. At his defeat the Little 
 lijriant manfully stood his 
 ground, but his forces were 
 utterly prostrated and de- 
 stroyed. 
 
 ■6, Now, when the tidings 
 ef ' the triumph of the King 
 reached th^ land of Knox, 
 great was the rejoicing of the 
 loyalists thereat, and they 
 were seen to smile at the ag- 
 ony of tlie "dilapidated." 
 
 7. But the friends of tlui 
 Little Giant hid themselves 
 in the hedges and ditches by 
 the way side for the space of 
 three days, for they were in 
 sore tribulation, and knew 
 not where to flee for consola- 
 tion. 
 
 8. But the friends of tlio 
 King took compassion upon 
 them, promising to go snookt* 
 in the plunder of the Govern - 
 ment, and they sought the 
 shelter of the Democratic 
 Hive, and entering dwelt 
 thoroiu. 
 
 
 ^iri 
 
 t 
 
THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 29 
 
 V 9. Thus exemplifying tiio 
 Kiying of the great NuUifler, 
 ^nhat the Democratic party 
 can only be held together by 
 the cohesive power of public 
 plunder." 
 
 10. And the thirtieth day 
 of the month of April in the 
 second year of the reign of 
 James the Second, is now re- 
 corded in the pages of history, 
 
 11. AS THE B L x\ C K 
 FRIDAY! 
 
 12. The 
 King hav- 
 ing thus 
 successful- 
 \y' termin- 
 ated his 
 crusade a- 
 gainst his 
 dilapidat- 
 
 ed or Yellow licpublicau fees. 
 turned his attention to the 
 subjugation of the aumerou.s 
 wives (having none of his 
 own) of the settlers on the 
 far distant plains of Utah 1 
 
 CHxiPTEK XVI. 
 
 pected 
 
 :OVi, the vascillating 
 coui*se of Lecky the 
 Harper during the 
 early part of the war, 
 caused him to be sus- 
 both by the followers 
 
 of the King and of the Little 
 
 Giant. 
 
 2. And arrangements were 
 made by both forces, to dance 
 to the music of a new organ, 
 should the Harper tune his 
 lyre to sing the praise of eith- 
 er party. 
 
 3. And when, on the fif- 
 teenth day of the month of 
 March, he squatted on the 
 side of the King, 
 
 4. William the Gastonito. 
 James the Keeper of the Iron 
 Hoi^o, Jacob of the House 
 of Ly Brand, and other ful- 
 lowers of the Littio Giant, 
 
 o. Sent their command^■; 
 unto the City of Brotherly 
 Love, 
 
 6. Ordering forthwith to 
 be sent unto them the press, 
 types, and other apparatus, 
 necessary for printing their 
 commands to the people to 
 sustain the cause of the Little 
 Giant. 
 
 7. And the charge thereof 
 was given unto Eaguet the 
 Spouter, and Agnew the Tall. 
 
 8. And unto William tho 
 Gastonite, and to Charles the 
 Scribner, Avere delegated the 
 command of the ordnance 
 department. 
 
 9. And on the twenty-se- 
 cond day of the month of 
 April in the second year of 
 the reign of James the IBe» 
 eond, 
 
£0 
 
 THJB BOOR Of CHRONICUiS. 
 
 10. Tho Mt. Vernon Na. 
 tional was cast adrift upon 
 the waters, to be buifetted 
 from point to point by the 
 winda and agitated waves of 
 the political ocean. 
 
 11. Now, Kaguet the Va- 
 pory Spouter, flew from one 
 JBlack Republican to another, 
 
 12. Appealing to their 
 prejudices against Lecky the 
 Harper, and praying them to 
 countenance the cause of the 
 lattle Giant, by rendering 
 unto the National "material 
 aid and comfort ;" 
 
 13. Promising to make 
 it discourse such music as 
 would make their hearts to 
 leap with exceeding great 
 joy. 
 
 14. And the Black Ro- 
 publicans hearkened unto his 
 specious words, and gracious- 
 ly smiled upon his efforts. 
 
 16. And they courageous- 
 ly stepped forth and placed 
 their names upon his books 
 to a number almost fabulous. 
 
 16. But alas 1 the words 
 of the Spouter was as mist, 
 and his promises as chaff, to 
 Tsnish at a zypher's breath. 
 
 17. Illustrating the fable 
 of the Frozen Serpent so 
 touchingly portrayed by the 
 inspired pen of Esop, the 
 renowned Historian, 
 
 18. Which stung to death 
 the boeom whose warmth had 
 gfrea it life. 
 
 1^ J"o¥ lh«5 ^xM of ftwir- 
 
 teen days, the National waa 
 faithful to the cause of the 
 Little Giant, and boldly va- 
 pored in the presence of the 
 King. 
 
 20. But after the defeat 
 of the Little Giant on the 
 fatal Black Friday, the Na- 
 tional spiked its guns, and 
 went over to the side of the 
 King: 
 
 21. And is now battling 
 shoulder to shoulder widi 
 Lecky the Harper, and vain- 
 ly striving to supplant the 
 Banner in the affections of 
 the King and of his followers 
 in the land of Knox. 
 
 22. Now, for some time 
 past, the mind of William the 
 Gastonite, had been exercised 
 as to what he should liken 
 Lecompton 1 
 
 23. At times it was like a 
 Camel ! then again an Ele- 
 phant I then a Whale I but 
 his mind finally became fix- 
 ed that it was a Weasel I 
 
 24. Now, to ease the trou- 
 bled mind of the j>erplexed 
 Chieftain, 
 
 25. James the Keeper of 
 the Iron Horse, 
 
 20. Dispatched a «pe«cial 
 Freight Train, numeroualy 
 manned by the hardy 6ona of 
 the Emerald Isle, 
 
 27. To discover wid oap- 
 ture a Weasel, to convijw>e 
 the Chieftain that L<>ooiBp'>on 
 V83 not ft M-vfJiev 
 
TBH BOOK. OF OHRONICIJCB. 
 
 81 
 
 28. And the Freight Train 
 departed on its mission, 
 
 29. And after a long and 
 perilouB journey, the sons of 
 St. Patrick discovered, and, 
 aft^r a sharp conflict, captur- 
 ed, two specimens of animal- 
 culse, designated by Natural- 
 ists as Weasels ! 
 
 80. And placing them se- 
 curely within an old nail keg, 
 the explorers returned to the 
 City of Yernon, amid the 
 noise and smoke of an exas- 
 perated Buli-gine. 
 
 81. And in triumph the 
 
 Keeper of the Iron Horse 
 sent unto the Caatle of the 
 Gastonite, the imprisoned an- 
 imals. 
 
 82. And the eyes of the 
 Gastonite opened, and he be- 
 came convinced, 
 
 33. That Lecompton waa 
 not a "Weasel I 
 
 34. And now, in all the 
 land, Lecompton has not a 
 more devoted follower, than 
 Gaston the Weasel Chief, late 
 principal fugleman for the 
 Little Giant in the land of 
 Knox. 
 
 CHPTER XVII. 
 
 PON the desertion of 
 the cause of the Little 
 Giant by the Nation- 
 al, Lecky the Harper 
 became sorely alarm- 
 
 2. For the prospects are 
 ftiir, that he will be unhorsed, 
 and the'trident as Democratic 
 music grinder, depart from 
 him forever: 
 
 3, For Mich b the edict 
 
 promulgated by Raguet the 
 Spouter, that the mission of 
 the National was to lower the 
 Banner, and number it am- 
 ong the things that were. 
 
 4. And Lecky joumeved 
 unto the King, and hum\>ly 
 presaing his claims, asked 
 a reward for his services m 
 advocate for the loyal cause. 
 
 6. And the King's heart 
 ftoflened, for hia wrath had 
 
d^ 
 
 THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
 
 wrixod liot against the Harper, 
 for his serpentine movemeTits 
 in the cause of Lecompton. 
 
 6. And the King issued 
 jiis commands to the (Secreta- 
 ry of the Navy, to give unto 
 Lecky the advertisements of 
 ■that Department, 
 
 7. That in case of collision 
 witli the National, the Ban- 
 tier might give it " Tar." 
 
 B. And the heart of'lJie 
 Harper \Yas made glad, and 
 hi-s feet kept time to the music 
 ^>|i.the bag;^ 
 
 ast^nisliment at the extrava- 
 gant folly of the King, in 
 paying ' so much for so little.' 
 
 %;- But when he appeared 
 before the Secretary, and 
 })resen ted unto him the cojjn- 
 mands of the King, 
 
 10. The mouth of that 
 functionary [^flew ojicn with 
 
 11. And Lecky the Har- 
 dier returned to his Ca&tle in 
 the land of Knox, greatly 
 ))eneiitted by his sojourn with 
 the King. 
 
 12. And now the Nation- 
 al and the Banner are vicing 
 '■me with the other to print 
 the liardest "cock and bull " 
 ?tory against the Black Ke- 
 publiean Chief, Cochran, 
 
 - iS, :. For sanctioning l:)y 
 "law, in the land of Ohio, the 
 commingling of the l>lood of 
 the white with the black. 
 
 14. And advocating them- 
 selves the same thing in the 
 licentious South, without the 
 sanction of law, or the reve- 
 lation of the gospel. 
 
 15. Thus >ndth the Isl 
 Book of Chronicles, of James 
 the Second ! ' '"* 
 
 9 
 U