PS 635 2>*= .29 \f2-^^^ M282 copyi ROWN BESSIE Drama in Jour vlrts. By F. E. ware. KEW YORK: JOHN F. TROW & SON, PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERS, 209 East Twelfth Street. 1874. BROWN BESSIE Diania in loiiv 2lcts. By F. E. WAliE. NEW YOllK: JOHN F. TROW & SON, PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERSfcffi?: 209 East Twelfth Street. BKOWN BESS IE. 3 J^ A Drama in Four Acts, r \$ PERSONS REPKKSBNTED. OPCAT; .\L:\rA. — litisi; ujkI lovev of Mercy Wilde. R.VriA'I'OIJ.— (,'(,ij(lur1or (if opera. 1'11()MA8 'I'KiJIJRI.N'liTON. — English geiitleiiian, aged seventy. SIR Wli.LIA.M AVl'M/roN.— Kr.sflisli gentleman, aged fiftv. LiiDYAKD ^I'H0R]ITNGT0N.— Nephew and heir to Tlionias. JACK HINTONj — Companion to Ledyard. ■J)I';AC0N WILDl-:.— Supposed i'athor to Mercy— fanner. J(lll\ JJUCEMAN.— I'arnier, father to Brown Bessie. SIAJF, LI-'/PHRiUdE.— Boston rough— Captain of Kniglits of tlie Red Crescent. MAXWICIJ.— r.arlceeper, ) l)i:XVll,LE LOWBURY, VK'nishts of the Order of tlic Red Crescent. RAB WE'J'}ri',RBB. ) T;n()\\'X T.J'.SSIE. — A chilli of creat vocal powers. JIEltOV VVIBDE.- Village beauty. jAlADAM BAllATOLI.— Mother of the conductor. JIADAM EiLVA.— Jealous Prima Donna. PAULINE.— Niece of Baratoli. RACHEL SNOW.— Country gossiji. MR. JOHN STITAVKLL.— Enurlish gent. MRS. ELIZA STILWELL.— AVife of the above. OLD MEN, VILLAGERS, &c. COSTUMES. OSCAR ALMA.— (o) Hnnting-snit of green: straw hat. 2d. Gentleman's suit of black. 3d. Einb"d blue cloak, trunk.s. and white vest. SEIGNIOR BARATOLI.— (8) Dressiug-gown and slippers. 2d. Suit, cmb'd green cloak, white vest, and trunks. 3d. Ocutleuian"s .suit of black. THOMAS THORlMNfiTON.— (1 ) Gentleman's travelling -suit. LEDYARD THORRINGTON.— (2) Gent's travelling suit. 2d. Suit of black. SIR WM. AYELTON.— (3) Gent's travelling suit. 2d. Suit of black. 3d. Enib'd crimson cloak, trunks, and white vest. JACK HINTON.— (21 1st. Travelling suit of brown. 2d. Suit in black. DEACON WILDE.— (2) 1st. Farmer'.s suit of blue : broad, white colhir and .straw hat. 2d. Suit in black. JOHN DIKEMAN.— 1. Fanner's suit of blue. WILL LITTLKFtEId).— 1. F^irmer's suit of blue. MARK KENDIilCK.— 1. Earuier's suit of blue. SIME LETlIRHHrE.- 1. (icntlcniau's suit of black. Rcgnlia of (he Knights of the Red Crescent, a scarlet scarf thrown across the left slioulder j'astened with a silver crescent on the shoulder ; a silver star on left breast. JIAXM'ELL. — 1. Farmers suit, scarlet scarf and crescent. DIONVILLE LOWBURY'. — 1. Farmer's fuit, Kcarlet scarf and crescent. RAB Wl'/l'HERBE. — 1 Farmer's suit, scarlet scarf and crescent. mi;,. JOHN STUAVELL.— (2) 1st. Cient's suit of black. 2d. Page's suit of blue. UROWN BESSIE.— (•)) Country dress of faded calico, hat and shawL 2d. Dress of crimson emb'd in goid. 3d. Travelling suit in black, straw bonnet, and shawl. 4th. Wiite satin cr silk sjiangled with silver. MERCY WILDE.— 1st. White dress and pink ribbons. 2d. Travelling suit. 3d. Pink dress cmb"d in silver. '1th. Rich white silk, diamond ornaments. MAD\JM BARATOLI.— Black velvet, studded with silver poiiit-Iace. 2d. Suit tiavelliug dress in black, bonnet and shawl. MADA M ELVA.— 1st. Suit blue silk, iilain. 2d. Suit orange silk, emb'd in silver. PAULINE. — Ist. Suit piu-ple silk, plain. 2d. Scarlet satin or silk, emlVd in gold. R.VCHEL SNOW. — 1st. Gingham di-ess. white apron and cap. INIRS. WILDE. — Plain bhu^k dress, white apron and cap. ilRS. SI ILWELL. — 1st. Suit morning robe in pink. 2d. Black lace, starred with i.ilver. I'RfJPERTIES.— Apples- a pack of cards— a turkey- 2 bottles of brandj'— 2 pis- tols — 2 lantenis — a bracelet — books — a scaffold with rope — a pocket Bible — dinner- horn — cradle — mug of cider — glasses — dusting-brush — rope^ — packing boxe.s— picture.s — easel — 2 jewel-case.s — jewels, etc. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year IST-l, by L. D. SHEARS, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. TT l« r> «-« *» /% /■> -7 C A O BEOWN BESSIE. ACT I; Scene I. — ^1 Forest in 3TasgachuscUs. Enters BuowN Bessie, lolth honnet in hand. JDessie. Isn't it deliglitfnl, tlio', to run off by one's se^f in tiie cool, quiet wood — and not a soul near to scold or find fault. Oh, if I had oiily l)een Eve, though, with all this wide world to myself, I reckon Avhen ]Mr. Adam came around to })op the question he'd have got the mitten — that he would. [ioo/is 7i]> in the trees.^ How happy the dear birds are, singing so liieriily. I can sing too, and they all like to hear me. [^Sin(/s. Enter Alma iinperceived, listens. Alma. Hilloa ! my Jittle songster, who in the name of all that is wonderful are you ? JBessie. \JMoking frightened.^ Oh, J'm only Brown Bessie ; that's all. Alma. '[Taking her ha,nd.~\ And that's considerable, according to my way of thinking. But who taught you to sing '? JUessie. The blue ])irds and the robins up yonder ; they like to hear me. Alma. So do I ; and so will all the world if you will but give them the opportunity. Oh, if Seignior Bai-atoli had such a voice to cultivate, he would astonish the world. 4 BROWN BESSIE. [Act I. JJessie. And wlio is this Baratoli ? Alma. The world-renowned tenor ! Have you never lieard of him, my little girl ? Jjessie. Never, sir ! I hear nothing but cross words and threats, and taunts of my own ugliness, from Jiiorning till night ; except when I run away into tlie Avood, as I have done to-day. Then when I get here in the cool refreshing shade and hear the soft nuisic of the stream and the sweet songs of the birds as they warble in concert for me, I for- get my troubles for an hour and warble with them. Oh dear ! I wish 1 could always live right here in the wild wood, no more dishes to wash, no scrubbing, no house- work, but rest and song the whole day long. Alma. [Af^'uh.^ Here is a treasure for some one. I've half a mind to take her myself; but alas! what can a poor penniless artist do towards maintaining and educating a little wildliug like this ? To liessie. I say, little songstress, if you will coax your friends to take you to New York, and ]>ut you under the instruction of Seignior Baratoli, you will soon iind yourself famous. Jjessie. Oh, that would be delightful. But then — papa will never let me go; and S.dly — she beats me if I open my mouth. Alma. And who the deuce is Sally? Jjessie. Oh, she's my handsome sister. Alma. I'd like to catch her nasusiug you, my little bird-charmer ; come ! sit down, and let me make a sketch of you. [Draios a book and j:>encil from Ids 2'>ocket. Jjessie. Oh, no ; that might not^ be light ; and whether right or wrong, I sliall be sure to get a beating if it is known. [^1 voice calls JJessie.^ Oh dear, that is Sally ! Let me go ! Alma. What a virago she must be, to inspire you with such fear ; here is my address. [ Gives her a card. ] Tliink over what I have told you ; then if yon desire to place yourself under the care of my friend, apply to me at once, and I will assist you. liessie. I am very gratefid, sir. [yj. voice calls Jjessie.] Oh dear ! if that isn't papa. Bun, sir, }»leasc run ; or I shall be beaten. Scene 11.] BROWN BESSIE. 5 Alma. Farewell then, little bird-charmer. [Asiut don't think I can make it cornenient. IFt'//. Aren't sot agin sich things as quiltin' ])ees and apple [)arin's and the like, just because you've jined the church, are you V Merc>/. No, Will ! IVilL Maybe yovi don't like it because I took Sail Dikcnnan out to Baymount last ±th July ? 3Iercy. On the contrary, I was ])leased with it — hope yoii'U favor her with your compaiiy again. WW. Not by a darned sigiit. The fact of tlie business is, I came down here, Mercy, to ax you ; but taking the ])ercussion to peep through the window before rap})in', who should 1 see but a tall, dandified, chap sittin' so con- cerned close to you, a jtibbering away and casting sheep's eyes so mighty often at you, that 1 curlapsed, I did, and in mighty short order tu. JMiTci/. Oh, that was onlv Cousin J(v.'. WM. Maybe; but it looked like j»ui-ty darudl warm cousening to me ; 1 s'poso you wouldn't have gone if l'(.l spunked uj) and asked you V jLercjf. No ! Will. Sure you don't feel hurt, nor nolhin', at my askin' Sail ? 3lerci/, No, no ! not in the least. Will. Fact is, Mercy, every fellow in town is in love S BROWN BESSIE. [Act I. with you up tu the very l^riui, and you know it tu ; if yovi du look so down-kind-uv-cast, but tlicre aren't one in the whole posse of 'cui that loves you as I du. Mercy. Indeed ? ^Vill. No indeed ! When I see you a comin' intu meetin', a lookiu' so modest like, with them pink ril)l)ins a Ihitterin' about your ]ti]d<^er cheeks, I feel just iis if you was a Ijig hunk of maple sugar, and I could swallow you at one gob. [ Opens his niouth. J^Iercy. Y'Tumpi-'ty hock a ^>«c'e or two.] Oh, don't, Will! Will. I love you well enough to eat you up, but I'm not a'goin' tu du it yet, so don't be scared. You see, Mercy, our folks want me to get manled and take the farm; so 1^ reckon it will suit them if we manage to hitch bosses 'bout Christnuis. [Chucks her tinder the chin.] Wliat do you say to that? 3Iercy. [lUsiiK/ -iiiifh diyuity.] I sav no, sir ! Will. No? ■ Ifercy. No ! \ \Vill piickers up liis face awl makes a doleful at- tempt to cry as lie sees Mercy start for liome. Will. I say, Mercy, it's too bad for yoii to go trottin' oti' in this kind of style when I come over on piirpose to tell you- Mercy. Wliy, Will, I thought you came over on })ur- pose to bring me golden sweets. Will. And I know of some gals as would consider me a golden sweet. Mercy. Indeed ! Will. Yes, indeed ; now you just wait and hear the nub of the story, Mercy, and I reckon you'll change your inind, Mercy. No, W^ill, not if your story has forty nubs. Will. \Puckers up) Ids face.] Boo, boo, boo! Mercy. \Aside?^ Poor foolish fellow! I'm truly sorry for him, but there is no help for it. \fWcdlcs off a few paces, turns.] I say. Will ! Will. yPeeriny oat from under his arm, aside.] She'll have me yet, I'll bet a grist of dad's best wheat. [ Walks lip to Mercy.] What is it, Mercy, darling; you see I'm a poor heart-broken critter — boo ! boo ! boo ! 8CERE III. J BROWN BESSIE. 1> Jfrrc)/. \^Ext ending Iter Jtand.^ I only wanted to say we liad bcttcT part friouds. Will. \^2\(king Iter haiijl and exmnining it cv rioii sly .~^ Yes, Mercy, it's jest what I'd like. Maybe yon'll pop down to tlie (piilting with nie, if it's oidy to let folks know I haven't got the mitten ! Mercy. Well, 1 will go with you just for once; but you mustn't come bothering me again with your invitations. Will. Mercy, you'ie right down clever ! \^xiside?\ By Jui)iter! I'll get her vet ! Mercy. Good-day, Will ! Will. 'Si)ect I must say good-by if yo\i'rc bent on goin'. I shall be on hand bright and early for the quilting, so be ready in season. \Exil hoth. Scene III. — Draioing-room In residence q^f Deacon Wilde. Mercy engaged hi scioing. Enter Mrs. Wilde, all in ajiurry. ]\frs. W. Sakes alive, Mercy, there's somebody coming up the lane. J declare I can't imagine who it is ! Do get u[) and see if you know him. [^1 ra]).] There! goodness me ; if he hasn't ra})p'd ! and here I am in my soiled apron and rum})led cap ! Do, Mercy, child, go and open the door while I iix up. [Jlercy 02>ens the door, loldle Mrs. Wilde, at the extremity of the room, smooths lier apron and cap, and adjusts her glasses. Enter Alma. Mercy bows and' offers a chair. 3frs. W. Yes, sit down, do. Alma. Thank yon ; I am most hap})y to avail myself of yoiir kind ofiei'. Mercy. \Aside.^ What eyes ! W licit hair / 3f7-s. TV. You look fatigued, sir ; have you travelled far ? Ahna. No, madam ; I am sto})ping at present in your village ; being by profession an artist I wish to sketch some of the tine views hereabouts, bvit I find poor accom- modations at the hotel. 3Irs. W. INIaxwell keeps a miserable place, that is true. Enter Eaciiel Snow; looks inc/ulsitively at the arlist. 1" 10 BROWN BESSIE. [Act I. Uachel. Good moniiu', Miss Wildo; good mornin', Mercy ! I didn't know you'd got a nian here, or I wouldn't have come in. Mrs. W. Wliy, Rachel, I thought that was what brought yon over. Machel. I reckon you've took to judgin' others by your- self. 'S[)ect you're goin' to have your pictures painted, bein' you've got the artist here. Mrs. W. Law me ! aren't you the very one that's been paintin' the 'squire's picture ? Alma. Yes, ma'am ; the same. \^As'imething to do — that young lady's i)ortrait, for instance. \^Pointi)ig to Mercy. Mrs. TK That's the very subject Justice and I was talking over last night. Says I to the deacon, says I, " You're getting old, and there'll never Ije a better time for you to have your picture painted." You see we'd been over tu Squire Kcndrick's examining theirs. " That's all true enough, and I want yours," says he. " Then there's Mercy, just as handsome as a picture, and we shall both want hers," says 1. " Yes, and she will want both of ours," says he ; so you see you'll be likely to get a fair job- that is, if you're reasonable. Alma. You shall set your own price, ma'am. 3Irs. ^V. Then it's a bargain, and you may move your tools over right away. Jiachel. [7ossiny her /lead, ^isldc.^ There's other folks Scene IV. j BROWN BESSIE. 1 1 ill tlie village, I reckon, besides the Wildes. [ To Mrs. IVilde.^ I 'spect there won't be any chance for any one else to get pictures, now yon are going into it by the wholesale. 3frs. M^. That's as you and this gentleman can agree. Alma, [^-iside.j Heaven protect me if I have her }>hiz to ])aint. To Mrtt. W. I will hasten my retuiii, that I may com- mence immediately on your portraits. [A low hoio to Mercy. Exit Alvta, Jiachel ISnow follow'mrc2) are for a dance. Will. C'nnn', wlio's for tlie (laiicc V \(\tf.<:hes Merey, ivuif Ivajlis her init\ form, for JDaul^U poUaC All except Itaehel aral old man dance. liachel. [ Tossing lier head as she goes to tJte old. nutn.^ Ah, liowmy heart aches to see these young peo[)le indulge ill such frivolous auuiseuionts. Old man. Heart aches because you didn't get aslced to join, Ivachel. Hachel. It's no such a thing. Do you s'pose I'd dance? I, a member of the clnu'ch ! No. There's Mercy Wilde settin' a poor example to the world's peojde ; but, thank heaven, it ain't me. Old. man. Yes, that Mercy's a likely gal, as was her mother before her ; a master pretty girl was Maggie ; cut you out with Justice too, Rachel, but you mustn't hold a grudge against her, for that's worse than dancing. Jiachel. [Aside.l^ Must that be ever thrown in my face ? Never, never will i forgive her ! [ 7b ohlinan.\ You for- get, dadda, I never would have married Justice Wilde ; no, no more than I would join in the sinful pleasure of dancing to-night. 3Iercy. [To Will Litth field.] The lynx eyes of Eachel Snow are following me. No doubt she will go to Parson Beverly with a high sounding tale of my frivolity. W^ill. Never fear, Kachel — I'll fix her ; trust me for that. [ Will ivalhs lij:) to liachel. [Aside.] Deuce take the ugly old mischief-maker. [7h lictchel.] I say, Eachel, give lue your hand for the next dance V liachel. My dear William, I feel more like weeping than dancing. Don't you feel— Will. Yes, amazingly like joining in this quadrille. Dancing is a healthy recreation, ai)})roved of by the Church. [ Catches her vxdst and goes ivhirling oj/' in a waltz with her. Jiachel. Why, William, my dear William, you're crazy. Will. Not I. I always said you were built for a dancer. Aunt Eachel, isn't this glorious fun, now ? [Teads Jiachel to the old man and joins Mercy. Will. Let her prate now if she ])lease>s. Scene IV. J BROWN BE!>SIE. l-> Marry. I :iiu inul(:i- great obligations to you, Will, for extricating nie from that nn}>leasant dilemnia. WilL [.l.svi/^. I She's coming around, «uro as preachiu\ ril get tli(; handsome critter yet ! \l;^xit all hut Rachel and Mill. llachtl. Yon hnovv^, Vrilliam, that T feel a great inter- est in von, don't yon, d'jar ? Will. :is that so V Jlacliel. Yes, a very great interest in you ! Mill. You're a clever critter, liachel ! liacltd. I feel a very great interest indeed in you ; and I think if yoix would just leave olf running around after that Mercy Wilde, and look up some good smart girl, that would make you a good wife. Will. I shall never marry Mercy Wilde, Eachel, for a very good reason. Jidchel. I'm glad to hear you say that. Will ; it sounds like coming to your senses. There are a plenty of good, snl)stantial girls that would marry a good-lookin', well-to- do chap like you ; in fact, I may say I know of one, Will. You're joking, liacliel, I know. Jiacliel. Not a bit, AVilliam, dear. Mill. \^Aside, rolling his eyes.] W^illiam, dear! Lord, hel]) me ! Ixachel. I know you deserve a kirid, affectionate wife ; and it e'enamost breaks my heart to see you so alone. I — I — know of one, but I suppose it wouldn't be pro})er for a young woman — Mill. yAside, f aiming himself vjitli Ills ]iat.\ Young woman ! By Jemima ! I sliall faint after that ! liacliel. Like me to speak out in plain words. V/ill. [TiOoki)ig frigldened.J Lord, save us ! Perhajis it wouldn't. liachel. \JEdgin.g toioards Mill, vjJio edges off .] Dear William ! Can't you think of somebody you know who would make a loving, affectionate wife? You can, I know ! There's a dear man. ^^Pats him tivdcr the clii'ii. Mill. What kind of looking critter is she 'i Jiacliel. She looks like — like — oh, I can't, William. Mm. Then don't ! liachel. [ Tliowing larsclf in his ctrjns.] It's me, Wil- liam. I'i BROWN BESSIE. [Act 1. IVill. [Push tar/ Iter aivat/.] Get ont ! Get out ! [Bxit Will. liachel. The uiigratefxil wi-etcli ! But tluit'sju.st the way with all the men. I am resolved after this never to marry — never, never ! In blessed singleness I'll pass my days ! S;JENE v. — Hooin in J~olin Dlhemaii's cottage. — 3Irs. Dikeman sits rocking a cradle, has a hfthy in her arms. itTohn JJlkeman occujyies the opposite side of the room y two or three farm-boys around the table, on xohich is a tnug of cider. tTohii. At the age of twenty-one, hoys, 1 rnn in debt for this 'ere farm, and I married Miss Dikeman, there, for I ex})ected she'd tnrn in and helj) mc pay for it. 1 can't say but what she did well enough foi' a year or tv/o ; but after that she began to run behind. Now we've been married eighteen year, coming this January, and she's had twelve children, a thing I didn't expect of hei-; but then she never did consider, \13ahy cries. \ Yon jist stop that youngern's mouth, will you. Miss Dikeman ? [^JJrinks from the mug.] Folks used to say my wife was the smartest woman in town ; but I haven't seen much of it late years, and a mighty disapjtintment it's been to me, too ; but what can you exjject of a woman that never consideis. \^_Bahy cries.'] Miss Dikeman, do you want me to tell you agin to stop that youngern's mouth ? \^J]oth babies cry. 3Trs. Dikeiaan seizes the baby in Vie cradle and rushes out of the room.] I've told her often ejiough slie must have quiet children ; but she will persist in having the noisiest youngerns in town, just to have her own way I s'pose. \I)rinks. Exit hoys. Clock strikes eleven.] Eleven o'clock ! I declare ; high time we were all of us in bed ; I hope Miss Dikeman'll have sense enough not to let that youngerii squall all night and keep me awake. \_Exit tfohn. Eater Bessie with hat and shawl on, and bundle in her ha ad. Hessie. All gone at last, leaving the way clear for me; Poor mamma ! how pale and worn she looked as 1 passed her door ! Oh, that 1 could take her with me, far away Scene I.] BROWN BESSIE. 15 from the tyrant who dishonors the name of husband and father. But it cannot be ; innocent little ones need her care, if, in thus It'aving liome, 1 am doing wrong, may Heaven forgive. It is impossible for me to remain here longer and live. The blows of a fatlier, tlie taunts and insults of a sister, I can bear no longer. The words of the kind stranger whom I met in the wood have awakened in my heart a desire to be something more than a menial. Yes ; I will seek for the great Baratoli. Though I have lost the address of the young man who promised me aid, I will not despair, neither do I go out into the wide world alone. A kind, protecting Providence is still over me to guard, guide, aiul cheer me on my lonely pilgrimage. Farewell, parents, brothers, sisters all. 'I'hough 1 tind an humbler shelter, may I be blessed with more love. ACT IT. Scene I. — A dark cave lit by torches. — 7 aide in the centre, vnik bottles, glasses, and cards. — Jfaxwell, Letli- ridge, and Wetherbe sit round the table. Wetherbe. [Shu(fihii/ the cards.] Which shall it be, boys, euchre or seven upV Letliridye. Neither! I'm disgusted with three-hand games. Denville Lowbury is ripe for gathering, and he m\ist be brought in, boys. Wetlierbe. His love for Mercy Wilde has soft-soddered him, Lethridge. I tell you he is not tit for our kind of work. Lethridge. Not a bit of it. I've had expcriencj in that line myself. He'll come out all right. Wetherbe. And so have I, captain, to my sorrow ! Poor Annie. If she had listened to me I might have been — l)ut — heigh-ho ! [Turns out a glass of brandy ; drinks.] 'Twon't do to moralize. Letlu-ldge. Annie is yours, this night, if you say so, Wetherbe! Wetherbe. Pray, explain, most worthy captain of the Red ! 1 () BROWN BESSIE. [Act II. I^ethridge. Old Daniel Hart ami Lis Mifo have gone ten miles away to a canip-mectiiig, leaving Annie alone to guard the premises and take care of kei' su})erannuated grandpapa. Never were bolt or bar brought in use to guard the door to Daniel Hart''s cottage. Pull the bobbin and the latch will fly up. Wetherhe. Ah, you do not know her sjiirit. She will resist, scream in true woman fashion, and rouse the old man. Let]iri(l(/e. Gabriel's trump would scarcely rouse him ; lie's as deaf as an adder ; and as to resistance, 1 think my strength, with yours, will be all-suflicient. Wetherhe. But where shall I put her ? Letlvridge. A cage is already pre[)arod in the cavern adjoiuiug this. Annie is not the fii'st fair one who has found a resting-place there. The deacon's daughter may ere long come to keep her company, provided Lowbury throws the bait right. Wetlierhe. How? Explain yourself. Letlirulge. The girl will mitten Lowbury for the hand- some artist. Alma ; and in his desperation Lowbury will come to me, as he has often done before, for sym])athv ; I can easily draw him into our charmed circle by promis- ing to snare his dove. 'Wetherhe. Ah! I see, 1 see; let's diink to his health. [.-[// drink. Letltrldge. And tluit is not all I intend to accomplish. I have a grudge against the })ious old deacon to feed, and in no way can I wound him so sorely as to kidnap his handsome daughter. [^-1 noise outside y torches extin- f/idslied y tuhle^ men, cImIvs, and all disa/f^j^ear through Jioor. Sl'Exe TI. — A7-ti>e with 'pipe in his moutli, unjjer- ceived. Alma Jdsses Mehcy. Deacon Wilde. Thej'e, there, Alma, guess that'll do. I vow, if 1 don't Ijelieve you're better at kissing the gals than painting portraits ! Alma. Excuse nie, sir, but I was going to speak to you about your daughter. I — t*liat is— to say Deacon W. Ha, ha, ha ! Yes, I understand just liow that is — been the.re myself— stuttered and stannnered worse than you do, too ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Alma. i)o you give your consent ? May I hope? Beacon W. I rather like your spirit, young man, but there's one hitch in tlie machine. You are not a Christian — that is to say, of our sort. Alma. But I'll unite with your church. Deacon W. Not so fast ;. we want the genuine article- that is to say, the Simon pure— when we have a Christian. Now, I dare say, you don't even know the creed you'ie so readv to subscribe to. IS BROWN BESSIE. [Act II. Alma. But Mercy can teach it to me, and V\\ swear to believe every word. Deacon JV. Swearin' is against the rules of the church — -don't allow it, no iiow. [ 7t> Jferc)/.^ I s'jiose Massa, you've been just silly enough to fall in love with this fellow, and if I don't say yes to his suit, you'll break your lieart over it. JMercij. I'm afraid 1 shall. Deacon W. I s'pose your going to make a six months' journey to London with them pictures of yours. Alma. Yes, sir; and 1 want the assurance of your ap- probation before I leave. Your constrnt to ovir luiion — however distant the happy day — will help to make my journey al)road endural)le. Deacon Tl\ \^IL(iidinarcel. Horn sov!nds third time. Drops parcel, gives Mercy a despera.te hug. I^tage-driver and Deacon Wilde appear in the door?^ Deacon. Come, come, young man, passengers grum- bling' outside. St'ENE III. J BROWN BESSIE. 19 Alma. Yes, sir, ready in just one minute. \^Iyisses Jferri/ cujalii. Exit all. Enter Mrs. Wilde. Attempts to put thhujs to rlglUs. Goes to (lie toirulow and calls. Justice ! I say, Justice, you coine in here and help me move this big box. A pretty looking place this for a S2)are chaiuber, and coiu[)any coining to-night. Enter Deacon Wilde. Deacon. Well, Maggie, he's off at last, and I s'pose Massa'll spend the rest of the day in cryiug. J\Trs. Tl\ Yea, I s'pose so. Well, In; is a nice kind of a chap is Mr. Alma ; at first I didn't like all that brush around his mouth, but I don't mind it so much now. Deacon W. Don't you think, jMaggie, that we ought to tell her just how she came to us, and all about it ? Airs. TFi Deary me ! Justice, are you crazy ? Tell her ? No, it would be the death of her,- indeed it would ! Dearoii ~\Y. It's been on my mind for a long time, and it troubles uie, Maggie ! Surely, she is old enough now to be told what we kuow. ]\[rs. TFi She never need to know anything about it. It can do her no good. Justice ; not the least ; so please keep your tongue in your mouth. [^Exlt both. Scene III. — ATeio ^\>rl\ — Dra.ir'u((j-'roo)n in Itonse of Daratoli. Enter Br;ssiE, unth h that I could see the stranger who fiist mentioned his name to me ; I would fall at his feet and bless him. Though a servant, a menial, there is affection for me liei-e ; even the high-boiii Madaui looks kindly on me, and Baratoli is 20 BROWN BESSIE. [Act II. pleaKunt :uk1 cniu'teons to all. But I must to my pi'ac- ticp ; lia ! tliey little dream Brown Bessie's fingers sweep the prarl keys of the i grand piano. It may be wrong, but I can't resist the temptation. [/Sits down and exe- cutes a simple air. While she is playhuj the door softly ojyens, and J3aratoli enters in dressing-yoicn and slipj'i'^rs. As Jie.ssie concludes ih", song lie adtKinres. Jiaratoli. My sweet warbler, pray tell me who you are 9 Jiessie. Forgive, oh, forgiAe me, sir. [^ittempts to kneel at Ids feet ; he raises her and takes her hand. Jiaratoli. Don't be frightened, child. Praj^ tell me who you are, and where you learned to sing so sweetly. Hessie. Oh, sir, I came from the country, far away. I was taught to sing by the birds of the forest ; I used often to run away fi'om home to the wood — for my father did not love me— and I would sometimes sing for hours with only the birrds to listen. One day a huntsman passing by chanced to hear my voice, and he told me of you ; s ) I started from home alone to find 3'ou. But I thought, on reaching this great, noisy city, I should never be able to make you out ; and when I did at last reach your mansion I was frightened by the splendor about me. I trembled when I beheld you, and T dared not make my wishes known ; so I became a servant here, that I might feast my soul with the music of your voice. JBaratoli. And what is your name ? Jiessie. Brown Bessie ; they said they gave me that name because I was so brown and ugly. Jiaratoli. Ugly, with those large, hazel eyes? You. are splendid, Bessie; henceforth you are my pupil. Your untaught melody has instructed me. Ji!nter Madam Bakatoli, Elva, and Pauline. Welcome, friends ; by remaining at home I have found a prodigy ; now 1 can show you what 1 mean by natuial execution. [J^ooks of envy 2J(t'SS between Patdine and JiJlva. ] Sit down, child, and give us one of your simple melodies. [Jiessie sings. \ Jiaratoli. You see her style is easy, natural, and grace- ful ; if willing, we may all be taught of her ! [Leads Scene IV.] BROWN BESSIE. 21 .Bessie to his mother.'] To yoii, my clear inoilier, 1 consign her ; let her be provided with everything neces- sary for her comfort ; she is henceforth my pu}>il. JIadam. Come, darling ! I hope my son will not be disappointed in you. You have a fine voice, but it needs cultivation. Bessie. I'll try my best to succeed, indeed I will ! \_Exit Madam B., Baratoli, and Bessie. Pauline. A protegee, indeed ; another silly freak of my uncle's. Mva. Ay, well may you frown. She is desthied to supplant you, both in your uncle's purse and his afiec- tion. Paidine. And you in the heart of the ^.ublic and the love of Baratoli ! ha ! ha ! Look to your own laurels, my dear ! .Elva. [Clenching her huQids.] She shall not live to see tha.t day ! I will invoke the powers of Satan to destroy her ! Pauline. By my soul, Elva, you have a countenance fitted to do the devil's work. 1 wish you success ! JElva. And you a coward's heart ; not too good to wish evil, but too weak, too womanish to execute ! Pauline. Thanks ! We appreciate each other. Scene IV. — Zondon, 1850. — Picture gallery of the Crys- tal Palace. — Portraits of 3Iercy Wilde and Broivn Be".- slf,_ — Alma stands beside a jfoliceman, ivho fastens a placard, " Not for sale,'" on the Xfortrail of Mercy. Alma. There, that will do ! I think now we shall be less annoyed by purchasers. Enter Ledyard Thokrington and Jack IIinton, arm in arm, Jack jwinting to 2)ortrait (f Mercy. J'acL I sav, there's a beauty for you, Ledyard ! Ledyard. \Aside.\ Great Heavens, my cousin Con- stance. [To policeman?^ Who owns that painting? Police. That gentleman, over there, sir {'pointing to Alma] ; but hit's not for sale ! 22 BROWN BESSIE. [Act II. Xiedyard. By gay prince Hal, but I'll have it ! [.!(/- dresses Alma.'\ Is yoiider fine specimen from life, sir V Alma. It is ! J^eJycvrd. And the original, is she of English birth? Alma. No, sir, she is American ! Ledyard. May I ask Alma. I feel myself at liberty to say nothing farther, sir. [ Turns away.\ What surly dogs the English are ! Ltedyard. What unmannerly i)ups the Americans are ! Police. \Draicing Ledyard. aslde.^ Hi say, sir, what would you give to learn the whereabouts of yon lady in the frame ? Xiedyard. A five-pound note ! Police. Hit's ha bjirgnin. Step this way, sir ! Ledyard. Proceed, old cock, I'm listening. Police. Not till hi've seen the color of the chink ! Ledyard. Here, you rascal. [Drops a piece of gold in his hand'.] Now proceed, or I'll take the kinks out of you devilish qiiick ! Police. Her name is Mercy AVilde, the daughter of a yeoman living hin the town of Halderly, State of Massa- soit, continent hov Hamerica ! Ledyard. [Putting it down- in 'nicmora.ndura hoolc] Are you sure you're correct, old cock ? Police. Hi ad it from im as owns the pictui'e ! Old Gentleman enters^ and, walks toivards the picture. Jjedyard. By Jupiter ! if tlu'r(.' isn't uncle Tom, walk- ing stniighter than I've seen him these ten yeni-s. If he gets his eye on that picture I'm undone, or done up ! ( To police?^ I say, old chaj), you just hover around and hear what passes between my uncle and that dog of an artist. I'll ]>ay you well ! Police. Thanks, generous stranger; hime hall hat- tention ! J'ack. What 'pon earth is in the wind now, old boy ? At first I could scarcely get you into the picture-gallery at all, and now you are ready to give your fortime to possess the })ortrait of a country girl whom nobody knov/s or cares to know. Ljedyard. Listen, Jack, while I a tale unfold. You Scene IV. J BROWN BESSIE. 23 know my uncle Tom, there, o]ice had a daughter, Con- stance. tTack. 1 have lieard as mucli. Ledyard. Well, she made a runaway match with a })oor sca})egrace of a music-teacher named Ayelton. My uncle succeeded in se[>arating them, and carried my cousiii away to America'. 1 suppose the separation broke her heart, for slio died soon after giving birth to a daughter, and, as the story goes, the daughter died with her ; but tliat part of it 1 will swear is false : for yon jiicture is a regular Thorrington, as much like the jiortrait of my cousin Constance, that hangs in Eildon Hall, as though it was painted from it. My uncle will say the same. He will search for the original, anil if she is found, as the next heir, comes in ahead of me for my uncle's })roperty. tTack. A\\\ I see. But what can you do? Ledijard. But for that graceless scamp of an artist I would have had it out of my uncle's way. Now there is nothing for me to do but to watch his moves, and be be- fore him in whatever he vmdertakes. I've got the j)olice- man un the scent. You follow them uj), too. Jack, and hear what you can. [f/tyr/j sU'iis near TliDinas TltorruKj- ton and Alina. Thomas. It's like seeing lier again, my precious, pre- cious Constance ! Alma. Calm yourself, sir. The original cannot be your granddaughter. I know her parents well — plain country people, of American birth. Thomas. But I tell j^ou it is my Constance's child. That Thorrington face convinces me of it. You look in- credulous ; but listen, sir. [ had a daughter, only and well beloved. She married withoiit my knowledge. I, in my wrath, separated her from her husband, and took her to America, She died while I was absent from her; for, having fallen ill of fever in New York, my wife left her to the care of her luu'se, and came to attend upon me. She died, and we were told the infant died also, and was buried with her in a ipiiet country village in Massachu- setts. I did not go to ascertain the facts of the case, but returned, heart-broken, home to England. That picture causes me to doubt the death of the child. I cannot die, I cannot even rest, till I am satisfied. 24 BEOWN BESSIE. [Act II. Alma. I shiill soon return to America, and, if yon see fit to accompany me, will assist you as far as I am able in clearing up the mystery ; though I am satisfied you are wrong in your suppositions. Tlumas. Thanks for your generous ofljer. I shall avail myself of it. \^Aside.^ Oh, that I might find the daughter, and restore her to the place her mother once held in my heart ! On my knees would I ask forgiveness for the wrongs done her poor mother. [^:ki7 Tliomas. tTach. Yovi were right, Ledyard : he too sees a Thor- rington likeness, and is away with the artist on a wild- goose chase to Ameiica, as soon as the fair closes. Ijedyard. I miist be before him in this business. What say you to a trip across the Atlantic, Jack V ] must secure the damsel before he gets wind of her whereabouts. tfack. Just the thing for me, Ledyard : you know 1 am fond of adventure ; but if you succeed in securing the beauty, what will you do with her ? Ijedyard. Put her out of my good uncle's way, or per- haps the safest plan will be to marry her myself, if she is as liandsome as tlie cross-grained artist represents. Then I shall make sure of the fortune, whetlior any uncle will or no. tTach. Oood ! I'm in for it. When do we set out? Lcdytwd. As soon as I can make the governor shell out. Won't he blow though, when I go in for another hundred ! Come, let's be olf, now that the thing is settled. \Exit Jack and Ledyard. Alma [ 7'o Police )iiait.'\ That portrait must bear a remarkable likeness to the old gentleman's daughter, judging from his aj^jpearance. Police. A singular circ\xmstance, very. Alma. Perhaps he may be insane on the subject of his daughter's marriage, and so fancies the portrait like her. Police. Ili thought has much myself ; but has true has hi live, there's another struck dumb with the picture ! \^Point8 to Ay elf on, who, having cauyht a glim2'>se of the 2)ortrait, turns 2^(d^ (^nd, leans ayainst the wall for sup- 2)07-t.^ Hi say, hit beats the devil, hit does ! Ayelton. Yes, it is her face, her angel face, that I have been searching for years in vain ! Scene IV.] BROWN BESSIE. 25 Alma. [A]yproachhi(y.] Of whom are you speakin<^^ Axjelton. Of Cpnstauce, my wife ; pray, sir, tell me where I may find liei'. _ Alma. [Aside.] The same name. By Heaven, I be- gin to doubt my own senses ! Ayelton. Oh, sir; for seventeen years I have been separated from her. Have you no pity ? Alma. But this is a young lady, an American, scarce seventeen years of age ; so she cannot be the lost Con- stance whom you seek. [Aside.'] His mind must be wandering ! , Ayelton. Ti-ue, true, but it may be our child ; and I hear my Constance had a daughter, though I was never permitte(l to see her. But they told me both were dead ! Oh, sir ; if you have a heart akin to pity, pray tell me where she may be found ! Alma. She is tlie daughter of jdain American people. I came across her in my rambles for sketches of American scenery. Her surpassing loveliness atti-acted my eye, and I painted her portrait, little thinking it would create the sensation it has here. Ayelton. Do you know her parents ? Alma. Yes ; lionest country people ! Ayelton. Does she, this beauty, resemble them in looks or aj^pearance ? Alma. Not in the least ; in f\ict, there is quite a con- trast ! Ayelton. [Braining a lochet from Us hosomi\ Look you here. [Alma looks and starts at the likeness.] Oh ! you see the resemblance. _ Alma. Yes, they are surprisingly alike; but then such circumstances have happened before. Ayelton. [Leading Alma aside.] Listen to me for a few moments and I will give you a brief sketch of my life, I was poor! The parents of Constance were wealthy. We saw each other, loved, and were clandestinely married. The truth, liowevei', could not long be concealed. While absent in London pre|)aring a home for my bride, her parents left P]iigland, taking her forcibly with them. Irnagine my anguish — my desperation — on returning to Eildon Hall to find it closed, and no clue left by which I might find my wife. Two yeai-s I spent on the Conti- 26 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IL nent, searching in every town and liamlet for (jonstance, but in vain. At the end of that time I received news of the return of the Thoi'ringtons to England, I sought the stern parents and demanded my wife ; bu.t they told me that my wife and chikl had died abroad ; fartlier than this, I could elicit nothing ; even the privilege of weep- ing over their graves was denied me. Do you, can you wonder that I cursed Thomas Torrington to his face as the destroyer of my happiness ? Alma. He, too, has noticed the picture which so re- sembles your lost Constance. Ayelton. He ! lias he been here, and what did he say ? I chai'ge you, as you hope for happiness, to tell me the truth ! Alma. He confesses to having lost a daughter in America. The nurse in attendance represented that the child died also ; but it seems he was not a witness of the fact. He, like you, labors under the delusion that the child is living. He is to accompany me to America on my return, and ascertain the facts. Ayelton. But he shall not rob me of my child ! Is it not enough that he killed my wife '? Alma. Should the young lady prove his granddaugh- ter—a thing quite impossible in my opinion — he only proposes to restore her to her rights. Ayelton. She will not care for his rights. Thanks to a kind I'rovidence, I have now a fortune of my own, and through the magnanimity of our noble-liearted Queen, for a trilling service rendered the crown, I can claim a title superior to the Thorringtons. But my life, what has it been but one long, di'eary day of wi-etchedness ? To hud a daughter, grown to womanhood, the image of my C?on- stance, would indeed be as salve to my lacerated heart. Alma. [^Ilands him a card.\ That, sir, is the address of the young lady — the original of tlie portrait — with the route-you are to journey accurately noted. You can seek her, and learn the truth from her own lips. Ayelton. A thousand thaidvs, my kind friend ! You, too, think I may be successful ? Alma. ISTo, sir ; candidly, I cannot give yoii the slight- est encouragement to hope. You will perhaps be better satisfied to visit her humble home and converse with her parents. [^Exlt hoth. Scene v.] BROWN BESSIE. 27 Scene V. — Jfliisical lieJiearsal. — Madam Ml fit's House. — Dra/ioing-room. Enter Elva, Madam Baratoli, Pauline, Bessie, Seig- Nioii Baratoli, Musical Critics, Guests, djc. Pauline. \_Aside to Elva.] Have you spoken to Jones and Barton r' Elva. Yes; and the reporters for the daily papers. They have all promised to cut the performance dead in to-morrow's papers. Pauline. Good ! then the forward hussy will not get so much as an encore. Elva. Not she; they will treat her efforts with the most cutting sarcasm. But remember, Pauline, she must sleep in my liouse to-night. Help me to persuade her to remain. Do you understand '? Pauline. Ay, and wish you success in your diabolical scheme. [liaratoli leads Pessie to tJve front y site sings. Re- ceives entlmsiastic appla%{,se. Elva,. [^Isi'ie.] Curses, curses on them. So this is the way critics keep their word. This steels me to my pur- pose. This night she dies ! 3Iadain P. Hear child ; I congratulate you on your success ! Don't you see tlie seignior is in ecstasies. But you look pale, darling ! Pessie. Only a little tired, that is all ! Paraloli. Tliis exertion, after having attended the opera, is too much for your nervous temperament, dear Bessie. Let us go home at once ! Elva. Bather let her remain here and go quietly to bed. I will see her well attended. Paratoli. What say you, dear Bessie ? Pessie. As you please ; only I would not like to incon- venience Madam Elva. Elva. [Throwing her arm around her.] Wliat non- sense is this ? Come, good seignior, get you gone at once, tliat we damsels may retire, and refresh ourselves by rest for to-moiTOW night's great work. Paratoli. So, so, you drive us away ! Well,well ! Good- night, Bessie. [Madam P. kisses Pessie. 28 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. \^xit all except JBessie and Elva. Scene changes to hed-room. Elva. \Pointhig to a couch.^ There, dear Bessie, you wi]l find a resting-place for the night. May your sleep be sweet and your dreams pleasant. Good-night! [^IsicZe.] An eternal sleep be yours. Bessie. Good-night, dear Elva. [^Exit Elva.'] What a delightful thing it is to be a great singer, to be srire ! Such ajiplause ! But the most gratifying of all was to see the good seignior look so well pleased. Oh ! i never was so happy in all my life, I'm sure ! I must write to darling Mercy and tell her all about it; she will scarcely believe her senses ; and I shall be a prima donna at last. I fancy Madam Elva does not like me ; perhaps she thinks I may win laurels from her ; but I'm sure I have no wish to svip- plant her, and Pauline's brow was as dark as night. I tremble yet from the look she gave me. [ Goes to the win- dow ,' looks out.] Surely day is dawning and I have not had a wink of sleep. \ Throws herself on tlie couch. Elva approaches from outside, jnits her head cautiously through the vnndow. * Elva. Let her say her prayers, for her fate is sealed. {Exit. Jjessie. [S]y)-inging from the bed.] What a wicked child I have been, to be sure ; to go to bed without first thanking Heaven for my success. The angels whisjiered in my ear, reminding me of my neglect. {Kneels hy couch. A heavy weight falls, crushing the bed. .Bessie sp)rings to her feet, clasps her hands.] Saved, saved by my prayers, from a terrible death ! Yes, Heaven, that has already made me the recipient of countless mercies, will protect me still from the machinations of the wicked. ACT III. Scene I. — Forest and glen in Alderly, 3fassachusetts, near residence of Beacon Wilde. — tTack Jlinton and Ledyard Thorrington have arrived, with desiga of hidriapping Mercy. — Enter arin in arm. Ledyard. Deuce take me, Jack, if I don't give up horses, dogs — ay, and even cards — for the little vixen. Scene I.] BROWN BESSIE. 29 Tack. Have you seen her? Tjedi/ard. Yes, aud a splendid creatni-e she is ; can-ies a high head though. Yon ought to have seen the look of disdain the little gypsy gave me when I spoke to her. But what success have you met with? tTach. Well, I reconnoitred at the form ; got the old wo- man by the gills before she knew what I was up to ; and had the truth clean out of her in less time than I've been telling ye, Ledyard. Now, you don't say, Jack. J'ack. You just listen, and don't interrupt. You see I went in with my pack to sell goods, and very quietly asked tlie old woman for the girl Mercy, whom they had been kind enough to take and bring up. You ought to have seen the color come and go in her truthful face. She didn't attempt to deny my assertion ; owned up at once that the child was brought to their door in the night, and left in a basket on the steps ; that they had brought her up as their own, and no one — not even their neighbors — sxispected her of being a foundling. Ledyard. So far so good ; but have they no clue to the child's name or parentage ? tTach. None at all. There was nothing in the basket save a child's apparel and a few trinkets — so they have been able to learn nothing ; bvit I was in hopes to get a glimpse of her myself, as the old woman told me she had come to the glen. Ledyard. Good ; let us remain and watch, for she must pass this way. \^Secretc themselves. Jack. Hark ! I hear steps. \_Denville Lov)bury enters from one side as Mercy enters from the other. 3Iercy. Oh, Denville, is that you ? You look ti-oubled. I hope nothing has gone ill with you ! Denville. Alo'cy, I am despised and shunned. It is of no use for me to tiy to put on an air of respectability, for I meet with a cold shoulder from everybody. Mercy. You are greatly in error, Denville. You have but to think and act as a man to be considered such ! Denville. [AttemjHiny to take her hand, vMch shewith- draios.'l You, Mercy, and you alone can, if you will, bring me back to truth aud right. Mercy. I am willing to do all in my power for you, 30 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. Penville, but you must rely u])on Heaven and your- aelf. Denville. Will you marry me, Mercy? [^Graspinglier hand, Mercy. Please release me, sir; tliat is asking too mucli. Denville. \^Dropping her liand.^ Then I must sink lower, lower still. You, Mercy Wilde, hold the scales of my destiny. With you at my side, with your bright ex- ample to cheer me on in the right path, 1 might be hon- ored and respected. JSIercy. [^Shaking her 1 read. ~\ It can never be ! Denville. Then 1 am lost, lost, lost ! [Exit Denville. 3Iercy. Poor youth, you have my sympathy, my pray- ers, but not my love — no, no ; that is already given to an- other ! Enter Dea(;on Wilde. Deacon. I thought I should find you here, Mercy. Here is a letter from your ruxiaway friend, Bessie, I presume. It looks like her scribbling, and is post-marked New York ; but wait a bit before you read it, for I have something I wish to say to you. Come, sit down on this log and rest a bit. [^Doth sit doion. Mercy. What is it, dear papa ? [ Taking his hand.] Deacon. You see, I've got a kind of an idea in my head that I ought to tell you — should have made a clean breast of it before, but for Maggie ; she saj^s you'll take it to heart. 3£ercy. What is it, dearest papa ? Don't keej) me in this suspense, but tell me at once ! Deacon. It's a bit of a story, child ; so listen. Just seventeen 'years ago this very day, bright and early in the morning, Maggie and I were roused out of a sound sleep by a terrible clatter a,t the door. As soon as I could dress myself, and that warn't many minutes, I bounced out, and what should I find bixt a basket with a wee bit of a baby in it, and nobody to be seen. Mercy. Why, papa, whose child was it, do you thiuk ? Deacon. Oh, Mercy, that is the question Maggie and I have been asking ourselves every blessed day since. Scene I.] BROWN BESSIE. 31 Mi^irij. Oh, papa. ! you don't, uo, you can't mean — tliah '- Deacon. Yes, dearest Mercy, that bauy was yourself, and we have guarded your secret Avell ; so well tjiat not even one of our gossii)ing neiglibors knows l)ut you ai'e our own flesh and blood. J/erc//. I ut his arms around her.] Hold my pretty coz ! I'll assure you I'm doing what is for your future good ; you will soon thank me Mercy. Never, never sir ! Leave me, I command you ! Your presence here inspires me with contempt ! 38 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. Jjedyard. AVhafc will yo\i say, little one, when I tell you, vou are not tlie otl'spriiig of the jsimple-hearted Wilde^s ? Mercy. [^-Isit/e.] Can it be possible that he knows aught of my parentage ? [ To Thorrington^ What author- ity have you for saying that, sir ? Ledyard. The best evidence, my sweet Mercy, that the world can produce. You are my cousin, and as such I am willing to take you under my own protection, to raise you from the humble sphere in which you have so long lived to that in which I move ; in fact, I have resolved to make you my wife ! Mercy. An honorable way of declaring your intentions, sir. I beg you to understand, once for all, that I will sub- mit to a dungeon for life rather than become the wife of a villain ! Ledyard. When next we meet you will be in a better mood for wooing, miss ! [ Turns to leave. Mercy. Hold, sir ! You have said I was not the daugh- ter of Justice and Margaret Wilde. Before you leave I desire you to explain yourself. Ledyard. The pretty dear queens it well ! when in a better temper she shall know more ! \Exit., locking the door. Mercy rushes forward and attempts to open it, hut in vain ' sinks on her knees.~\ Just Heaven ! remember thy daughter in her sorrows ; and in mercy send thou a messenger to my relief ! \^Ilises, sees a key before her' j?icks it up.^ Wliat ! a skeleton key ! if it would release me ! \_Tries it in the door, ojyens it, hears steps, closes it and puts on a shawl and bonnet, listens, jyeeps o'at.~\ I will make the attempt; and now, Heaven gixide me ! \^Exit Mercy. Scene V. — Tlbc Green-room of the Opera. — Ttessie makes Iter debut as Prima JJonna. Enter Elva and Pauline. Paidine. After all your threats, the girl still lives ; ay, and bids fair to become the rage. Elva. Her days are numbered ! Pauline. You said the same at the rehearsal three weeks ago, and she not only lives, but thrives under the Scene V.J BROWN BESSIE. 39 teachings of my silly nncle. ITa ! ha ! to think of an old head like yours being set aside by a silly young wench. How did you relish the reception, my lady, and her encores 'i Why, Elva, the boards are fairly ringing yet ; don't you hear ? \Elva loalks back and forth toith a dis- tressed air. Bessie' s voice is Iteard siiKjiiig ; /q^plause, etc.] There, Elva, there ! don't you enjoy it? It is her closing act. What a round of ap})lause ! \I^/,va^ tears her hair ivith rage. Elva. [ Taking a hottle and glass from a cvpboaixL] She will be exhausted with her etforts. I will see that she gets a dose this time. Pauline. There, it is over ; I hear them coming. As I do not desire to be a witness, I will retire, wishing you success, however. You know the old adage, Elva : "The devil pipes luck to his own." \lilxit Pa,uline. Enter the Madam, leading Bessie, Bakatoli and critics following. Ma.dain P. Oh, Elva ! it was such a triumph ! What a jiity that your ])art took you off the stage just as she came in with the last solo. Oh, it was magnihcent, it was heavenly ! Elva. [Aside.] I a witness to her triumphs ? Never, never, never ! All shall be witness to another tragedy, in which she plays the first pai't. To Pessie. You are quite gone, I see. 1 know what a first appearance is. Why, you are about to faint ! Here, take some wine ; Pauline brought it for you. [JTtnids a glass to Pessie, tolio takes a. swallow. Pessie. But look at the seignior ; he, too, is over- worked ; excuse my having tasted, [Hands him the glass.] Do me the honoi-. Seignior P. Your lips, d(>ar child, have sweetened it. [Drinks.] Ah ! it is refreshing indeed. Elva. [Springing forward?^ Hold ! Baratoli, for the love of heaven, till I get Seignior P. Why do you look so agitated, Elva ? Madam P. [Aside?^ A little jealous ; don't you see ? The trium])h of our protegee affects her seriously. [ALuhxin Elva, throws the hottle of wine on ihefoor. 40 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. JElva. [yl.s/c/e.] The devirs work is clone. [Exit JElva. [JBaratoli staggers, turns pale, falls. JIadam. My son, are you ill ? i lelp ! help ! Itessie. The good seignior ! Oh ! my head. [Hessie is 7iea7' falling • is caught, and siipported by one of the critics ' the JSIadani kneels by her son, chafes his teonples y all is confusion. Madam. Oh, my son ! my son ! art thou dying ? Run for a physician ! Scene VI. — Liverpool. — Dravnng-room in the private residence of JSIr. and 3Irs. John Stilwell. — JSIercy asleep on the sofa, bonnet particdly off, leaving Iter fea- tures visible. Enter John Stilwell ariul his ivife. Eliza. [Looking at Jifercy.'\ I don't believe a word you say, John, about this young woman. She has too pretty a face to be tramping about the country in this style. tTolin. Very well, Eliza, turn her out of doors if you like ; only don't let the sin lay at my door if she starves in the street. But I must be off to meet Ayelton. You see I shall have to bring him by force if we get him here at all. Eliza. True, and it's time the company were assem- bling now. I say, John, are you sure that sleeping beauty isn't one of your London flames come down on the sly '? •Tohn. Eliza, for shame ! to suspect me of fanning a London flame ! especially here in Liverpool. Eliza. John, look me in the eye ! \jTohn looks steadily for a 7noment.^ Well, I shall have to believe you whether I will or no ! tTohn. [Kissing herJ\ Good-by, love ! Don't forget to dispose of your beauty there before the guests arrive, or it might make it awkward. Eliza,. [ Clapping her hands. ] A lucky thought strikes me, John. [ Gives him a heavy slap on the check. JTohn. [RiMing his cheek.^ Pray let the thought in- stead of yourself strike me next time ! Eliza. Won't she make a beautiful Morning to my Scene VI.] BTIOWN BESSIE. 41 Night? I declare thoKe golden curls look jiist like sun- rise ! [fSjtriiu/s to Mevcifs side ami shales Jar. ffn/in. Via exit before the explosion. [IlxU John. J-Jliza. Wake np, my dear ; wake up ! Mercy. [Looking toll Jly arownd.'] Where am I ? Oh, I liave been dreaming. I thought I was in my dear, quiet home, and my mother had come to waken me. [ Weejys. Eliza. There, there, dear child ! don't cry and spoil those fine eyes. My husband has told me your sad story, and I'm very sorry for yovi ; so soi'ry that I'm! going to make yon very happy while you stay with us ! Mercy. But if I could only go back to my fiiends in America. Eliza. And so you shall, in the next steamer that sails, which is in two weeks. My husband has a friend who is down from London to take passage, and he will put you under his care. In the meantime I expect you to be my guest, and as such you nn\st appear at my fancy-dress ball to-night. Mercy. If you will please excuse me Eliza. Not T, indeed! I appear as Night; you are just the one to take the opposite character of Aurora or Morn- ing; so come with me" to my dressing-room at once. Come ! we have no time to tarry. YPidls Mercy out. Exit both. Enter Mr. John Stil\yell and Sir William Ayelton. /Sir Wni. Though you may not be willing to confess it, you have made a great mistake in bringing me here, Stil- wcll. J^ohn. I trust not, Sir William ! Shake off your accus- tomed melancholy for once, and appear like a sane man. Sir Wm. Impossible ! my dear sir. The memory of my lost Constance has become, as it w-cre,_ a part of my existence ; and lately I have seen a portrait which prom- ises to afibrd me a clew to her last resting-place. lohn. Ay, and that accounts for your sudden journey to America. Sir Wm. Yes, I have tlie assurance that she died 42 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. there, and I liave anotlicr hope so visionary that I scarcely dare name it — that of finding a daughter. tTohn. And I have a hxdy hei'e, a true-born American, who bakes passage in tlie next steamer for New Yoi-k. Nay, don't scow], Sir William, she is beautiful as the hou- ris, and will make a most entertaining companion. Sir Wm. Don't ask it of me, Stilwell ; you know my aversion to the companionship of even a handsome lady. Enter 'EjIjVia^ folloioed by Mercy, in costume. J~o]in. Here she comes. There is no help for you. Sir William, so bear it like a man. \^Lea(h JEliza u]>.^ This dark-eyed beauty, in her starlit mantle, is Night, and this is Aurora, or JNIorning, alias the ])retty American. Sir Win. My Constance ! [Einhraces her. JSIercy is frightened y screams. tTolin. What the devil are j^ou doing '? I expected you to admire, not devour her ! \^Iieleascs Mercy. /Sir TFoi. It is she ! my child ! tlie daughter of my lost Constance ! Jiiiza. But she tells us she left parents in America — plain farmers, were they not? Mercy. They were my foster-parents. I had supposed them my real parents until the night I was so cruelly torn from their arms ; then my father disclosed tlie secret, that I was left when an infant at his door. tiiT Wtn. And was there no letter, no word to tell them of your jiarentage and name ? Mercy. No, sir ; nothing but mj' clothing and this bracelet and necklace. Sir Win. '[Examining hracelet.'\ Heaven be praised ! That bracelet T gave my Constance on her wedding-day. Inside, in small Roman characters, you'll find the name of Constance Ayelton. \Joli.n takes and examines it. itTolin. True, true! I congratulate you, Sii* William. Pray what do you think of my mistake in bringing you here? Sir Wni. I can never sufficiently thank you. JEliza. And now you will not have to make that dread voyage. Mercy. My dear foster-parents are sufliering untold agony at my absence. Scene VIL] BROWN BESSIE. 43 >S'i'r Wm. And there is a lone grave there that we must search out — the grave of my lost Constance. We will go, as was first intended, love ; for I see by your eyes you wish it. JEnter Chiests in doiiiinoes and fancy costumes. Eliza. Do not withdraw from the company, Sir William, I'm sure if you ever felt like dancing, it ought to be to-night. [ Gttests make their respects to Jolm and Eliza. Sets form for quadrille ; dance. Scene VII. — ^1 room in BaratoWs house. — Bessie ill on « couch. Enter Elva steaWdly. Bessie. Oh, I have bean ill so long. That terrible night when Elva seemed so like a demon and gave me the sickening wine- Elva. [Aside.~\ Sickening wine ! ha ! ha ! Curses, curses on her! {To Bessie.'] Look, you wretch, beggar; you who have dared to cross my path ; yon who thonght to sni)plant me in the love of Baratoli ; it was you who put the poison to his lips: ha! ha! take this consoling thought with you. Had you drunk the wine yourself you might have saved him. You killed him, not I ! Besde. Oh, cruel-hearted woman ! Would to licaven I had. I would die a thousand dea,ths to save my Baratoli one pang ; but too late, too lato ! Would that I coidd die too ! Elva. Dying would l)e too great a blessing for-^such as you: -Live ouj'^and sufi'er, ha ! ha! [Exit Elva. Enter Pauline. Bessie rises. Bessie. My good Pauline, will you not let me look upon the good Seignior's face once more ? Now that he is dead there can be no harm ; then I Avill go away and never trouble you again. BanUne. You will, ha ! You're getting really clever ; but if I mistake not you'll go without even a look at the seignior ! I'm mistress here now, so start yourself ! ^Throioshcra imrse.] There, take that and never let 44 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IV. me see your face again. [Jjessie ^;?fm?/'.'? a golden ctirlfjom his bosom.'] Behold this treasured curl ! her parting' gift. Worlds could not buy it from me now. [yJ/^ iv&p. 48 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IV. Scene II. — Court-ynrd in front of the jail. — Scaffold ivith rope. — Letliridge., ]\Iaxii!ell, ^Tarlc^ Kendrick, Will Littlefield, and villagers present. Df.nville Lowbury and. Rab Wetherbe enter .^ also Thomas Thorkington and Alma. Letliridgc. [ To Max. ] Wasn't the artist and tlie parson Avarinble-croned, tlio', when they found that their evidence woiddn't be admitted ? Max. It does beat the devil, though, whei'e that gal is. She may turn up yet ! Letliridge. She'll have to be on hand in less than five unn\ites if she expects to save the deacon's neck ! [ J9t^ffl- con enters slowly^ followed hy the sheriff.^ There he comes up to time. I'll tell you, Max, he's an old brick, the deacon is. \^iSteps tipon the scaffold. Will Littlefield. [ To Alma. ] O Lordy massa ! it's awfid, it is ! I du say, Mr. Alma, to hang an innocent man in this way ! Alma. I've sent a man Avith a petition to the governor for pardon. I hope he may arrive in time. [Xo ivhury disappears. Lethridge. He's going to die game, he is ; ha ! ha ! a speech ! Max. Do keep still, Ijethridge, let's hear what he says. Deacon Wilde. Although not guilty of the great and terrible crime charged upon me, and for which I am about to suffer, still, let not any misconstrue my reiterations of innocence into a desire to escape the i)unis]iment fixed by law upon me. 1 find no fault with the charge of the Judge or the vei'dict of the jury. They, doubtless, feel that in their decision they have obeyed the dictates of conscience in acceding to the demands of justice. I am not unhappy at the prospect of leaving this for a brighter, and more enduring home. If those who have part or lot in my arrest and trial have a clear conscience, then the mere matter of pushing me into heaven a few niontlis, weeks, or days sooner than I should otherwise go, will surely be no injustice to me ; and if in after years my innocence should be established, let not those who have been the unwilling instruments of my death render Scene It] BROWN BESSIE. 49 tlieiiiselves unhappy. If there is an offence, may Heaven forgive them, as I do now ! Sheriff, I am ready. [/Sherijf adjusts the cajy and rope, raises the ax: a cry among the crowd. Enter Den. Lowbury, with Mercy and Sir Wm. Ayelton. Denville. Hohl, hohl ! \^Mercy S2>rlngs upon the scaf- fold and clasps Deacon Wilde in her arms. Mercy. jNly papa, my dear ])apa ! To think you were so near death and I knew nothing of your danger ! Deacoii AYilde. My child, my chikl ! Jjethridge. What a devilish blunder ! Come, IMaxwell, I reckon we may as well make ourselves scarce. DenvUle. [ Graspdng Ijetliridge hy tlie collar.^ No, you don't, sir ! Come on, boys ! help me to hold him ! This is the rascal that had the deacon arrested, though he knew he was innocent ! He it was who caused the dead body of Annie Melbourn to be thrown into the creek, and then swore to its being that of Mercy Wilde, for the sake of getting; the deacon hving ! Will JLlttlefeld. Come on ! shall the gallows be cheated of its victim V I say come on ! \^Crotvd rush on Zjcthridge^arid attempt to put him on the scaffold. Deacon, l]llde. My friends, do not hurry a ])Oor sin- ful creature into eternity. Tf guilty, as you say, let the proi)er authorities arrest and give him a lawful trial, aiul may Heaven have mercy on him. [Dethridge is led aimy by slierijf. Mercy ^oalks cdong tvith Deacon Mllde. Alma. jMercy, my darling, have you no word for uie in all your joy ? ^Looks coldly o^n him. Mercy. I hope and trust you are happy, sir. [ To her father.^ Dear papa, this is the dear, kind ])arent who has been more than a father to me ; if you love him but half as much as 1 it will be sufHcieut. {^Deacon WUde and Sir IFilliaiti shake hands cordi'dly. Will IJfllcfdd. Bo! ho! ho! I never was so tickled in all my life! L wonder what I'm crying for. ^llma. lAside.l Alas, that cold, indifferent look ; that crmd stare ! Have her altered fortunes so changeil lier already ? Then farewell to all my hopes of happiness. 3 5(' BROWN BESSIE. fAcT IV. S(;ene III. — ])r(uniiioiii in tin' ('ott<(e that travelled about tlie country. liaratoU. Neither Elva's devilish plots nor Pauline's malice shall part us again ; never, never, Bessie. [ Winds his ((.rin ahout her, and Uessie lays her hand in his. Madam. You must be married at once ; come, Bessie, do you hear ? I have bought bridal robes, and a crown of diamonds, siich as befits the bride of Baratoli. JJaratoIi. Yes, my beloved. 1 am impatient to call you my own. l£Jxit jSir WiUiam JJaratoIi, Madam, liessie. Knter Alma, vnth his prize picture o/" Mercy. Alma. Pardon my venturing into your presence again, once-loved Mercy. Jferci/. l^isli/i'.] Once loved ! Alma. In my ilisintiu'ested afiection I forgot that to you title and wealtli had arisen, forming an inseparable barrier between us. The treasured 'portrait I return, feeling that I have no longer a light to keep it. Mercy. Oh, Oscar, if you loved me still ; but no, no ; you desire to be released ; 1 tliought, — I heard you were the husband of another, and that is why — why 1 Alma. [ ClasjHn(/ her in his arms.^ And vou love me still •? Enter Sir William Ayelton. Mercy. With my whole heart. >iSm' ^ViUiann. So ho ! so ho ! What is all this ? Mercy. Deai-est father, has not papa Wilde told you I was engaged to Mr. Alma before he left America for London '? /SirlVilliam. Not a lisp have I heard till now; I had my suspicions, however; but the very cool reception you gave Mr. Alma on your first meeting (piito lulled them. Mercy. A little misunderstanding, father, that is all. t^ir WdUam. [ To Alma?[ 1 can never lose my daughter, sir ; you understand '? Mercy. Perhaps you prefer gaining a sou, dear pa])a. Sir M^illiam. I clo, my child, ami you must make Mi-. Alma understand that, and sign the agreement. 52 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IV. Alma. Anything, everything, so I only secure the fair one ! S'b- William. And now,- dear Mercy, I present you with the jewels designed for your mother years ago. [J-^reseiUs her loith a casket. Ahiia. And I am entrusted with a casket from your grandfather, Thomas Thorrington. It contains the jewels that were your mother's before marriage : he begs you will accept theiu as a gift from hev- [ ^t* /SirlJ'^ill'iain.^ Is it too much. Sir William, to ask you to forgive and grant the old man an interview ? [His br-ow darkens and he paces thejioor. Mercy. [Aside to Alma.'] Bring him in. I cannot be hapj>y till they ai"e reconciled. [Exit Alma. tSir William. [\Taking Jeioels from the box, 2^ resented by Thomas.] Put them on, dear child ! there ; I could fancy it was herself before me, you are so very like her. [JEtiter Thomas, folloioed by Alma. TIio)iH(s. [7h tSir Mllliam.] Can you not find it in your heart to foi'give one who has sulfered nearly as much as yourself? AFercy. Dear father, let me be the link that binds your two hearts together. [Takes a hand of each. Enter Baratoli, leading Bessie ; the Madam, Mr. and Mbs. Wilde, Will Littlepield, Rachel Snow, and 2)rinc.ip(d characters. Merc;y leaves her father and grand- father, and joins hands with Alma, wlio stands beside Bessie a.nd Bakatoli in centre of the stage. WUl. [Aside.] Well, I guess I sha'n't get her after all. That confounded picture-painter is ahead of my time ? liochel. [Aside.] \ allers said I'd never marry youug. LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 015 793 080 1