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 OR, 
 
 SCENES m A eAMBiER'S LIFE. 
 
 For in the foulness of th' example, vice 
 Instructive holds a mirror to the g^ood. 
 
 Euripides. 
 
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 IJS" KIVB ^OTS 
 
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 cams ii fflise 
 
 OR, 
 
 JNES m A GAMBLER'S LIFE. 
 
 IlSr FIVE A.OTS. 
 
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 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873 , by 
 
 HENRY C. PEDDER, 
 In the OfHce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
CHARACTERS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Malcour 
 
 Mortimer. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 Beaumont 
 
 Franklin. 
 
 Arthur. 
 
 Udgar. 
 
 Hubert. 
 
 Gamblers. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 JEudora. 
 
 Spirit of Arthur'' s mother. 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Garden hy Moonlight. Arthur. 
 
 Arthur. What a world is this, that in the distribu- 
 tion of its wealth, it should dispense with such unequal 
 hand its benefits ? Ay, even that our brightest hopes 
 are oft defeated by the oppressive rule of poverty ; 
 while those more favored by capricious fortune's 
 smiles, move on to the attainment of their wishes. 
 
 But see, here comes the polar star of all ray hopes. 
 If she but give me the assurance of her love, then am 
 I satisfied. Possessed of this, I will defy the sordid 
 thoughts of this dull earth ; nor would I barter her 
 sweet love for all the gold and silver which this wide 
 world contains. 
 
 Enter Isabel. 
 
 Thrice welcome, gentle Isabel. Almost I had de- 
 spaired of you, and ray soul grew dark. Now it is 
 glorious sunrise in your presence, and I am myself 
 again. 
 
 Isabel. Too much you flatter me, my love. Far 
 better are you skilled in Cupid's arts than I supposed 
 you were. - 
 
 Arthur. Flattery, did you say ? Use not that 
 word. I like it not. To flatter and to fawn, may suit 
 the common herd who hide their faces in becoming 
 masks. But enough of this. I know, sweet one, that you 
 but jest. See, how the moon arrayed in all her fairest 
 robes, reminds us of those blissful nights, when, as 
 the fair Selene, she would seek the Latinian Mount 
 to kiss Endymion in his sleep. 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGBS. 
 
 Isabel. And by so doing-, invites us to the theme 
 of love, Is't not so ? 
 
 Arthur. Gentle angel, what else should it be ? 
 Was not the night, with all its poetry, intended as 
 the time when soul may meet with soul in sweet 
 response, and all things syllable the name of love ? 
 Indeed is not the night that gentle season of our lives, 
 when all things being enwrapt within a temporary 
 calm, we rise above the grovelling thoughts of earth 
 into a higher sphere of thought and sentiment ! 
 
 Isabel. Ah 1 me. 
 
 Arthur. Instead of smiles, do you but give me 
 sighs ? Tell me, Isabel, wherefore is this so ? 
 
 Isabel. Our fears are realized. This it is which 
 makes me sad. 
 
 Arthur. That we must part ? Is this your father's 
 will ? 
 
 Isabel. 'Tis even so. Your poverty is your crime j 
 this is enough for him. 
 
 Arthur. Think you he is firm in his resolve ? 
 
 Isabel. As firm as ever was the Medes and Per- 
 sians' law, which once being made, could know no 
 change. 
 
 Arthur. Can you not move him even by the sweet 
 pleading of your filial love ? 
 
 Isabel. Not even this avails me aught against his 
 resolution. No, not even did I have a thousand 
 tongues, and every tongue possess a daughter's 
 sweetest eloquence, would this suffice to change his 
 views. 
 
 Arthur. This being the case, then am I settled in 
 my course of action. This night we part ; this night 
 shall witness my departure for another field less cir- 
 cumscribed. This done. Excelsior shall be my motto ; 
 nor will I cease till I have won the laurels of success, 
 and thus made you mine. Say, say, sweet one ; a 
 few years hence should I return, will I still find you 
 true ? 
 
 Isabel. Have I so far withstood my father's anger 
 for your love, and yet you trust me not ? No, Arthur ; 
 be you where you may, I will be always as the laith- 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 7 
 
 ful sun-flower, turning to the sun. Sooner shall yon 
 lamp of heaven forget to shine, than I forget my 
 promise. 
 
 Arthur. The gay, the gaudy glare of fashion's 
 shrine, and the excitement of a city life ; all this may 
 wean you from your present thoughts. 
 
 Isabel. Fear not, sweet love, on this account. For 
 me, what is the din and bustle of a city life ; that hol- 
 low, artificial thing in which the seeming is more 
 valued than the real, and where the daily routine is a 
 puppet show, made up of fashion's fools, whose only 
 office is to flutter, shine, and show themselves 1 
 Think you, that all this pomp of costly fashion, pride, 
 and nothingness, can ever wipe your image from my 
 heart? No, no ; the clouds may hide, but they can 
 ne'er put out the sun. 
 
 Arthur. Isabel, this is more than I can bear. Say, 
 say, sweet angel of my life, shall we submit, or shall 
 we bid defiance to these bolts and bars with which 
 an unrelenting father would imprison love ? 
 
 Isabel Not so ; lest in so doing, we may repent at 
 leisure what we do in haste — ( Village clock strikes). — 
 But hark ! The night is far advanced : I must away. 
 
 Arthur. So soon, and is there no appeal ? 
 
 Isabel. The time will come when we shall meet 
 again. Meanwhile, let our loves lie buried in our 
 silent breasts ; to sleep, but not to die. 
 
 Arthur. To sleep, and in that sleep to dream, per- 
 chance those dreams which ne'er will bel Ahl there's 
 the point by which anticipation makes me feel that I am 
 poor indeed. (A momentary pause.) But no, it must 
 not be : it is unmanly thus to add a double sting to 
 this already trying hour. But one kiss more, my love, 
 and then farewell. If it be so that I must dream and 
 dream, and only dream, I will so idolize you in my 
 thoughts that you shall be as fair Callisto glorified 
 into a bright and shining star ; so much your beauty 
 shall tranacend the things of earth. 
 
 Isabel. Farewell, my love, farewell. Remember, if we 
 meet no more, true love being immortal, lives beyond 
 
O CHANCES AND CHAiVGES. 
 
 the grave. My heart is full ; I can no more ; fure- 
 well. [Exit. 
 
 Arthur. Alas 1 for that sad word farewell — that 
 melancholy note of our souls in which the music of de- 
 parting' love becomes the funeral dirge of our hopes. 
 Oh ! fortune, fortune, wherefore is it thus, that the 
 career of love should be beset with thorns, and not 
 with roses ? • [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — Moetimer's apartments — Mortimer seated 
 at table writing — Looks at Ms watch. 
 
 Morlimer. — Already eight, and they not here? (A 
 ring at the bell.) Ah ! that sounds like Gaspard's 
 ring. I'd know his touch among a thousand ; it is so 
 strongly characteristic of the man. 
 
 Enter Gaspard, Beaumont, and other gamblers. 
 
 Mortimer. Thrice welcome, gentlemen. But how 
 comes it you are so late ? 
 
 Gaspard. Why, how goes the enemy ? 
 
 Morlimer. Past eight, and our engagement was for 
 seven. 
 
 Gaspard. Well, well, we must apologize. And yet, 
 did you but know the facts, you would not cen- 
 sure us. 
 
 Beaumont. In brief, a moment lend your ear, and 
 we will give you welcome news. 
 
 Mortimer. So be it, then. Come, come, be seated, 
 gentlemen, that I may be as wise as you are on this 
 subject. [They take seats.] Come Gaspard, your's be 
 the spoke unan's office upon this occasion. 
 
 Gaspard. A rat, a rat, fat, sleek and ready for the 
 bait. Do you perceive the hint ? 
 
 Mortimer. 'Tis well. But are you sure of this? 
 
 Beaumont. No doubt of it. We have taken his 
 measure, and find him just the thing. 
 
 Morlimer. But yet another point. Is he a gentle- 
 man, or some low-priced dog whose presence may prove 
 injurious to our interests? For, mark you, although 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 9 
 
 we are known to ourselves as knaves, we must most 
 carefiillj guard the respectability of appearances. It 
 is by what we seem that we deceive the world, and 
 thus succeed. 
 
 Gaspard. Upon this point do you give yourself no 
 thought ; for even as the prudent mariner studies 
 V7ell his chart, avoiding here a quicksand, there a reef ; 
 so likewise does the sagacious mind protect itself by 
 its discriminating powers. Indeed, this well-directed 
 caution is among the most precious gifts that we de- 
 rive from our knowledge of the world. Fear not, 
 therefore, Mortimer, I have too long studied human 
 nature with its countless foibles, whims and strange 
 peculiarities to be deceived in this. 
 
 Mortivier. Pardon me, Gaspard. For the moment I 
 had forgotten the proverbial saying, that old birds are 
 not to be caught with chaif. And now we'll drink 
 success to our new-born enterprise. When Fortune 
 smiles, 'tis well that Bacchus be propitiated. 
 
 Gaspard. A happy thought, and carried unani- 
 mously. Is it not so, good friends ? 
 
 [They bow in acquiescence, and then drink. 
 
 Beaumont. If not for drinking, what a miserable 
 existence this would be? 
 
 Mortimer. Bread at pleasure, drink by measure ; 
 this is the philosophy of life. 
 
 Beaumont. Not so, not so. One sip of wine will 
 bathe the drooping spirits in delight, revive the old, 
 inspire the young, and make the weary man forget his 
 toil. Yet once more, therefore, ere we go, let us fill 
 up the flowing bowl, and call on Bacchus, jolly god of 
 laughing pleasures. 
 
 Mortimer. Come, gentlemen, we'll act on Beau- 
 mont's hint. It is the part of wisdom to be merry 
 while we may. 
 
 [They drink again. As soon as they have finished 
 drinking, a noise is heard without. 
 
 Mortimer. Hear how tlie shallow mob bestow their 
 plaudits on some demagogue. 
 
10 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Beaumont. Poor, simple creatures, puffed, indeed, 
 with the importance of their freedom, yet far too often 
 selling out their birthright for a mess of pottage. 
 Let us be going. 
 
 Gaspard. Remarking as we go, that in the prose- 
 cution of our plans we may derive some useful hints 
 from the far-sighted cunning of these subtil poli- 
 ticians. 
 
 Mortimer. Conceal it as we will, 'tis through the 
 tricks and snares of well devised deception that we 
 most surely meet success. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — ^ Street by Mght. 
 
 Enter '^ixi.covi-s. followed by Franklin. 
 
 Franklin. In the name of friendship I beseech you 
 to reflect ere yet the season for reflection be o'erpast. 
 Do but reason with yourself, and see the dangers 
 which encompass you ; the ruin and disgrace which 
 must inevitably follow such a course as tliis. 
 
 Malcour. You are a noble fellow, Franklin, and 
 your words are such as well become a friend. But as 
 for me, I have already crossed the rubicon, and cannot 
 at this crisis pause. Besides, there is a fascination in 
 this game of chances which it is impossible for me to 
 resist. 
 
 Franklin, If a man is only earnest in his resolu- 
 tions nothing is impossible. Remember we are men, 
 not merely instruments which every breath may play 
 upon ; nor are we slaves, except so far as we have 
 put the eyes of conscience out, that she can no longer 
 see to do her heaven inspired duty. To this you 
 surely have not fallen yet? 
 
 Malcour (aside). How deeply his earnestness af- 
 fects me ! A few years since I had not needed this 
 persuasion. 
 
 Franklin. Yon pause, you hesitate. May I not 
 hope that you will yield to my request ? 
 
 Malcour. Verily your words are true, and I confess 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 11 
 
 that you have moved me by this evidence of yoni- 
 friendship. But then, but then—. Ah 1 there's the 
 point that makes me feel I am a shive. 
 
 Franklin. And for this vile intoxication which can 
 only end in ruin, you are content to barter all those 
 hopes and joys which cluster round a happy home, 
 and which indeed make up the charm of life ! Fie, 
 fie, oh fie. It cannot be that reason so far prostitutes 
 herself as to submit to this. Why e'en a dog will 
 pause when by its instinct it perceives the approach 
 of danger ; and shall it be less than this with man — 
 that wondrous compound where all nature seems to 
 do her best? No, no, I'll not believe it so. Yet 
 should it be, then is our boasted reason but a sham, 
 and man the weakest, vilest thing on earth. 
 
 Malcour. Give me your hand, good friend, and 
 with it let me give you my assurance that I'll think 
 upon your words. 
 
 Franklin. Then why not on the dictates of your 
 better nature act at once ? To hesitate is sometimes 
 to be lost, whereas in prompt decision we avoid at 
 least that thief of time, procrastination. 
 
 Malcour. It is not in our power either to make or 
 unmake ourselves in an instant. Besides, good 
 Franklin, j'ou forget the world has changed since you 
 were young. Things which then seemed amiss receive 
 the sanction now of custom and expediency, while 
 even gray beards like yourself will stroke themselves, 
 and saj"- tis well. The world moves on, and as we 
 move, our views of right and wrong demand a change. 
 
 Franklin. So it has always been, and so it doubt- 
 less will for ever be. The devil never lacks for in- 
 genuity. The world has changed indeed since I was 
 young 1 But what of this, since changing, it can 
 never change those fundamental laws which give to 
 virtue its reward, to vice its punishment ? To wit, 
 then, where is the advantage though it be respectable 
 to sin, and though you even seem to sin successfully ? 
 Depend upon it, there must come a time when our evil 
 deeds, like chickens, will come home to roost. But 
 here are strangers this way coming. Let us move on. 
 
12 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Malcour. Not so. They are three friends of miue. 
 
 Franklin. Friends of yours ! Bless me, Malcour, 
 there is something in that hungry looking fellow's 
 appearance that causes me spontaneously to put my 
 hands in my pockets. Look to it, if he is not a villain 
 of the deepest dye, then has nature suddenly turned a 
 fool and given him the outward signs of villainy to no 
 interest. But no more. Our thoughts unsaid are^ur 
 own. 
 
 Enter Gaspard, Beaumont, and another Gambler. 
 
 Gaapard. Come, come, Malcour, this is a sorry way 
 to keep your promises. Already have we waited for 
 you nearly half an hour. 
 
 Malcour. Pardon me, good sirs, for my apparent 
 negligence. While on my way I met this friend, an 
 old and valued friend. In his company the time has 
 passed without my knowledge. 
 
 Gambler (aside to Beaumont). His presence bodes 
 no good to our plans. He is too old a bird by far. 
 Offend him, and thus throw him off his equipoise. In 
 this alone is our opportunity. 
 
 Beaumont (sarcastically). At last then do I gaze 
 upon the greatest of all prodigies — an old and valued 
 friend ! 
 
 Malcour. Why, Beaumont, how is this ? Is it a 
 thing so rare to have a friend, that you regard it 
 almost as a miracle ? 
 
 Beaumont. Upon my soul, it is to me a wondrous 
 prodigy ; a sight, indeed, which gives me more sur- 
 prise than I would feel if sudden discord took the place 
 of law and order in the universe. What 1 shall I be- 
 hold a relic of that race which lived ere Astroea left the 
 earth, and not say. Behold a miracle ? Oh 1 no ; im- 
 possible. For my part, I have always found that it 
 required all the eyes of Argus to protect ourselves 
 from our friends. With you, experience having taught 
 you otherwise, you are the most fortunate man on 
 earth. 
 
 Franklin. No more of this ; I'll hear no more ; nor 
 will I be the jest of these impertinent meddlers, who, 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 13 
 
 measuring' others by tliemselves, distort the world, and 
 make the noblest actions seem a lie. 
 
 Gaspard. How I do despise these g^arrulous old 
 men ; so windy, and so wondrous wise in their own 
 conceits I Indeed, they are like narrow necked bottles: 
 the less they have in them the more noise they make in 
 pouring it out. 
 
 Franklin. Imperious knave, know you of whom you 
 speak ? 
 
 Malcour. Come, gentlemen, this must not be. By 
 the sweet name of friend I would address you all ; en- 
 treating you to dismiss this unbecoming attitude. 
 
 Gaspard. Malcour, do you accompany us? It wfis 
 for this, and not for any idle war of words, we came. 
 Remember, time and tide for no man wait. 
 
 Malcour. It is an engagement, and shall be kept. 
 Franklin, do you excuse me ? \_Going. 
 
 Franklin. Rash, foolish, self-destroying man ; so 
 soon have you outgrown your better mood, and like a 
 poor deluded fool, pluniije headlong to destruction I 
 Turn but an instant inwardlj' your eyes, and see how- 
 conscience weeps because you heed her not. Ay, more 
 than this ; remember that there is a time in our lives 
 when our destinies hang as 'twere upon the issue of a 
 iuoment. We clioose, and in the choice decide the 
 I'uture as a heaven or a hell. 
 
 Gaspard. {To Franklin.) See here, good Sir, Mal- 
 cour is a man ; and, being such, hath long ere this 
 attained tlie power of discretion. Here let us rest our 
 arguments, and to his inclination leave the issue. 
 
 Malcour. Then, with my inclination let it be. Life 
 is at best a lottery. A lottery, therefore, it shall be. 
 In our wisest moods we are but straws, being borne 
 we know not where. To chance we leave the rest. 
 Exeunt Malcour, Gaspard, Beaumont and Gambler: as they 
 
 are in the act of leaving, Mortimer enters unperceived by the 
 
 others and plucks the Gambler's sleeve; at which he returns, 
 
 and Mortimer and he whisper together. 
 
 Franklin. Farewell, thou poor, deluded wretch. 
 Ere you have seen the end you will a thousand times 
 regret your choice. [Exit. 
 
14 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Mortimer a^id Gambler coming forward. 
 
 Morlimer. Malcour, did you say ? Tell me again, 
 that I be sure my senses do not play the cheat. 
 
 Gambler. Such is tlie name. But, how strangely it 
 affects you. Do you know him ? 
 
 31ortimer. It is a name which fills me with strange 
 thoughts. But I will not go back into the buried past. 
 The future is tlie question. Yes, the future is the 
 question. And yet 'tis strange ; 'tis strange how 
 fickle are the tides of life. Indeed, so trul^'- are we 
 baffled by the contradictions of this ever-changing 
 world, that no man can safely say to-morrow will be 
 • his or that ; no, not e'en to the minutest trifles of his 
 life. We plan, contrive, abandon, and revise ; while 
 in an instant comes a change, and we are startled by 
 some unexpected circumstance, more powerful than 
 all preceding calculations, dreams, and stratagems. 
 Come, come, good friend, let us away at once. Success 
 is but the use we make of our opportunities ; and he is 
 wisest who most wisely sees that this is so. 
 
 Gambler. To action, therefore, else the wind may 
 change. {^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A Parlor. 
 
 Enter Beatrice arid Isabel. 
 
 Isabel. Come, come, sweet mother, let me persuade 
 you to dismiss this mood. 'Tis but a whim ; one of 
 those idle fancies which perplex the mind without a 
 cause. Away, then, with it ; while the better to assist 
 you to this end, I summon to my aid sweet music's 
 sooihing influence. Perchance 'twill prove more elo- 
 quent than my poor words. 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 15 
 
 ( Commences playing.) 
 
 Beatrice. No more of music, Isabel ; let me hear no 
 more of music. There is a sense of sadness stealing 
 over me ; a shadow, as it were, of some approaching 
 ill, which renders me unfit for music's gentle har- 
 monies. 
 
 Isabel. No, no, sweet mother, there is no heart that 
 music cannot soothe ; no mood, no passion in the 
 human soul but finds its food in music. See, I will 
 adapt my strain to suit your mood. 
 
 ( Commences playing a sentimental air.) 
 
 Beatrice. Not so, my child, not so. In ray anticipa- 
 tion I have so far lost the sense of tune that e'en the 
 sweetest music is but discord to my ear. 
 
 Isabel. A curse on this anticipation, which inflicts 
 more ills than e'er were dreamed of by reality. It is 
 the scourge of our nature that we tremble in our 
 thoughts before those ills which never come ; and in 
 anticipation mourn the loss of that we never lose. 
 
 Beatrice. So says the wisdom of the world ; and it 
 is doubtless true to some extent. But woman was 
 made for love, not for philosophy ; and where we love, 
 we cannot but anticipate. Indeed, such is the consti- 
 tution of a woman's soul, that where she loves she 
 lives but in that love. It is her world, her heaven ; 
 yea, her all in all. Take it away, and life is but a 
 blank, a dreary nothingness ; no more. 
 
 Isabel. And you in loving, and being in turn be- 
 loved, possess the measure of a woman's happiness. 
 Besides, if we may call the future an effect of which 
 the present is the cause, e'en here you are the happi- 
 est of tlje happy. See, are you not among the favored 
 few who bask in fortune's sunshine, your wishes and 
 your means being equal ? It is the poor who, as they 
 drag their weary way along, stop every now and then 
 to sigh. It is their place to sigh. But yours should 
 be a sweet pei-ennial smile, unclouded by the common 
 cares of life. 
 
 Beatrice. Nonsense 1 nonsense ! Prythee, Isabel, 
 think you that wealtli excludes us from the vicissi- 
 
16 CHANCES AND CHANaES. 
 
 tudes of life — those many heart-burns, aches, and pains 
 which meet humanity at every step ? If so, at once 
 do you dispel the illusion from your mind. True hap- 
 piness is not the growth of wealth, or pomp, or mere 
 renown. It is a state dependent on the world within. 
 But see, here comes Eudora. I would speak with her 
 alone. 
 
 Isabel. If you prefer my room to my company, be it 
 so. Where there are secrets I would have no part. 
 But mark you, mother, I would caution you against 
 my most insidious aunt. She is a woman of the 
 world, and as such is dangerous. \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Eudora. 
 
 Beatrice. How now, good sister, what of news ? 
 With me the time hangs heavily, yielding little else 
 than dark anticipation. 
 
 Eudora. Between us then the difference is but this 
 — with you it is anticipation, with me reality. 
 
 Beatrice. Whatever it may be, be equal to your 
 word. But tell me, wherefore do you look at me so 
 earnestly ? 
 
 Eudora. That I may pity you, and learn to hate 
 my brother. 
 
 Beatrice. That you may pity me, and learn to hate 
 my husband ? It seems to me I do but dream. 
 
 Eudora. Nay, rather say that hitherto you have 
 been living in a dream, that 3'^ou have been the victim 
 of a fond delusion soon to end. The dream will soon 
 be over ; the reality has yet to come. 
 
 Beatrice. Speak on, Eudora, I beseech you. Let 
 me know the worst at once. If it be so that night 
 approaches, let me know in time, that when it comes 
 I may have weaned myself from earth, and in my 
 resignation rob advei'sity of one half its sting. 
 
 Eudora. Your husband is a knave ; a base fre- 
 quenter of those gambling hells in which the devil 
 acts as master of the ceremonies, and where fools lose 
 first their money, then their characters. 
 
 Beatrice. Great heavens I No, I cannot credit this. 
 It cannot be ; it is not so. Perchance it may be one 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGE?. 17 
 
 amon^ the many falselioods of this busy talking 
 world, whose pleasure is to murder every honest 
 name. It is the voice of slander which would murder 
 thus my hopes. 
 
 Eudora. Beatrice, you are to me a mystery. For 
 my part, I cannot understand this sightless love which 
 renders you the easy dupe of one who is beyond a 
 doubt, a most consummate hypocrite. 
 
 Beatrice. Give me some proof. Till then I will be- 
 lieve you not. 
 
 Eudora. If that be all, you shall be amply satisfied. 
 It is so hard to wean you silly creatures from your 
 idols made of clay. This way, and you shall have 
 enough of proof. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Gambling Saloon, lighted up. Several 
 persons in the rear engaged in playing. 
 
 Malcour and Gaspard coming forward. 
 
 Malcour. Persuade me not. I am no more myself, 
 but like some wandering wretcli who meets the tempest 
 of the wintry blast, atn blowii about I know not 
 where. Thus I destroy these execrable instruments 
 of fortune — thus. (Destroys some cards ivhich he holds 
 in his hand). For me they have no further charm. 
 
 Gaspard. Come, come, this mood but ill becomes 
 a man. 
 
 Malcour. A man, indeed ! Can I be a man and be 
 tlie slave of this infatuation which has ended in ray 
 ruin ? No, no. To be a man is to control the baser 
 parts of our nature. Wliere has been my power in 
 this ? 
 
 Gaspard. It is but a game of chance. In the next 
 hand you may prove more fortunate. 
 
 Malcour. Chance ! What is chance to me 1 'Tis 
 but a lie, a snare and a delusion fit for dotards and for 
 fools — a fascinating syren which allures us on and on 
 to leave us in the vortex of despair. 
 
 Gaspard. But does it follow that because you lose 
 your money you should also lose your wits ? You are 
 
18 'CHANCES AND CHANGES, 
 
 not the first, nor will you be the last to meet with 
 disappointment. 
 
 Malcour. Call it not disappointment, Gaspard, but 
 remorse, that deepest of all pangs when conscience 
 turns upon itself, and our evil actions from their 
 secret corners creep, like skeletons, whose only pleas- 
 ure is to torture us. Far better than to come to this 
 that I had ne'er been born ; else living, had instead 
 been as the starving wretch who sinks within the arms 
 of lean and tattered want. Yes, yes, a thousand times 
 better this ; for there the scourge defeats itself when it 
 has done its most, and in its conquest makes its cap- 
 tive free, while here 'tis as a worm that gnaws and 
 eats me inch by inch, prolonging life to suit alone its 
 cruel sport. 
 
 Gaspard. Ay, ay, rail on, nor will I chide you for 
 your empty vaporing. When you are cool, and judg- 
 ment has assumed her seat, you will regret this wordy 
 stuflf which in the end means much of nothing. 
 
 Malcour. No, never. Turn where I will, I am pur- 
 sued by dreams of dreadful shape, forebodings which 
 are as the darkest furies to my soul. In vain I strive 
 and seek for consolation in a maze of sophistries. 'Tis 
 all in vain. My hopes are shattered, and the future, 
 like an awful chasm, opens up before me, I am un- 
 done, and you have been my ruin. 
 
 Gaspard. And from the furnace kept myself unhurt! 
 At least so seem your words. See, here is my purse. 
 [Ofers Mm his pwse.] If you will still regard me ag 
 your enemy, let this suffice to prove I am your friend. 
 
 Malcour. Not so, not so. Pry'thee forgive me, Gas- 
 pard. If I have wronged you, let my distraction be 
 as my excuse. But for your money, keep it, friend. I 
 never can rebuild myself again, 
 
 Gaspard. But should a desperate hope present 
 itself? 
 
 Malcour. A hope ! There is no hope that can sup- 
 port me in this vortex of despair. 
 
 Gaspard. A hope there is if you will only act. 
 Yea, still a chance by which you may regain your 
 loss. 
 
CIIANCKS AND CHANGES. 
 
 19 
 
 Malcour. Do you but name it ; and I will seize 
 upon it with the desperation of a dying man. 
 
 Gaspard. You wife has jewels. Now what are 
 jewels to a husband's happiness? 
 
 Malcour. Am I so base that I have come to this ? 
 No, Gasi^ard, no ; I may be vile, but cannot stoop to 
 this. 
 
 Gaspai'd. Your weakness makes the evil greater 
 than it is. The end will justify the means. Let this 
 become your warrant. Meantime let us move on, and 
 talk the matter over as we go. 
 
 Malcour. From small beginnings we are driven to 
 most desperate ends. [^Exeunt. 
 
 [Mortimer and a few other gamblers coming forward, 
 
 Mortimer. So far, so good. The charm succeeds, 
 and with the stride of an inexorable fate he moves on 
 to his doom. So, so, 'tis well. The incubation of one 
 little sin will soon pervade the whole of nature. 
 
 Gambler. In his credulity the fool believes the world 
 is made of honest men ; whereas 'tis made up of such 
 stuff that men will buy and sell each other for a pit- 
 tance. 
 
 Mortimer. Here is his weakness ; this the point we 
 play upon. But of this enough. Meanwhile 'tis our 
 province to pursue our plans, and with the eyes of 
 Argus watch the progress of events. {^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — A room — Beatrice and Eudora rising 
 from a table. 
 
 Eudora. Art yet convinced, or do you still demand 
 more proof? 
 
 Beatrice. Too true, alas I too true. 
 
 Eudora. And being true, will you submit to it ? 
 
 Beatrice. Though guilty, is he not my husband 
 still? Ah ! yes, though even I should lose the world, 
 I cannot blot his image from my heart. 
 
 Eudora. Tut, tut, these are but idle words. Look 
 you, Beatrice, have you so long journeyed through the 
 world, and not discovered that the curse of woman is 
 
20 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 her weak credulity ? In short, have you so far at- 
 tained the years of womanhood, and not seen that this 
 is a world of facts and stern realities — a world, in- 
 deed, in which this dreamy state of love and poetry is 
 but a sham, deceiving most where most it promises ? 
 
 Beatrice. Not so, not so ; for still my thoughts, in 
 spite of all my shattered hopes, will run back to my 
 days of early love — those charming dreams where 
 every moment was an age of bliss ; a sweet transport- 
 ing joy, too pure, too fair to die. 
 
 Eudora. Pshaw, you disgust me with this puerile 
 sensibility. Action, not submission, is the becoming 
 course for every injured woman. Besides, we have 
 outgrown that age when woman by an act of marriage 
 made herself a slave for whom there could be no re- 
 lease. In our day, we change our husbands as we do 
 our garments : they suit no longer, and that is 
 enough. And let me ask you is it not enough ? To 
 wit, as in the present case, when marriage has become 
 a mere mockery, a sham ; where is the woman who 
 would not rather free herself than bear in silence all 
 the stings and torments of an ignominious bondage ? 
 
 Beatrice. Speak not so thoughtlessly, Eudora. 
 Yours is but a shallow estimate, dealing with the sur- 
 face only ; while the profounder depths of human na- 
 ture are beyond its reach : too subtile for that vulgar 
 sense which breeds these modern innovations, these 
 pernicious tendencies. 
 
 Eudora. Nay, start not at my words. I am your 
 elder both in years and experience, therefore more 
 familiar with the shifting currents of this ever-chang- 
 ing life. With me, I measure all things by the test 
 of reason and expediency ; with you, 'tis all weak, 
 puerile, mawkish sensibility. And now, my errand 
 having filled, adieu. When next we meet, you will be 
 in a better mood to heed my teaching. [Exit. 
 
 Beatrice. Adieu. Our sentiments being at war, we 
 are better friends at a distance. [Enter Fkanklin, un- 
 perceived by Beatrice.] Alone I will endure my grief ; 
 nor shall the outside world perceive that there is aught 
 but sunshine in my soul. What though he wrong me, 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. • 21 
 
 is it not a woman's nature to conceal the faults of those 
 she loves? Yea, even thoug'h in the deep silence of 
 her g'rief, she heap the weight of Ossa and Pelion on* 
 her heart, yet will she not refuse the burden. To rant, 
 and rave, and hold up our wrongs before the public 
 gaze, may suit the common herd who seek a vulgar 
 notoriety. For me, however, come what may, unto 
 myself, my womanhood, I will be true. 
 
 Franklin {coming forward). Still there is one in 
 whom you may confide, and run no risk in trusting to 
 his friendship. 
 
 Beatrice. Methought I was alone, else had I not ex- 
 pressed myself so freely. Yet, most venerable Frank- 
 lin, I but too well know without a reason you had not 
 thus intruded on my privacy. 
 
 FranUin. As you surmise, there is a caiise, of 
 which the subject matter touches on your welfare and 
 your happiness. To speak more plainly, it is but a 
 short time since I parted with your husband — a poor, 
 weak man, who, walking in his sleep, comes suddenly 
 on the verge of a great precipice. 
 
 Beatrice. Alas ! then were Eudora's words correct, 
 and I am lost, undone, 
 
 Franklin. Nay, nay, not so. It is not yet so dark 
 that we can trace no gleam of light. Ere yet the sin 
 be full grown, we may kill it by some neutralizing 
 influence. 
 
 Beatrice. Now I perceive it all. I am awake, and 
 see things as they are. For months the incubation has 
 been going on, wliile I deceived myself, because my 
 love being pure did naught suspect. Ah I even when 
 in my maturer moods I would remonstrate with him 
 on that change, the cause of which I then so little un- 
 derstood, 'twas but a little effort that it cost to put me 
 off. 'Twas this, 'twas that ; whate'er the reason given, 
 it sufficed. I loved him, trusted, and believed. Now 
 I've outlived my dream ; and I must bid a long 
 farewell to all my happiness. 
 
 Franklin. Not so. All other remedies having 
 failed, there yet is one which may reclaim him, even 
 thougli he should have reached that state when con- 
 
22 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 science like a sluggard sleeps, and habit almost has 
 become a second nature. In your persuasion is your 
 strength. 
 
 Beatrice. If this be all, then is there left but little 
 hope. Good sir, what can a woman do when wisdom 
 such as yours has failed ? 
 
 Franklin. Nevertheless, do you proceed as I ad- 
 vise ; nor do you doubt that there is more of eloquence 
 in the sweet pleading of a woman's tears than all the 
 arguments which all the wisest men possess. Indeed, 
 it is among the special graces of your sex that woman 
 may at times become as gentle spring, light floating 
 in a cloud of flowers ; while by the sweet mysterious 
 influence of her being, she weaves the life of heaven 
 into the soul of man, illumes his mind, and purifies his 
 heart. These being your weapons, will you hesitate ? 
 
 Beatrice. Most noble and most generous friend ; al- 
 most your eloquence fills me with new hopes. 
 
 Franklin. To this end, therefore, do you direct your 
 efforts. If then you fail, you will at least have done 
 your duty. 
 
 Beatrice. Then come, sweet duty, doubly sweetened 
 by my love. If he has still a spark of nature left, 
 then shall my prayers be as the gently falling dew, 
 soft penetrating into the finer elements of his soul. 
 If in his obduracy he will hear me not, then is the 
 failure none of mine. For my part, I will plead with 
 all my tenderness ; yea, with the deepest pathos of a 
 woman's being. Exceeding this I can no moi'e. 
 
 Franklin. This done ; well done. At best 'tis but 
 our province to deserve success. To grant it is the 
 prerogative of heaven. \_Exeunt. 
 
CnANCES AND CHANGES. 23 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — An Open Space by JYight. 
 
 Enter Arthue, Edgar, and Hubert. 
 
 Arthur. This was the houi-, this the very spot. 
 
 Edgar. Nonsense, man, you but imagine it. 'Twas 
 but an idle phantasy, the product of a diseased 
 imagination ; nothing more. 
 
 Arthur. Nay, on my soul it were as easy to con- 
 vince me that this firm and solid earth is but a mj'th ; 
 ourselves imagination ; and the resplendent beauty of 
 yon golden fretted vault, the frenzy of a wild, disor- 
 dered brain. Strange it may seem, but in so seeming 
 it is true withal. 
 
 Hubert. What seemed it like ? Was it in human 
 form, or like those strange monstrosities which some- 
 times flit before the sick man's mind; making his sleep 
 a hideous nightmare ? 
 
 Edgar. Or better still, the reflex action of our 
 friend's own mind — the legitimate offspi'ing of an over- 
 loaded stomach. 
 
 Hubert. Or else too free indulgence of another 
 kind. Come, Arthur, is it not so, that having drank 
 too freely you mistook your shadow for a ghost ? 
 Come, come, admit the fact, and say that you wero 
 drunk. 
 
 Arthur. Good friends, if I afford you cause for mirth 
 you are most welcome to your sport. Be this, how- 
 ever, as it may, what I have said, I reaffirm ; nor do I 
 deviate one iota from the truth. (Starting sudd-enly). 
 Yet sec, it comes again. Speak Edgar, Hubert speak. 
 Can you not see that this is no inhabitant of earth ? 
 Yea, e'en as though the fairest beauties of all worlds 
 were concentrated in one glance; an index to a soul 
 such as I have never seen before. 
 
24 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Edgar. To me 'tis vacancy ; I see nothing. 
 
 Hubert. Nor T. Upon my honor as a man, I do be- 
 lieve our friend has lost his wits, 
 
 Edgar. If he was drunk last night, he is most 
 surely sober now. 
 
 Arthur. Still, still it comes, and yet you see it not ? 
 Can it be that I but dream ? No, no, it is no dream ; 
 for see, it comes still nearer, and becomes more visible. 
 (Spirit gradually appears). Speak, speak, thou glori- 
 ous apparition, speak; or else I die in my suspense. 
 (Spirit appears more fully and beckons to Arthur). See, 
 see, it beckons me. What say you, gentlemen, shall I 
 obey ? 
 
 Spirit. Fear not, Arthur. I am here not as an idle 
 ghost who hovers near the earth because unfit for any 
 higher sphere. 'Twixt me and thee there is a bond 
 more closely interwoven than you dream of If you 
 would hear me more, obey and follow me. (Glides off 
 the stage, beckoning Arthur to follow). 
 
 Arthur. Follow thee, thou bright, angelic being I 
 Yea verily, I will. Whatever thou art, I'll know thee 
 more. [Exit. 
 
 Hubert. What say you, Edgar ? How runs your 
 blood ? 
 
 Edgar. Almost as cold as ice ; so much this some- 
 thing, nothing, whatever it may be, has freezed the 
 circulation in my veins. Let us away, and leave this 
 place. It savors too much of the gi'ave for me. 
 
 Hubert. With all my heart, and so say I. Where 
 nature is so weird and strange, the devil must be near 
 at hand. [Exeunt. 
 
 SceNE II.— The Sea-shore. JVight. 
 Enter Arthur, 
 
 Arthur. Can it be so, that after all, my senses play 
 the cheat, while I am left to speak but with the vacant 
 air, and listen to the music of the rolling waves ? 
 No, no, it cannot be that e'er a dream so fair should 
 be so false. (Sudden appearance of a superjiatural 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 25 
 
 light). Bat soft, it comes again. Sec, see, already it 
 is here. 
 
 Spirit appears. 
 
 Spirit. Arthur, from my presence do you fear no 
 liarm. I was your mother in the flesh — ■! am your 
 mother still ; for though in death we shuffle off the 
 mortal coil, we still take that into the other world 
 which makes up our characters. Indeed, the state 
 which men call death is but a change through which 
 we pass on to a higher life. 'Tis true we fall asleep, 
 and seem to die, but 'tis a seeming, and no more. So 
 far do you perceive the meaning of my words ? 
 
 Arthur. Speak on, celestial being, speak on. 
 
 Spirit. A moment then do you attend, while by the 
 opening of your inner sight you shall perceive a cer- 
 tain thing which yet lies buried in the future. For 
 tills have I appeared, lest in the common routine of 
 events, the time may move too slowly for your happi- 
 ness. So far do you perceive the meaning of my 
 words ? 
 
 Arthur. Speak on, celestial being, speak on. 
 
 Spirit. Be therefore wise, and act upon the mean- 
 ing of this vision. 
 
 ( Tableau showing Malcour in the act of killing Isabel. 
 Spirit gradually disappears). 
 
 Arthur. A dream 1 A dream ! Is it of heaven or 
 of hell ? That is the question. My brain is dizzy. I 
 am not myself. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — Gaspard's Apartments. 
 Enter Gaspabd and Beaumont. 
 
 Gaspard. Believe me, Beaumont, it is always so. 
 Indeed, if not for this, where is the profit we derive 
 froni that which we call wisdom ? Tell me, did ever 
 you compare a wise man with a'fool, examining well 
 their points of difference ? 
 2 
 
26 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Beaumont. To me it has always been enough that 
 I perceived the wise are few and far between ; whereas 
 the race of fools is quite as thick as flies in summer, 
 
 Gaspard. So far, so good, but yet not far enough ; 
 for in addition to this fact, have you ne'er marked the 
 difference which exists between the chattering ape 
 and he who measures so his actions, thoughts, and 
 words, that there is nothing empty, nothing shallow, 
 nothing void of some direct specific purpose ? If you 
 have not, then do you learn it is a law which nature 
 makes, that since there must be fools, 'tis well they 
 should subserve their only use — to be the prey of 
 those who are their betters. 
 
 Beaumont. Yet the weakness of accident is some- 
 times strong where the force of design is weak. But 
 here is Mortimer. We shall have some news of his 
 successes in his new departure. 
 
 Enter Mortimer. 
 
 Gaspard. How now, Mortimer, how runs the 
 world ? Or better still, how deals the skillful Cupid 
 with your suit ? 
 
 Ilortimer. So far the tide of fortune moves in my 
 behalf. Indeed, 'twould seem that the desired end 
 draws near when I shall reap the fruit of my designs. 
 
 Gaspard. Are you so well assured ? You know 
 the saying, " there's many a slip between the cup and 
 the lip." 
 
 Mortimer. Nonsense, Gaspard. 'Tis but your sport 
 to banter me, the better to increase my appetite. 
 
 Beaumont. What if that womanly weakness which 
 you count upon, should prove superior even to tlie 
 pressure of adversity? Ere this the time has been 
 when virtue has withstood the pressure of temptation. 
 What has been ouce may be again. 
 
 Mortimer. Nonsense, gentlemen. This is not the 
 case. My word to it, that woman after all ia but an 
 embodiment of frailty, made for weaknesses and little 
 sins — a superficial creature blown about by every gust 
 of fashion and caprice. Besides, in my experience I 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 27 
 
 liave never known a woman who could not, like a 
 trout, be caught by tickling. 
 
 GasjMrd. Admitting this, if even you obtain the 
 prize, what do you gain in gaining it ? 
 
 Mortimer. Gain 1 Gain everything. Gain that 
 which filled my early dreams, and which, till Malcour 
 crossed my path, seemed destined to be mine. 
 
 Gaspard. For my part, I would rather sit up day 
 and night to catch a flea, than be as you, the victim of 
 a fascination which exacts so much to give so little. 
 
 Mortimer. No, by my soul this is not so ; nor can 
 my thoughts be measured by your cold, dispassionate 
 mind. To you it is as though my fancy teemed with 
 nothingness. To me it is a warm and fervent glow, 
 as when the earth, awaking from a long and dreary 
 winter sleep, puts on her floral robes, the birds renew 
 their song, and all things echo with a thousand 
 tongues the glorious theme that spring has come 
 again. 
 
 Beaumont. Your passion gives you eloquence, if 
 even it deprives you of your common sense. 
 
 Mortimer. The keen delight, the mingling of two 
 souls lost in one fond, one long embrace, the thousand 
 joys that come within the sweet delicious hour of fru- 
 ition. To me these things are real. Yea, insomuch 
 that I will make no pause till I have plucked the rose, 
 possessed its beauty, and enjoyed its perfume. My 
 word to it, she shall be mine. [Exit. 
 
 Gaspard. So runs the world, and so suppose 'twill 
 always be. Once let a man believe himself in love, 
 and he most sui'ely plays the fool. 
 
 Beaumont. 'Tis for this reason Cupid's painted 
 blind, lest seeing, we should see ourselves as others 
 see us, and thus cease to play these antics in the 
 name of love. 
 
 Gaqjard. It comes to this ; that after all, there 
 a good deal of the monkey in the best of us. — \_Exeunt, 
 
28 ' CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Scene IY. — A Room in Malcour^s House. Malcour 
 examining a casket of jewels. 
 
 Malcour. Say, say, my better genius, shall it be 
 done, or shall I spurn the deed, preferring rather to 
 be lost at once than stoop to meanness that I may 
 perchance be saved ? To sin against so sweet a saint 
 makes sin indeed a horrid monster, blighting all the 
 fairest charms of earth, while hell resounds with its 
 applause. Oh 1 earth, oh ! heaven, wherefore is this 
 so ? No, no, I can not do it. My soul repels the 
 thought. — (Pauses thoughtfully.) And yet there is a 
 force in Gaspard's words which it is hard to set aside. 
 Call it caprice of fortune, fate, destiny, or any other 
 name we please, 'tis all the same. We are that which 
 we are, because we can not help ourselves ; and being 
 the slaves of circumstance, are driven this way, that 
 way, as conditions change, and chance may favor vice 
 or virtue for the moment. It shall be done. The end 
 must justify the means. (Takes jewels from casket, 
 and conceals them in his pockets.) 'Tis after all, the 
 desperation of a dying man. If I survive, 'tis well. 
 If otherwise, 'tis but the end of that which I already 
 feel. — (Preparing as if to go.) 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beatrice. Malcour, I am here that I may speak with 
 you, plead with you. Will you not hear me ? 
 
 Malcour. To yield to this I am compelled. Yet 
 would I charge you to be brief; not as is the custom 
 of your sex ; expending time and words, as though 
 they had no value. 
 
 Beatrice. — Alas ! my husband, this from you, and 
 that so undeserved 1 Ah 1 me, 'tis a discovery, sad 
 indeed, when we perceive that our idols are but 
 stone ; cold, dull, inanimate, and deaf to our prayers. 
 
 Malcour. Beatrice, have I not told you there are 
 moods with me, in which it is unwise to force me into, 
 conversation ; seasons, in fact, in which I am so 
 busied with my thoughts, that 1 would fain shut out 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 29 
 
 all knowledg-e of the outside world. In moments such 
 as these, 'tis solitude alone that I desire. 
 
 Beatrice. Still, still, the same old strain ; deceiving 
 most where it appears most plausible ! 
 
 Malcour. As I'm alive, your manner startles me. 
 What does it mean ? 
 
 Beatrice. Extinguish not the light of conscience ; 
 and therein you may see the truth. Need I say more ? 
 
 Malcour. Tut, tut, Beatrice, this is nonsense ; the 
 merest folly on your part. 
 
 Beatrice. Not so. I now am past that time, when, 
 like a child, I could be set aside ; contented still to 
 dream and dream ; unconscious of the real world in 
 which I live. 
 
 Malcour (aside.) 'Tis clear she knows the worst. 
 I knew the voice of scandal would defeat my plans. 
 (To Beatrice.) Sweet wife, some other time your 
 wishes shall be heard. At present, I have neither time 
 nor inclination for the subject. 
 
 Beatrice. Nay, nay, if this had been enough, I had 
 been, long ere this, like Niobe, a monument of silent 
 grief. But no ; 'twere easier by a dew-drop to appease 
 the flaming fires of a vexed volcano, than to extinguish 
 that which burns within an injured woman's breast. 
 If you would have me silent, you must change my sex, 
 my personality ; but until then, I can not feel this 
 aching void within my heart, and say to my despairing 
 soul, be still. 
 
 Malcour. And has it come to this ; to this, the 
 worst of all my troubles, and that which I feared the 
 most ? But is not this adversity's mode of making 
 war, contented not to conquer by one ill, that she must 
 overwhelm us with a legion ? 
 
 Beatrice. Nay, rather say is it the proper course of 
 manhood, first to sacrifice itself in the pursuit of vice, 
 and then by a deception, make the evil doubly great ? 
 Alas I for me, that this should be the end of all my 
 fondest dreams ; those dreams in which my love por- 
 trayed a future full of golden joys and chaste delights ; 
 a Paradise, in fact, in which our souls should move in 
 gentle harmony, and all things catch the sweet vibra- 
 
30 CHANCES AND CHANaKS. 
 
 tion of our thoughts. Such were my hopes. What 
 they are now, are answered by those gathering clouds 
 which you have conjured up by your dark deeds. 
 
 Malcour. So, so, my gentle one, this is your posi- 
 tion ; is it ? Come, come ; this being the case, 'tis 
 best that we should part. When husbands lose the 
 confidence of their wives, 'tis time there be an end. 
 Besides it suits me in my present mood, that I be free 
 and unrestrained. The world is wide, and there is 
 room for both of us. 
 
 Beatrice. The world indeed is wide. Bat be you not 
 deceived ; it is not wider than a woman's love ; that 
 wondrous power which defies all time, all space ; 
 o'erleaping even death, to live forever in another life. 
 
 Malcour. Beatrice, I have resolved that we must 
 part. For your own happiness, it is better that it 
 should be so. 
 
 Beatrice. No, no ; you can not, shall not leave me 
 thus. See how my heart attuned to yours in happier 
 hours, seeks still for its accustomed sympathy ; while 
 folding you within these arms, I swear there is no 
 world to me where you are not ; no light, no beauty 
 where you are not as the sun, the source of all my life. 
 
 Malcour. Oh 1 woman, woman ; yours is indeed a 
 power which might make the strength of Hercules ap- 
 pear a child. As a man, I feel it ; I acknowledge it. 
 But ah ! it is too late ; too late. 'Tis painful for the 
 diseased eye to look upon the light ; and so it is with 
 me. In the serene expression of your purity, I see 
 myself not as I was, but as I am. This is too much ; 
 the picture startles me. I can no longer look upon the 
 sight. That mirror is indeed a faithful one, when vice 
 beholds itself in virtue's glass. Oh ! no, it is too 
 much ; I can not bear the sight. (Going). 
 
 Beatrice. As I'm alive, you shall not leave me thus; 
 no, not even though you were a fiend a thousand times 
 moi-e dark than what you are. That you have fallen, 
 I admit ; and with my copious tears deplore the fact. 
 But, let me ask you, is not human nature at its best, 
 a poor, weak, unreliable thing ? Ay, even that the 
 best men sometimes fall within the meshes of an un- 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 31 
 
 expected snare 1 Nor is this all. With tliem the 
 gentle dew of mercy is their heritage. Why should it 
 be otliervvise with you ? 
 
 Malcour. No more, Beatrice, no more. Henceforth 
 our spheres of life are far asunder as the poles. Yours 
 is that fairer portion, where the light of virtue fills the 
 world with a perpetual glory. Aline, that darker state 
 where vice enthroned, engenders foul corruption and 
 disease. (Going.) 
 
 Beatrice. Not so, not so. Wen as the moon and 
 stars keep o'er the earth their constant watch, so will 
 I be to tliee. Death and destruction I can bear, but 
 separation never. Within these arms ; here is your 
 world. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A parlor, handsomely far nistied. 
 
 Enter Eddora and Mortimer. 
 
 Mortimer. Can it be possible that she suffers this 
 unmoved? To my mind, such conduct is enough to 
 sicken any woman, 
 
 Eudora. And so it doubtless will. But you must 
 bear a little patience ere she can be so far weaned as 
 to regard your suit with favor. It is by small degrees, 
 with subtlety combined, more than by forcible attempts, 
 that we must take the citadel. 
 
 Mortimer. Patience indeed ! Pray tell me what 
 have I to do with patience, now that all my plans 
 have been fulfilled, and Fortune, like a benignant 
 goddess, smiles upon my hopes? Instead of living 
 still in patient waiting, this is the time when svfeet 
 fruition should succeed expectancy. Pry'thee, there- 
 fore, do not trifle with my feelings. 
 
 Eudora. Believe mc, I have done my best ; suggest- 
 
32 CHANCES AND CHANGE?, 
 
 ing here and there such thoughts as in the end will 
 bring forth fruit such as we desire. 
 
 Mortimer. The process may be wise, but 'tis too 
 slow — at least too slow for nie. 
 
 Eudora. Althougli some women may be purchased 
 by the merest show of flattery, a little tinsel, anything 
 in fact which seems ; it is not so with all. In this 
 respect, though there may be of Helens more, we still 
 will sometimes meet with a Penelope, serenely power- 
 ful in her chastity. 
 
 Mortimer. Can it be possible then that I am to be 
 defeated thus while yet my star seemed daily brighten- 
 ing in its glory ? No, no, it cannot, must not be. 
 'Tis but an idle weakness, which would set the feeble 
 flicker of a woman's virtue 'gainst the pressure of 
 temptation. Do you devise the means, and I will stake 
 my chances on my powers of persuasion. 
 
 Eudora. It is her custom in the silent hours of the 
 night to bewail her fate, unheard by any mortal ear. 
 
 Mortimer. A golden chance, while she laments her 
 fate, to tempt her with the promise of a brighter 
 future. This night let it be done. 
 
 Eudora. Hence with me, and I will secrete you in 
 her favorite haunt. But, mark me, though your tongue 
 be dipped in honeyed eloquence, I do not promise you 
 success. 
 
 Mortimer. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Be-. 
 sides, if even I should fail, I am no poorer in my 
 failure. Let us away at once. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A garden — JVighf. 
 Enter Mortimer. ^ 
 
 Mortimer. A glorious night, and well adapted to 
 the subtle pleading of love's sweet discourse. But 
 soft, methinks I see the first fair glimpses of the rising 
 moon. {Looking attentively.) Yes, yes, 'tis she ; the 
 brightest star of all earth's brightest constellations. 
 Here will I hide myself. Where Cupid is most sly, he 
 oft is most successful. \_GonGeals liimaelf. 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 33 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beatrice. Let me reflect. Can it be so that T, who 
 but a few months since beheld the world as 'twere a 
 mirror, wherein each moment seemed a thing' of beauty 
 and a form of joy ; that I, for whom the sun and moon 
 and all the stars seemed but as music's sweetest in- 
 struments, keeping time with the harmonious flow and 
 rhythm of my thoughts ; that I, the sweet possessor 
 of all these, should come to this ? Alas 1 it is a cruel 
 lot when we, being so near heaven, are so suddenly 
 plunged into the abyss of woe. 
 
 Mortimer [coming forward). And yet, fair angel, it 
 may happen that the clouds will unexpectedly break, 
 and fortune once more scatter roses in your path. 
 
 Beatrice. Sir, what may this mean? This bold in- 
 trusion ill becomes a gentleman. 
 
 3Iortimer. Pardon me, madam, if in my zeal and 
 warmth of soul I have o'erstepped the limits of discre- 
 tion. If I am captivated by your charms, it is the 
 beauty which enslaves that you must blame, and not 
 the slave for being enslaved by beauty. 
 
 Beatrice. Your language startles me. Know you, 
 sir, to whom you speak ? 
 
 Mortimer. To one who in mj' earlier days I oft have 
 looked on with a tender eye ; my fond imagination 
 dreaming oft of golden hours yet to be — sweet seasons 
 wherein our souls should melt into a soft embrace, and 
 morning ever wake us to delight. 
 
 Beatrice (aside). Can this be Action or reality ? 
 
 Mortimer. These were my thoughts and these my 
 sentiments ; when in an instant came a change ; a 
 cruel change, which shattered all ray hopes. I had a 
 friend ; he also saw, admired, and succeeded. 
 
 Beatrice. My husband ? 
 
 Mortimer. Ay, madam, your husband, and till then 
 my friend. Thus you have heard the past. Now may 
 I tell you of the present ? 
 
 Beatrice. Enough I have already heard. The se- 
 quel would offend me as a wife. 
 
 Mortimer. Nay, nay, thou beauteous being, repulse 
 
34 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 me not with the cold words of an indignant virtue. 
 Reflect on your position, and then tell me if you find 
 no warrant for my suit. Indeed, think you that beauty 
 such as yours was meant for nothing- better than the 
 chilling blast of cold adversity ? Look on the pic- 
 ture ; then on that which I would offer you as your 
 future. 
 
 Beatrice. Beware, sir, lest you place too slight a. 
 value on ray womanhood. 
 
 Mortimer. Be mine the task to cherish, not to mar 
 the beauty of so fair a flower. 
 
 Beatrice. Sir, do you perceive this ring ? (Shows 
 wedding ring). As an expression of that love which 
 once I gave ; and having given once, can never give 
 again, it is a sj'^mbol of eternity. As such, let it pro- 
 claim me sacred, though my troubles may invite com- 
 passion. 
 
 Mortimer. 'Tis but a little effort that it costs, no 
 more. Say if you will, that you will take my words 
 into your private thoughts, and ponder them. Tliis 
 done, I will believe myself the richest man in all this 
 wealthy universe. Denying this, then would I have 
 you think that you are heaven's moon, and I a maniac 
 who adores thee. (Kneels to her). 
 
 Beatrice. Arise, sir, and desist. As a man of honor 
 you will encroach no farther on an unprotected 
 woman. (Mortimer rises). 
 
 Mortimer. So beautiful, and yet so cruel ! 
 
 Beatrice. Henceforth I charge you to be silent, sir ; 
 while also do you learn that woman is above this pit- 
 eous reasoning which would hold her favor as a thing 
 to trafiic for. Among the countless treasures which 
 this world affords, a woman's reputation is the fairest 
 gem ; her love the only thing which knows no price 
 but love ; her virtue that which shines with its own 
 radiant light, though sun, and moon, and stars conceal 
 themselves. What, therefore, though the clouds 
 should gather, and my path be dark ? Shall I, for this, 
 forget myself, and sacrifice my womanhood ? No, 
 never, never. 
 
 Mortimer. From lips so fair, such words of cruelty 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 35 
 
 ne'er Bhould come. Deal with me as you will, I will 
 be still your slave. 
 
 Beatrice. No more, I'll hear no more ; nor is there 
 aught upon this earth that can dissuade me from my 
 resolution. If it be so, that I must suffer for my hus- 
 band's faults, so let it be. Far better this, than quench 
 that lig-ht, which having lost, makes me unworthy of 
 my sex. If I be rich in virtue, I am still myself. If 
 poor in this, then poor indeed. [^Exit. 
 
 Mortimer. The tide has turned ; and fortune favors 
 me no more. \_Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — A Room dimly lighted. 
 
 Malcour, rousing as it icerefrom sleep. 
 
 Maloour. It is of no avail ; I cannot sleep. The 
 mind disturbed denies the body rest. But hark, did 
 not I hear a sound? Who can be moving at this si- 
 lent hour? 
 
 Enter Isabel. 
 
 Why, sweet daughter, how is this ? Methought 
 tliat long ere this you wore soft hushed within the 
 oblivious world of sleep. 
 
 Taahel. Did not I hear you call ? It seemed to me 
 I surely heard your voice. 
 
 Malcour. Perchance you did. It fs a habit that I 
 sometimes have to think aloud. But no matter, sweet. 
 Do you retire to your rest. My thoughts will soon 
 have past; and I will follow your example. 
 
 Isabel. Methought the night was meant for sleep, 
 and not for thinking. Here will I rest a while. 
 (Throws herself on a lounge). While yet this cloud is 
 on your brow I feel I should be near. 
 
 Malcour. While I in contemplation of night's silent 
 beauty may haply find an antidote to my troubled 
 mind. (Sits at the window and looks out). 'Tis mid- 
 might ; and all nature seems as 'twere a sleeping in- 
 fant, smiling on it's mother's breast ; while man, ex- 
 hausted by his daily toil, sinks into a sweet forgetful- 
 
36 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 ness of life. For me alone there is no peace. Oh ! 
 conscience, conscience, whei'efore is this so ? (Rises). 
 Ay, even that 1 seem a lone and outcast wretch, for 
 whom the darkness is more welcome than the day ; all 
 things beneath the moon appearing hag'gard, wild, and 
 most unseasonable ; the universe all out of joint ; and 
 I the inmate of a world wherein each thought is 
 but a knell that calls me to the grave. (A moment- 
 ary pause). Yes, yes, the grave ! There is the end 
 to which it seems that I am tending fast, and where 
 alone I can forget my troubles in the sleep of death — 
 that endless sleep, the only boon the wretched mind 
 can feel. If, like a fool, I cling to life, 'tis but to die 
 ten thousand deaths in living. If I should die, who 
 knows but in the change I may be plunged in Lethe's 
 stream, and thus blot out all memory of the past. It 
 may be so, it must be so ; whereas it is a vulgar su- 
 perstition only which deters us from the grave 
 
 {Goes to the closet, from which he takes a dagger, and 
 then continues, approaching Isabel.) 
 
 She sleeps, unconscious of the storm that rages in 
 her father's breast. A thought ! a thought 1 Me- 
 thinks I'll take her with me to another world. And 
 yet, if I should kill her now while yet the blush of 
 heaven lingers Qn her virgin brow, and virtue breatlies 
 through all her thoughts ; then may it seem indeed 
 indeed enough to make the very angels weep. But 
 wherefoi'e do I pause ; affrighted from my purpose by 
 these idle sentiments ? It shall be done ; it must be 
 done. Sleep on, therefore, gentle angel, as yon are ; 
 nor shall you stir from your sweet dreams, till waking 
 in another world, you thank the father^'s hand which 
 freed you from this life of sorrow, disappointment, and 
 dull care. Come, deatli, thou friend of all who have 
 no friend beside. 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 37 
 
 As he is in the act of killing her, enter Beatrice and 
 
 EUDORA. 
 
 Beatrice. Great heavens I Malcour, how is this ? 
 Have you so far fallen as to stain your hands with in- 
 nocent blood ? 
 
 Ilalcour. 'Tis but a short-lived reverie, nothing 
 more ; a passing mood in which my thoughts run wild, 
 and lead me on I know not where. 
 
 Beatrice. Not so. As you well know, this is tlio 
 truth half told, and not that frank confession due me 
 as your wife. 
 
 Eudora. Rich in guile, and practised in deceit, you 
 have deceived us oft. Between us now let there be 
 truth 
 
 Ilalcour. Think not, cold, heartless woman, I will 
 yield a tame submission to your words. Yours is that 
 part where every thought conceals an artifice. Think 
 not, therefore, that I understand you not. 
 
 Eudora. Evading still the point at issue, eh ? But 
 it is ever thus. When villains seem most sensitive, 
 then are they most to be suapected. 
 
 Malcour. Beatrice, you love me not; else would you 
 not permit such language in your presence. 
 
 Beatrice. It is not what is charged, but what is 
 proved, that makes up our condemnation. So let it 
 be with me ; while furthermore I swear, that could 
 you look within my soul, and see the deep, undying 
 love that, like the Vestal Virgin's fire, burns forever 
 there ; then would you see, indeed, a sight that might 
 resolve you into tears for all the wrongs that you have 
 done. For you, however, where is the warrant for 
 that crime which even now you had committed but 
 for our unexpected presence ? Oh ! ]\[alcour, Malcour, 
 that it should have come to this 1 
 
 Malcour. It is the hand of fate that makes us what 
 we are. 
 
 Eudora {contemptuously). As though there ever was 
 a fate, the thread of which we did not weave i'or our- 
 selves I Shame, shame, say T, upon the man who bol- 
 sters up his sins by a device so base as this. [Exit. 
 
38 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Malcour. So moves the world ; and we are driven 
 by this all-pervading atmosphere of circumstance, 
 this mighty power which controls us all in spite of 
 ourselves. Believe me, Beatrice, that this thing which 
 we call murder, is the only mudicine suited to 
 despair. 
 
 Imhel {waking from her sleep). What do I see and 
 hear ? Am I awake, or do I dream ? 
 
 Malcour (aside). Would that I had killed her ere 
 she had discovered such a scene as this. 
 
 Isabel. Still silent ! Tell me, my good mother, 
 wherefore is this so ? Or you, my ever kind and 
 watchful father, tell me why is this — this cloud upon 
 your brow, this marked excitement in my mother's 
 manner ? Methouglit I also heard some strange allu- 
 sion made to murder. 
 
 Malcour. If it be murder to extinguish life when 
 there is nothing left for which to live ; if it be mur- 
 der to transplant a tender rose that it may bloom un- 
 sullied in another world ; then, my gentle Isabel, did 
 I seek to murder thee. Yea, even as I stood upon the 
 brink of desperation, struggling with my conscience 
 and my love, it seemed to me 'twere better we should 
 leave this world of sorrow, darkness and despair. 
 Say, gentle angel, will you go ? The world beyond is 
 brighter than the one which is. 
 
 Isabel. Alas ! for me, 'tis but the wreck of what 
 was once my father that I look upon. Teach me to 
 do whate'er I may, and I'll obey, if it will only bring 
 my father back to me. But oh ! to see you thus, the 
 victim of a wild, disordered brain ; this is enough to 
 bid me water all the earth with tears, put out the sun, 
 and drape the universe with black. 
 
 Beatrice. While I enshrouded in a widow's deepest 
 weeds, can only weep and weep, and, weeping, curse 
 the hour I was ever born. Say, say, ray husband, is 
 it so that the fair sun will rise no more to kill the 
 night ? 
 
 Malcour. 'Tis past, 'tis past, and ne'er will come 
 again. For me this world has now become a charnel 
 house, wherein I can perceive no forms but those of 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 39 
 
 spectral sliape — grim demons as it were, whose only 
 pleasure is to torture me. 'Tis midnight with me in 
 my soul, and I can look no more upon the light of 
 day. 
 
 Beatrice. But Heaven is so kind, that the recording 
 angel ofttimes blols out our evils with a tear. 
 
 Malcour. In vain we pluck the arrow from the 
 wound ; supposing thus, we can dispense a healing 
 balm. Let him who can, drag out a weary life ; be- 
 lieving that by torture self-inflicted he can cleanse the 
 stain of sin. Not so with me. High as the stars 
 above the earth, my earlier thonglits did soar above 
 tlie common herd of men. Temptation came upon me 
 in an evil hour, and I fell. Now I am fallen, I can 
 never live to think of what I was by what I am. 
 Then to the gates of death ; stay not my passage ; oh! 
 forbid me not. When I am gone, your precious tears 
 will make fair flowers grow upon my grave. Alive, I 
 am unworthy of your love. Farewell, farewell. {To 
 Isabel.) And you, my tender violet, fare thee well. 
 {To both.) Be thus when I am dead; and, by the 
 sweet celestial purity of your souls, you will attract 
 the choicest hosts of heaven as your guardians. 
 Where virtue is, there in an especial sense is the pro- 
 tecting eye of the Omnipotent. Farewell, farewell. 
 In death alone is my relief. 
 
 {As he is in the act of stabbing himself, Franklin entei's 
 hastily, and seizes his ai^m,) 
 
 Franklin. Hold, madman, hold. This must not, 
 shall not be. 
 
 {Curtain falls to slow music.) 
 
40 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 ACT Y. 
 
 Scene I. — A Street. 
 
 Eater Arthur and Beaumont. Beaumoxt attempting to 
 speak. 
 
 Arthur. Be still, thou vulgar, prating knave. Al- 
 ready is the air too thick with falsehood and deceit. 
 
 Beaumont. Believe me, it is but the truth I speak. 
 
 Arthur. Truth, indeed ! Tut, tut, I would as soon 
 believe the magpie could produce the music of the 
 nightingale, as that you could speak the truth. Why, . 
 man, turn where I will, 'tis falsehood everywhere. 
 Ay, e'en that baseness penetrates into the minutest 
 corners of society. Appearances deceive ; and no 
 man is that which he seems. 
 
 Beaumont. The danger is with partial sinners, as it 
 is with partial saints. They form a sort of undivided 
 territory whereon the hosts of light and darkness al- 
 ternate in their possession ; whereas with those who, 
 like myself, believe in sin by wholesale, we at least 
 have this advantage, that we sin consistently. 
 
 Arthur. And in the face of this, you dare to say 
 that 3^ou can speak the truth ? 
 
 Beaumont. The man who dares to do his misdeeds 
 in the noon-day sun needs not the cloak of sly hypoc- 
 risy. But enough of this. In our dealings you will 
 find me honest. 
 
 Arthur. The Devil was sick, the Devil became a 
 saint ; the Devil was well, the Devil a saint was he. 
 May it not be so with you ? 
 
 Beaumont (showing his purse, which is somewhat torn 
 and empty). See you this purse ? 
 
 Arthur. Such as it is, I do. 
 
 Beaumont. As empty as a woman's promise, eh ? 
 
 Arthur. More properly, like most men's characters, 
 full of holes. But what of this to our purpose ? 
 
 Beaumont. A tale there hangs thereby, as you shall 
 see ; for wliile my comrades have their pockets full to 
 
CHANCES AND CnANGES. 41 
 
 overflowing through their foul play, I am without a 
 dollar. Thus do you understand me.? 
 
 Arthur. Eevenge ! Is this your aim ? 
 
 Beaumont. Witliin that sentence you embrace it 
 all. My soul is up in arms. My injuries demand re- 
 dress. 
 
 Arthur. Can I rely upon your word ? For mark 
 you, if you trifle with me in my present mood, I'll deal 
 with you as though you were a rat ; so soon will I 
 despatch you to the shades below. 
 
 Beaumont. Believe me, it is as I say. If you 
 would wreak your vengeance on the men who by their 
 base insidious plots did bring the generous Mulcour to 
 his ruin, I am your servant. 'Twixt them and me 
 there stands a large account. Till I have settled it, 
 I'll have no thoughts but those of vengeance. 
 
 Arthur. This being the case, be thou my slave. ■ 
 When rogues fall out, the honest man obtains his due. 
 Come, come, let us at once to our end ; for vengeance 
 to be fruitful must be swift. (Exeunt ) 
 
 Scene II, — A Room scantily furnished. 
 Isabel alone, and in mourning. 
 
 Isabel (trimming lamx)). Truly this is a most uneven 
 world, in which the innocent often bear the burdens of 
 the guilty : while those who merit least seem most to 
 bask iu fortune's suushiue. 
 
 Enter Beatrice, aha in mourning. She enters without 
 speaking, and takes a seat as if lost in thought. 
 
 Isabel. How now, sweet mother, do you feel re- 
 freshed ? 
 
 Beatrice. Thank you, my child. I have had a 
 pleasant sleep ; and oh ! such pleasant dreams, 
 
 Isabel. Thrice happier, then, did you sleep on, un- 
 conscious of your troubles. 
 
 Beatrice. Not so. To do this would be to merge 
 myself into a dreamy nothingness ; ji state which none 
 could well desire. 
 
42 
 
 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Isabel. If in losing our consciousness, we should 
 also lose our troubles, are we not richer by the loss ? 
 For my part, I would much prefer annihilation to thi's 
 life of sorrow, sadness, and despair ; this endless 
 chain, where fear succeeds to fear, and ills on ills at- 
 tend. 
 
 Beatrice. In our gloomiest hours the star of hope 
 forsakes us not. Though poor in earthly goods, we 
 still are blest in this — that we can hope. But you 
 shall hear my dream. 
 
 Isabel. Be it so. But, mother, you are so pale. I 
 fear the excitement, little as it is, is too much for 
 you. 
 
 -Beatrice. 'Tis but the outflow of my feelings. I 
 will be better presently. (Weeps, leaning on Isabel). 
 
 Isabel. Come, come, I'll hold your heart to mine. 
 Here you shall weep your full, while in my love I'll 
 kiss your tears away. (Aside). And yet 'tis hard 
 that one so pure, so true, should suffer thus. 
 
 Beatrice (recovering herself). Now for my dream. 
 Do you attend, and see if you agree with my interpre- 
 tation. It was the solemn rite of my dead husband's 
 obsequies ; and as I stood beside the corpse, deep 
 buried in my grief; behold a marvelous scene occur- 
 red. The coffin sank into the yawning earth, but my 
 dear husband stood erect as when alive. An instant 
 more, when lo ! a bright and glorious rainbow spanned 
 the arch between the heavens and the earth ; a thous- 
 and sweet, harmonious voices fell upon my ear ; and I 
 awoke. 
 
 Enter Fkanklin, excitedly. 
 
 Franklin. And waking, live to find your di'eam is 
 realized ; while even now returning sunshine bids you 
 lay aside these suits of woe. For weeping we will 
 substitute the songs of praise ; and in the fullness of 
 our new-born joy discard all thoughts that are not 
 tinctured with the beauty of the smiling morn. 
 
 Beatrice. Why, good Franklin, how is this ? So 
 unlike is it to your usual self, that I can scarce be- 
 lieve my senses. Till now your voice has been the 
 
CHANCER AND CHANGES. 
 
 43 
 
 one to counsel resignation to my fate. Whence, there- 
 fore, is this change by which the man of gray hairs, 
 wisdom and experience, gives place to youthful buoy- 
 ancy ? 
 
 FranJclin. If I am happy, 'tis on your account — Srst, 
 that Malcour is not dead, as we supposed ; and sec- 
 ond, that Arthur has returned ; a man in all respects, 
 and bent upon the resurrection of your hopes : his 
 happiness. 
 
 Beatrice. My husband living 1 No, no ; this is too 
 much ; a joy too sudden to be true. I will regard it 
 but as 'twere a passing meteor which illumes my 
 sky ; a moment it enchants me by its beauty, and 'tis 
 gone. 
 
 Isabel. A bright and glorious dream, too beautiful 
 to be true . 
 
 FranUin. Think you, my children, I would trifle 
 with your feelings thus ? Not so. My tidings, though 
 appearing strange, are not more strange than true. 
 But see, even as I speak, experience proves my words. 
 
 Enler Arthur hastily. 
 
 Arthur. Isabel ; my life, my angel ! 
 
 Uahel. Auspicious hour tliat restores my hopes. 
 (Falls into Arthur's arms. J (Arthur.) Sweet soul ; 
 the shock is too much for her nerves. Forgive me, 
 love; I am to blame for being so sudden. 
 
 Isabel (recovering herself). Not so, my love ; not 
 so. Indeed, should all my life to come be_ one con- 
 tinued scene of troubles, the pleasure of this blissful 
 moment would suffice to counterbalance all my griefs. 
 And yet I scarcely can believe I am awake. 
 
 Arthur. Joy for the present moment, sweet one ; 
 joy to-day. Let this be our maxim for the present. 
 Meantime, I would unto your good mother, pay my 
 due respects. I know she spurned me once, but tliat 
 is past. (Ajoproachinrj Beatrice, and leading Isabel by 
 the hand). {To Beatrice.) Madam, with all due re- 
 spect, I pray you to accept me as your son. _ For the 
 past, I can only say, let it be buried in oblivion. For 
 
44 '- "cnANCE3 AND CHANGES. 
 
 the future, I do pledge myself allied to you in all the 
 bonds of friendship, love, and duty. 
 
 Beatrice. Accept, good sir, my thanks ; though in 
 my poverty, I am even poor in this. To-morrow v^ill 
 be the anniversary of my wedding day. Let it be 
 therefore chosen as the time when you shall seal your 
 loves in the sweet bonds of matrimony. 
 
 Isabel. Oh ! blissful hour, v/hen first a mother dares 
 to speak in nature's voice ; nor base nor mercenary 
 thoughts impede the course of love. 
 
 Arthur. Say also thrice auspicious day, ■which 
 -giving love so great a victory, shall also bring your 
 father back to life. (To Franklin. J Franklin, 1 will 
 meet you in an hour hence. (To Isabel.) Meantime, 
 my love, let us enjoy the sweet fruition of this blissful 
 hour. 'Twill be a little while at most 'ere Cynthia will 
 have kissed the western sea. Ere she has left us, I 
 would bid her send Aurora in all haste, arrayed, too, 
 in her fairest robes ; that when she comes, awaking 
 nature .seeing it such a glorious morn, the birds will 
 sing their sweetest song, and singing, wonder why the 
 earth appears so bright. 
 
 Isabel. And all the world will answer, "'tis our 
 wedding day." Say is it not so, sweet love ? (Exe- 
 unt Arthur and Isabel, j 
 
 ■Beatrice (weeping). Still, still, they come ; but 
 they are tears of joy and not of sorrow ; the only 
 tribute I can pay to that Superior Power which has 
 once more bid my drooping soul arise. A long, long 
 night it seems, that I have passed ; and now the first 
 fair tokens of the dawn show in the east. The night 
 was dark, and I had manj'^, many changing dreams. 
 Now it appears I stand abroad in the fresh air, and 
 feel the fragrant breath of morning on ray brow. Yes, 
 yes ; I can but raise my eyes to Heaven, filled with 
 tears, since therein I may best express the fullness of 
 my soul. (Exeunt.) 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 45 
 
 Scene III. — A Wood — The Moon Rising — Malcour 
 . Comes from a Cave — His Appear ance Being 
 Somewhat Dilapidated. 
 
 Malcour. Alone, yet not alone ; since even in the 
 deepest stillness of tlie night, I can not put my con- 
 sciousness away. Ay, even that the calmness of this 
 place becomes a torture to my mind, in that it turns 
 ray thoughts within, and in my solitude, makes me 
 more fully know myself. Here, here it lies. The dis- 
 ease is within, and therefore all the beauty of the 
 world is lost to me ! Ah ! verily, it is a truth, that he 
 who has his conscience clear, may everywhere enjoy 
 the bright and glorious da}'^, while he whose soul is 
 tainted with the guilt of sin, benighted walks beneath 
 tlie midday sun ; in his distracted slumbers, starting 
 e'en as if pursued by angry demons, of most hideous 
 shape. ( Voices loithout.) But hark, did I not hear the 
 sound of human voices ? Methought I had escaped the 
 thoroughfares of men. 
 
 Enter Franklix and Arthur. 
 
 Hold, gentlemen, this is my territory. You must 
 advance no farther. 
 
 Franklin. Fear not, Malcour, we are friends. 
 
 Malcour. Friends indeed 1 For me there are no 
 friends that are not parasites, while honesty is bat an 
 empty name ; no more. No, no ; I have too deeply 
 read mankind, to be deceived by this fair sounding 
 phrase. 'T:s but a name invented to deceive ; full of 
 fair seeming, it is true, but at the core, delusion all. 
 Besides, I have selected this abode, because I wished 
 to bid the world adieu. 
 
 Franklin. What if we prove to you that this is an 
 instance where the hand of Providence intervenes for 
 a beneficent purpose ? 
 
 Malcour. And is there still a Providence ? Me- 
 thought this was a vain delusion of my earlier days, 
 an empty drcatn which many years of suffering long 
 ere this hits scattered to tlie winds. Beliold in me an 
 
46 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 instance of what little interest Pi'ovidence feels in the 
 affairs of men. 
 
 Franklin. Shame, Malcour, on such base and fiend- 
 ish reasoning-. The ills which we endure are our own ; 
 our blessings are from a superior Power. But of this 
 enough. Accept our proposition to renounce this 
 miserable life, and by the aid of Arthur's friendship, be 
 as once you were ; — a man. 
 
 Malcour. Why sirs, this is more like fiction than 
 like fact. 'Tis but a few years since I spurned this 
 man as though he were a worm, and now he comes to 
 me as my deliverer. No, no ; this is too romantic to 
 be real. Leave me, gentlemen, I beseech you. Leave 
 me to myself. 
 
 Arthur. Not so ; lest in so doing, we should undo 
 that which we have already done. As you will see, 
 there have been strange, mysterious forces operating 
 in your interest. 
 
 Malcour. Good sirs, I do entreat you trifle no more 
 with the feelings of a broken spirit. With me, the 
 time has now arrived when I can no longer sit be- 
 neath a summer sky, and mark the fair, fantastic 
 forms which light and cloud assume as they embrace. 
 'Tis now the time when black-eyed night succeeds to 
 day, and nature wears her darkest robes in common 
 mourning with my sorrow. Surely this is a picture 
 dark enough to warn away all jesting and frivolity. 
 
 Arthur. Nay, by my soul, I will be heard ; nor is 
 there aught but truth and friendship in my words. It 
 was a night, just such a night as this ; yon glorious 
 moon diffusing o'er the earth her silver light ; a dewy 
 freshness breathing through the silent air ; all nature 
 resting sweetly in its placid rest ; when lo 1 my 
 mother's spirit stood before me. 
 
 Malcour. Your mother's spirit 1 What, a ghost I 
 Desist, I pray you, sir. {A moment's pause.) But 
 what are ghosts to me, for whom each moment is some 
 spectral shape, more hideous than all your ghosts ? 
 Proceed. Your subject wins my ear. 
 
 Arthur. Nay, start not in surprise till you have 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES 
 
 47 
 
 heard tho rest. Thus do you listen. The smile of 
 Heaven yet upon her face ; her eyes reflecting a 
 celestial light more beautiful than many stars ; her 
 voice as 'twere the softest of sweet music's gentle 
 strains ; she spoke to me of jou. 
 
 Malcour. Of me ; a man in whom the higher 
 spheres can feel no interest 1 
 
 Franklin. Still will you yield to the delusions of a 
 diseased mind ! 
 
 3Ialcour. Call it delusion, if you please. But, tell 
 me, does there live a man who can escape his shadow ? 
 Not so, good sirs. This never has been yet ; nor will 
 it ever be. The world at best is but a mirror, wherein 
 the reflex of our inner life determines what we see. 
 
 Arthur. True as this is, 'tis also true that there is 
 no state, however dark, but we may sometimes see 
 the Angel Mercy beaming on us with a tender glance ; 
 as when a mother looks upon her wayward child. 
 
 Malcour. Almost, gentlemen, yon persuade me. 
 But tell me, Franklin, how speaks the world concern- 
 ing me ? . 
 
 Franklin. As of a man, who meanfng well, while 
 walking in his sleep fell down a precipice. Such are 
 the words of some. 
 
 Malcour. This is the opinion of the few. What of 
 the many ? 
 
 Franklin. What, of the vulgar herd? It matters 
 not what they may think, when there is one who 
 mourning for your loss as a true-hearted woman only 
 can, still clings to past associations, and the memories 
 of her early love. 
 
 Malcour. Franklin, I beseech you name her' not. 
 The whips and stings of an indignant world I may 
 endure. But oh ! to think of her as she has been, and 
 as she is ; this is too much. Yea, even as I speak, 
 methiuks I see her tender eyes bedimmed with tears ; 
 while gently floating heavenward, her prayers are as 
 the i'rugrant breath of early morning flowers ; her 
 every thought the deep expression of a wondrous love. 
 Oh ! Franklin, what a heaven had I there ! But I 
 
48 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 must hold my ton<^ae, since language is too feeble for 
 my thoughts. ( Tarns aside deeply qff'ected.) 
 
 Arthur. At last we sti-ike the key-note of his soul. 
 
 Franklin {to Malcour). Your anguish, Malcour, I 
 can but too well understand. It is the human in our 
 nature which leads us into sin. It is the still small 
 voice descending from above ■ which leads us to 
 repent. 
 
 Malcour. Our characters ai'e but slender wares, 
 more easily broken than repaired. But oh ! to think 
 of her ; there is the point that scourges me. Say, 
 gentlemen, do you assure me her forgiveness ? 
 
 Franklin. With all the fullness of a woman's love, 
 I will engage that she receives you. 
 
 Arthur. And so do I ; while also Isabel in the 
 gentle ministrations of her love will nobly do her part; 
 myself not wanting in my duty as your son. 
 
 Malcour. Can it be true, or is it that I live an in- 
 stant in some mystic realm I Say, gentlemen, is this 
 real, or do I wander in my thoughts ; believing that I 
 look once more upon the glorious sun ? 
 
 Franklin. Dark as your night has been, there never 
 was a night which did not have an end. Indeed, 
 'twere strange were it not so ; since all men need at 
 times the soft compassion of sweet mercy. 
 
 Malcour. The dew of mercy falls not where 'tis un- 
 deserved. 
 
 Franklin. Go, ask the sun why on all men he pours 
 his beams ; the stars, why on the good and bad they 
 shine alike. Do this ; and by their answer you will 
 learn why mercy is not partial in her smiles; and why 
 in every corner of this universal earth, she seeks to 
 bind the broken heart, and heal the raging fever of 
 despair. 
 
 Malcour. Auspicious hour, wherein earth and heaven 
 meet in their embrace ! Lead on, good sirs, and I will 
 follow you. If it be so that mercy lifts the veil of night, 
 and in the place of dai-kness, bids me look upon the 
 rosy east, it is not well that I should question, but 
 obey. For thee, my solitude, fare thee well. I sought 
 you for your charms. Now they are lost, farewell. 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 49 
 
 Come on, good friends, if I must to the world ag-ain, 
 let it be done at once ; lest hesitating, I may change 
 my mind. [JExeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Room. 
 
 Beatrice, looking out of Ihe window at the rising sun. 
 
 Beatrice. All hail, thou glorious orb, that by your 
 presence bids the world awake to life. 
 
 JEnter Isabel. 
 
 Isabel. So early up, sweet mother ? Methought 
 that I should be the first to see the sun. Say, mother, 
 does it not appear to you as though the earth upon 
 this morn came nearer heaven ? To me it seems that 
 even nature's silent things are breathing a deep 
 beauty and an earnest praise such as 1 have never 
 known before. 
 
 Beatrice. It is the world within that makes the 
 world without so bright. In fact, such is the nature 
 of true happiness, that while it quickens all the finer 
 elements of our being, it also makes the earth yppear 
 more beautiful. Like twin sisters of celestial birth, 
 happiness and beauty move always hand in hand. 
 
 A ring at the door-bell. 
 
 Isabel. Who can that be ? (Goes to side). Here 
 are several vases of flowers, mother. Did you order 
 them ? 
 
 Beatrice. 'Tis well. Let them be set in such pro- 
 fusion as will best express the fragrant beauty of our 
 new-born hopes. 
 
 Isabel takes fiowers and arranges them. 
 
 Isabel. How beautiful they are. God might have 
 made the earth without its flowers. But oh I had this 
 been so, what gems of beauty we had lost? lu east- 
 ern lands they talk in flowers, do they not ? 
 3 
 
>50 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 Beatrice. So it is said ; and well they may ; since 
 after all, these are love's truest language, and the 
 most perfect symbols of our purest thoughts. But it 
 is getting late, and we have many things to do. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — The same. 
 
 Enter Malcour and taken hu seat, deeply absorbed in 
 thought. After a few moments he looks inquiringly 
 around the room and rises. 
 
 Malcour. Has it then come to this, that from a 
 wandering spirit seeking rest, yet finding none, I 
 breathe once more within a sphere where all things 
 speak of beauty and of peace? (Approaches and ex- 
 amines the floxmrs). Sweet flowers, too, those sweet 
 expressions of our finest sentiments — affections, as it 
 were, whose soft pulsations we can only hear when 
 we have cleansed the dross from our souls. (The 
 sound of music in the distance). But soft, did not I 
 hear the sound of music ? Yes, there it is again. 
 Oh I how it steals into my soul, and bids my weary 
 spirit to forget the past. Yes, yes, at last 'tis peace 
 where all before was darkness and despair. Bright 
 visions, too, how beautiful they seem ! Fair forms, as 
 though the fairest things of earth did vie with those 
 of heaven. No, all of heaven, they are so passing 
 beautiful. But see, she comes. The glorious east puts 
 on its brighest hues ; and in her presence, beauteous 
 Eden takes the place of death. 
 
 Enter Beatrice, excitedly. 
 
 Beatrice (rushing up to Malcour and embracing him). 
 Malcour, my husband. 
 
 Malcour (Beatrice leaning on him). Fair sonl, may 
 heaven henceforth make me worthy of your love. (Kiss- 
 es her affectionately). See, how she weeps, and in the 
 purity of her tears makes e'en the virgin snow appear 
 
CHANCES AND CHANGES. 51 
 
 impure : each tear, in fact, a radiant gem more beau- 
 tiful than all the costly pearls of earth. (Looking at 
 her intently and affectionately). No, no, it is not true 
 that there exist no angels on the earth. The fault is 
 with ourselves ; that in our baser natures we perceive 
 them not. 
 
 Beatrice (recovering herself). There, it is over now. 
 The storm is past,. and we will rest securely in each 
 other's love. 
 
 Malcour. And let the past remain for ever in the 
 voiceless grave. 
 
 Beatrice. For ever in the silent sleep of death let it 
 remain. All that I ask is, that you may be a wiser 
 man for your experience. This done, then will our life 
 henceforth become a glorious summer, full of charms 
 and chaste delights. Will you not grant me this? 
 
 Malcour. Think you, my angel, I could look on your 
 fair face, and find myself so base as to refuse ? No, 
 Beatrice ; it is, after all, the stern discipline of expe- 
 rience which alone can make us men. This have I 
 learned in sorrow and in tears. Now I awake to find 
 my soul illumined by a new-born light. Be yours the 
 task to keep its flame for ever bright and pure. In 
 darker hours I withstood your influence. Now I am 
 yours, with all my heart and soul. Be thou henceforth 
 my angel, and my guide. 
 
 Enter Isabel and Arthur. Isabel dressed as a bride. 
 Embraces Malcour affectionately. 
 
 Isabel. Thrice welcome hour that restores my father 
 to these arms. Now may we say, indeed, the night is 
 past ; and morning gives us promise of returning 
 day. 
 
 Malcour. A morn, indeed, whereon your bridal 
 blushes give a new-born beauty to the earth ; while 
 fair Repentance, following in the footsteps of Remorse, 
 relumes my fallen soul, and lights me back to heaven. 
 
 Arthur. Not to the past, but to the future let us 
 look. It is the province of all men to err. It is the 
 province of the wise man to renounce his sin, and woo 
 the angel Virtue in the future. 
 
52 CHANCES AND CHANQfiS. 
 
 Enter Franklin. 
 
 Franklin. With all my heart, so may it be. Ex- 
 perience teaches many things, but none more clearly 
 than the fact that in virtue alone is happiness. 
 
 Malcour. Shine on, fair virtue, thou celestial sun 
 beneath whose presence even night is changed into a 
 glorious, bright, eternal noon. Henceforth be thou my 
 constant guest ; nor will I think of vice but to com- 
 pare its vile proportions with your matchless beauty. 
 
 Franklin. Be this your aim, and all the fairest joys 
 of earth will answer to your bidding. The highest 
 wisdom, after all, does not so much consist in what we 
 know, as what we are. 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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