OF
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THE LIBRARY
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SITY OF
UNIVERSIT
OMNIBUS
ARTIBUS
3
CLASS SIWET
BOOK
MINNESOTA

WIDOW'S
OR,
Mail
POM
NOISY CARRIERS
WHICH IS THE TRAITOR.
A MELO-DRAMA,
IN THREE ACTS,
As performed at the New-York Park Theatre.
The heirs of Freedom little know its cost,
What risks our fathers ran by flood and field,
"Or to what arts they were compelled to stoop.""
}
BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH,
Author of "La Fayette, or the Castle of Olmutz," the "Deed
of Gift," the "Locket," &c.
MUSIC-BY J. H. SWINDELLS, OF NEW-YORK
{
n
NEW-YORK
Published at the Circulating Library and Dra
matic Repository, No. 4 Chambers-st.
-000-
C. N. Baldwin, Print. No. 70 Frankfort-street.
1825.
Southern District of New-York, ss.

LS
Be it remembered, That on the
twenty-ninth day of Marcli, A. D. 1325, in the
fiftieth year of the Independence of the United
States of America, SAMUEL WOODWORTH,
of the said District, hath deposited in this office the
title of a Book, the right whereof he claims as Author in the words
following, to wit:
"The Widow's Son; or, which is the Traitor? A Melo-Drama in
three Acts. As performed at the New-York Park Theatre.
"The heirs of Freedom little know its cost;
"What risks our father ran by flood and field,
"Or to what arts they were compelled to stoop."
By SAMUEL WOODWORTH, author of "La Fayette; or, the
Castle of Olmutz;" the "Deed of Gift ;" the "Locket," &c. &c.
In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled
"An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies
of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such
copies, during the time therein mentioned ;" and also to an Act, en-
titled an
Act, supplementary to an Act, entitled an Act for the en-
couragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts,
and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the
times therein mentioned, and extending the benefits thereof to the arts
of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints."
JAMES DILL, Clerk of the Southern District of New-York.
81W87
OW
INTRODUCTION.
THERE are several persons, yet living, who recol-
lect Margaret Darby, an eccentric female, who, dur-
ing an eventful period of our revolutionary struggle,"
was better known by the quaint appellation of the
Witch of Blagge's Clove. It was a prevailing opin-
ion, among the more enlightened inhabitants of Go-
shen and its vicinity, that "Mother Darby" was
insane, as she lived, ate, drank, slept, and, above
all, dressed, in a manter peculiar to herself. There
is one individual, however, who had the means of
being better acquainted with her real character, to
Whom I am indebted for the particulars about to be
elated, from which it will be s en, that however
insignificant or eccentric she may have appeared in
the eyes of the multitude, the destiny of this great
western empire depended, in some measure, on her
singular ingenuity, courage, and discretion.
Mrs Darby was a native of Ireland, of a very
respectable family, and the wife of as brave an of-
ficer as accompanied the immortal Wolfe to the
siege of Quebec. He fell, by the side of his belov-
ed General, on the plains of Abraham, leaving his
inconsolable widow the only protector of two infant
sons, with a small pension, wholly inadequate to
support a family in the style to which she had been
accustomed. In about a year after this afflicting
bereavement, she yielded to the solicitations of a
distant relation, who was then a wealthy farmer, of
Orange county, in the state of New-York, and, with
her two children, emigrated to America. On her
arrival, however, she soon found that all the fair
promises of her relative were not intended to be ful-
filled, except on conditions that appeared too de-
1310139
IV
INTRODUCTION.
grading to a woman of her lofty spirit and family
pride, to be listened to for a moment. The idea of
making farmers or mechanics of the sons of Ma-
jor Darby, was what she could not bend her mind to
endure; and the expression of 'his sentiment, in a
tone too independent or imperious for her present
circumstances, produced a rupture with her kins-
man which remained unhealed, until the cold hand
of death put a termination to his existence and en-
mity at once.
Proud as she was, however, she soon found her-
self compelled to waive her lofty pretensions; and,
as her sons grew up, to seek them situations as ap-
prentices withsome respectable artisans. The old-
est, whose name was William, was bound to a black-
smith, and his brother John to a shoemaker. Wil-
liam proved to be what is called a fine-spirited
fellow." and consequently became the favourite of
his widowed mother, who beheld in him a miniature
of the heroic husband whose memory she cherished
with a religious veneration. But his brother John,
on the contrary, was considered as a good-natured,
careless, whimsical sort of a boy, with no stability
of character, but little pride, and less industry; and
this idea was fully confirmed, by his suddenly and
clandestinely leaving the best of masters, and going
no one knew whither.
During the darkest period of that momentous con-
test which gave existence to our republic, when
party spirit had attained to its highest degree of
malignity, William Darby, then on the verge of
manhood, became suddenly suspected of leaning to-
ward the royal cause. In those days, suspicion was
proof, and he was accordingly proceeded against in
the usual summary manner. He was taken from his
bed at the dead of night, and after suffering a variety
of personal injuries unnecessary to detail, he return-
ed to his almost distracted mother arrayed in a coat
of tar and feathers,
INTRODUCTOIN.
V
Stung to the soul by such unmerited indignities,
he swore a terrible revenge, in terms so daring and
unqualified, as subjected him to imprisonment in the
county jail, where he soon forined an intimacy with
several others who were detained in " durance vile"
under similar circumstances. They soon concerted
plans for effecting their escape; and had succeeded
so far as to devest themselves of their hand-cuffs,
when they were again secured by their vigilant
jailer. As young Darby was considered the most
daring and hardened of the conspirators, the sheriff
took particular precautions with respect to his secu-
rity; he led him to the very shop in which he had
served his apprenticeship, where he was soon load-
ed with more substantial irons, by the hands of his
former master, to whom he whispered, sufficiently
loud to be heard by the by-standers: “Blow about
is fair play, Master. It will be my turn next."
A new accusation was now brought forward a-
gainst this unfortunate young man; viz. that he had
conveyed intelligence to the enemy in the city of
New-York. It was useless to deny the charge,
however ridiculous, and he was accordingly taken
to Fort Montgomery, to undergo an examination be-
fore a military tribunal. Here, however, (as no overt
act could be proved against him) he was readily
acquitted, and restored to liberty on condition that
he would accept a sergeant's warrant, and recruit
for the American service. With this condition he
affected to comply with the most cheerful alacrity;
but found pretexts for remaining a sufficient time at
the fort to take complete drawings of the works, and
to make himself master of every information that
might prove serviceable to the enemy.
Thus supplied with the means of vengeance, he
returned to Goshen, as a recruiting sergeant, and
having enlisted his former comrades in prison, and
borrowed a few guineas of a friend, he succeeded in
conducting his new recruits to the city of New-York,
1 *
VI
INTRODUCTION.
where he immediately offered his services to Sir
Henry Clinton, to lead a detachment of the royal
army against Fort Montgomery. After closely ex-
amining this daring young traitor, and inspecting
the plans and drawings which he furnished. Clinton
agreed to accept his services as a guide, in the con-
templated enterprise; and in case he led them by
the proposed rout, (which was one through which
the garrison could never expect an enemy,) and the
enterprise should prove successful, his reward was
to be two hundred guineas, and a captain's commis-
sion. Every one is acquainted with the result-the
fortress was taken by surprise, and Darby was re-
warded according to contract.
This act of treason, in a son on whom all her hopes
were placed, inflicted a most cruel wound in the
patriotic bosom of Mrs. Darby. Bereft of her hus-
band, reduced to want one son if living, a truant,
and perhaps a vagabond-the other a traitor! the
name of Darby dishonoured! It was too much.
Former misfortunes had apparently bewildered her
brain, and embittered the genial fluids of her heart;
but this last, this "unkindliest cut of all," well
nigh drove her mad. Her uncommon strength of
mind, however, uniting with a vigorous healthful con-
stitution, resisted the attack of insanity; and though
a spirit gloomy misanthrophy seemed to take
possession of her soul, her reasoning faculties re-
mained unimpared. Village tongues soon became
busy with the fair fame of the "proud Irishwoman,
and the charge of insanity was gradually exchanged
for the more opprobious term of witchcraft; and
Margaret, herself, took no little pains to encourage
the latter idea among the credulous gossips around
her. She abandoned her cottage in Goshen, and
took up her residence in a wild rocky glen, known
by the name of Blagge's clove; where, in a miser-
able solitary hut, for more than two years, she pro-
cured a precarious livelihood, by the art of fortune-
""
INTRODUCTION.
VII
telling; and such was the credulity of her rustic
neighbours, far and near, that they often left them-
selves destitute of family comforts, for the sake of
peeping into futurity.
In this situation, Mother Darby" continued to
excite the terror and the wonder of the ignorant, and
the pity of the enlightened, until the spring of that
eventful year, distinguished, among other incidents,
by the treason of Arnold. Margaret suddenly dis-
appeared in the month of March; and while some
concluded that she must have perished with cold, in
one of her nocturnal rambles among the mountains,
a greater number contended that her mysterious exit
could only be accounted for in a supernatural man-
ner that her contract with the "foul fiend" was
probably consummated, and that he had borne her
away bodily to a climate where no one was in dan-
ger of perishing with cold.
It is proper however to acquaint the reader that
the "Witch of Blagge's Clove" was now in the ser-
vice of a very different employer-of no less a per-
sonage than the immortal Washington himself. From
the representations of a confidential officer, whom
he had commissioned to provide an agent on whom
suspicion would be the least likely to fall, his ex-
cellency was convinced that Mother Darby was the
most fit for his purpose, as the medium of a corres-
pondence which it was expedient to maintain with
several patriotic citizens in the city. Though ful·
ly aware of the dangers to which such a service
would expose her, yet this extraordinary woman
very readily acceded to the proposition, in order,
as she herself expressed it, to make some atonement
tor the treason of her son. She, accordingly, crossed
the Hudson River. and proceeded to New York
with a basket of eggs, in one of which her des-
patches were ingeniously concealed.
Agreeably to her instructions, she soon made
arrangements for a permanent residence in the city;
Vin
INTRODUCTION.
where, the better to veil her real character and
designs, she resumed her former business of fortune-
telling; by which means she so far succeeded in
disguising her ulterior intentions, that she contrived
to obtain a counter-commission from Sir Henry
Clinton. Thus " doubly armed," with perpetual
passports from both parties, she went and came at
pleasure, and had the courage and address to per-
form many important services for Washington, with-
out once exciting the supicions of Clinton, or any of
his subordinate agents.
+
The costume of Margaret, in these perilous excur-
sions, may also claim (from its extreme singularity)
a few moments of the reader's attention. Över her
usual every-day apparel, (which much resembled
that of the most antiquated Dutch dame that now
attends Washington Market) she wore a kind of tu-
nic, the original colour of which was drab, but which,
by the patches and darning of half a century, had
become more motley than the coat of Joseph. This
was kept close to her waist by a leathern belt, in
which hung a pair of horseman's pistols, sometimes
accompanied with a couple of naked dirks. A little
mob-cap, tied under the chin, vainly endeavoured
to confine a profusion of long black hair, many tru-
ant locks of which were generally streaming in the
breeze. Over the cap a man's broad-brimmed hat,
with a little round crown that fitted close to the
head, completed the tout ensemble of Mother Dar-
by's travelling figure.
To beguile an idle hour in the evening, many of
the young officers in the royal army used to fre-
quent the habitation of " Crazy Peg," (the only
name by which she was designated in the city,) to
listen to her auguries, consult their own fortunes,
and regale on many rural luxuries which she alone
could procure. Among these gay volatile loungers,
Margaret frequently entertained her own son, the
hero of our story, but who could not recognise his
INTRODUETION.
IX
another under the " sybil guise" she had assumed.
From his first visit, however, she conceived the
plan of attempting to divert him from the danger-
ous path he had chosen; for, with a mother's affec-
tion, and a mother's fears, she dreaded his falling
into the hands of those whose cause he had betray-
ed, in which case an ignominious death she knew
would inevitably be his fate.
Such was, the situation of affairs, when all parties
where suddenly agitated with surprise and conster-
nation by the treason of Arnold, and the consequent
capture of Sir Henry Clinton's aid-de-camp, the
gallant Major Andre. Washington immediately de-
vised a plan for the retaking of Arnold, for the hu-
mane purpose of saving Andre; but this benevolent
intention was defeated by a train of circumstances
which could neither have been anticipated nor pre-
vented.
Such are the facts on which I have attempted to
found a drama: with what success, the public is
left to judge.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
Lee,
Carnes,
Middleton,
Champe,
Trueman,
Godfrey,
Clover,
Dr. Stramonium,
Scipio,
AMERICANS.
1
10
Mr. Lee,
Stanley.
Keene.
Simpson.
Woodhull:
Kent.
Foote.
Hilson.
Bancker.
Soldiers, Sailors, Servants, &-c.
Clinton,
Melville,
Sanford,
Capt. Darby,
Tremour,
Robert,
John,
Louisa,
Lucy,
Margaret,
Nancy,
ENGLISHMEN.
7
1
+
Mr. Jervis,
Reed.
Wheatley,
Clarke.
Nixen.
Durie.
Broad.
Miss Johnson.
Kelley.
Mrs. Barnes.
Bancker.
SCENE-In and near the city of New-York.
TIME-Seven Days.
Passages marked “thus," with inverted commas;
are omitted in the representation.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
ACT I.
The
SCENE I. A beautiful landscape on the west side of
Hudson river, the latter being partially visible in
the distance, through openings in the trees.
American encampment supposed to be on the left
of the audience, or R. H. of the actor. A neat
rural cottage, L. H. As the curtain rises, a dis-
tant bugle is heard, R. H. Middleton and Lucy
enter from the cottage, and while the symphony is
playing, appear to be taking leave of each other.
They then advance, and sing the following
DUET.-Middleton and Lucy.
He. Hark! the clamorous bugle calls me,
Fare thee well, I must away;
How, alas! the sound appals me!
Heaven protect thee in the fray.
Fame invites me,
Danger frights me,


She.
He.
She.
He,
She.
Fame shall bless thee;
Love caress thee,
Hc.
Love and glory gild my name.
Danger is the path to fame ;
:
(Bugle.
She. Hark! again the bugle loudly,
Both.
Echoes through the leafy dell;
Warrior plumes are nodding proudly;
He. Glory calls me, fare thee well..
Both. Fare thee well, love, fare thee well.
Mid. Yes, my dearest Lucy, while the cause of
liberty is supported by such hearts and such arms,
how can we doubt of success?
Lucy. I do not doubt, William; I only fear for
your safety.
2
6
[Act I
t
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Mid. Fear nothing, lovely girl; our little army
is invincible, and longs for nothing so much, as, by
one glorious battle, to wipe off the stain with which
the treason of Arnold has sullied its reputation.
Lucy. How much has that wretched man to an-
swer for perhaps, even for the life of the brave and
unfortunate Andre !
:
Mid. I sadly fear so; to-morrow his fate is to
be decided by a court martial. And now, once more,
farewell. We shall meet at squire Clover's to-mor-
row evening?
Lucy. Louisa would hardly forgive me should I
fail; and may no new alarm prevent your attending.
Mid. Amen, and so, till then, adieu.-[going]
Why, who the deuce have we here? A chaplain,
or a surgeon?
Lucy. Oh, that is Doctor Stramonium, who is
prescribing for my grandmother's ague I must run
in, and tell her he his coming. Good bye.
[Exit.
Mid. Doctor Stramonium! Unless my eyes are
playing the Arnold, that is no Doctor at all, but
my old Goshen schoolfellow, John Darby, with his
straight red locks peeping out from under a pow-
dered wig.
Enter DR. STRAMONIUM.
R. H.
Mid. Why Jack, my lad of wax, how are you?
and what, in the name of all that's whimsical, brings
you here in this disguise? I thought you were still
making shoes with old Jimmy Strap.
Dr. S. Billy Middleton, my dear fellow, I am
glad to see you. An officer in Lee's dragoons, bey.?
well that's not so bad. How long, pray, have you
worn the continental livery, as a champion in the
glorious cause of freedom?
Mid. Ever since the gallant Lee has been in the
field. And why, pray, do you not lend a hand in
the same glorious cause?
Scene I.]
THE WIDOW's SON.
Dr. S. I am ready to lend a hand, to open a
vein, or extract a bullet; but as to fighting, it is
not my vocation, Hal.
Mid. Then enlist, and make it your vocation.
Dr. S. I enlist! Dont you know, sir, that talents
in the cabinet, are as necessary as courage in the
field? Every one to his calling. I belong to the
medical department. You have heard of Dr. Stra-
monium ?-Every body knows me.
Mid. To the medical department!
་
Dr. S. Yes sir; acquainted with every stitch in
the human system, from the in-sole to the heel-tap.
By the way, I am told there is neither surgeon nor
chaplain in your legion. I would be happy to serve
in either capacity. Recommend me to the major,
and I will see that you are promoted.
Mid. Excuse me, Jack; we go to the other
world fast enough without your assistance. But
what pretensions have you to the art of healing or
preaching?
Dr. S. What pretensions! Science and expe-
rience, to be sure. I studied the noble art of heel-
ing for several years, and as to the other art, I trust
that I have benefitted many a perishing sole.
Mid. What do you forget that I know you?
Dr. S. I mean heeling and soleing, with old
Jemmy Strap, the shoemaker. My medical studies
to be sure, have been rather more limited; yet still,
I am familiar with every term in the pharmacopea,
from randcacks to a jack-boot. Why, I felt the
pulse of Washington yesterday. My dear Doc-
tor," said he-
Mid. Reserve that lie for those who can swal-
low it. You were always addicted to long threads
Jack.
Dr. S. Long threads! That's a good one, smells
of the shop. Do you not perceive something strik-
ing in my appearance? hey?
Mid. Strikingly ridiculous, I must confess. But
1
THE WIDOW's son.
[Act I.
what induced you to abandon the awl and the lap-
stone?
Dr. S. Ambition, the idol of all aspiring souls.
I cobbled soles until I discovered I had a soul above
it. I then studied Shakspeare until I was on the point
of starving; when I cut stick, and-
Mid Cut a stick! What was that for? a walk-
ing-stick?
Dr. S. Why, yes; it may properly be called a
walking-stick; for I was compelled to tramp forty
miles on foot. But, stay; if you have any curio-
sity to hear my history, I will sing it to you.
Mid. Sing a history!
Dr. S. Nothing more common. Go into one of
our village schools, and you will hear the history of
Joseph sung in chorus; and Dilworth's spelling
book chanted in responses. Attend now, and you
will hear that I have not only been a Jack of all
trades, but a lawyer into the bargain.
SONG.
A last and a lapstone, were once my delight,
And I sung while I hammered, from morning till night;
But all the day's earnings, at eve, I would spend,
Till the thread of my credit was brought to an end.
-Spoken.
For I was up to a thing or two, and loved fun; passed
the night in reciting Shakspeare at the ale house,
and kept myself awake next day, by beating time
with the hammer, while I sung-
Make a death, cut a stick, high time I trump'd
Rise again, tick again, credit new vamp'd..
"Mid. Ha, ha, ha! Where did you rise again?
D. S. At the town of Plymouth, in the state
"of Massachusetts, where I taught a singing school
"with wonderful success.
"For he that hath not
"music in his soul," &c.
66
Mid. Was not your ambition satisfied with
"that honourable profession?
"Dr. S.
Yes; and I should have arrived at
"eminence, as a musician, I have no doubt; had
Scene I.]
THE WIDOW'S SON.
66
'not the devil produced a discord in the treble,
"which portended trouble. But you shall hear.
Sings.
I next taught the gamut, the sharps, and the flats,
To a nasal twang'd bass, and a treble of cats;
Till my private duet with a miss, got abroad,
Which chang'd the key note, and produced a discord.
Spoken.
القد
A little love affair, that ran counter to my wishes,
and induced some slanderous tongues to pronounce
the whole tenor of my conduct to be thorough bass.
So, without venturing a da capo, I pocketed the slur,
leapt the bar, with a quick movement, and left the
flats to harmonize as they could; for all the gossips,
had decreed that their daughters should have no-
thing more to do with my
Sings.
Fa, sol, la; fa, sol la; fa, sol, la, me;
Hop a twig, such a rig ought not to be.
"Mid. A very musical retreat. Where did you
halt?
"Dr. S. In Connecticut. Made a death in the
"Old Colony, and rose again in New Haven, where
"I set up as a merchant.
66
"Mid.
suppose?
Still rising. A shipping merchant, I
"Dr. S. Don't believe it; I would not trust my
"little all to the treacherous ocean; for there be
66 water rats, and land rats, &c The fact is, I be-
< came a retailer of tin ware, ladies' trinkets, wood-
(6 en nutmegs, cayenne pepper manufactured from
mahogany saw dust, and a variety of other little
notions, in a covered one-horse wagon. But you
interrupt the thread of my song-
(6
Sings.
A travelling merchant quickly became,
With a new stock in trade, a new dress and new name;
And I bartered my goods with such exquisite grace,
That I left a fair mourner in every place.
2*
誠
​10
[Act I.
THE WIDOW's SON.
Spoken.
"O Tabitha. what will become of me! The dear
sweet Mr Rover, (for that was my travelling name)
my dear sweet Mr Rover, the pedler, is gone and
perhaps I shall never see him again. O dear!"
"Your dear sweet Mr. Rover! indeed! I'd have
you to know, cousin Keziah, that he is my dear
sweet Mr. Rover, and he has left me something
to remember him by."-"O the base wicked de-
ceiver! he has left me something too Thus
would they sympathize with each other, or tear
caps for poor Rover, while I was unconsciously pre-
paring a similar mine to spring in the next village
or jogging quietly along the road, inviting every
one to buy my
Sings.
Dutch ovens, cullenders, dippers and pans,
Broaches and buckles, with ear rings and fans.
Spoken.
;
"Thus I made a tramp through the colonies in
something like style. But the commencement of
"hostilities at length rendered travelling unsafe;
so I bartered my stock in trade, equipage and all,
"and set up as a country schoolmaster, in a Dutch
village not fifty miles from Philadelphia.
66
"Mid. There, I should suppose, you might have
"settled for life.
"Dr. S. Dont believe it. It is true, I flattered
myself so for a while; but soon found that I had
"not yet attained my appropriate sphere of action,
as you will hear in the sequel.
Sings.
A schoolmaster, next, with a visage severe,
Board, lodging and washing, and twelve pounds a year:
For teaching the rustics to spell and to read,
The new-England Primer, the Psalter, and Creed.
Spoken.
You must know, that I undertook to hammer a little
learning through the calfskin'd pates of seventy or
Scene I.]
11
THE WIDOW's SON.`
eighty square-toed, leather-headed numbskulls. But
after vainly trying the experiment at both ends of
the patients, I lost my own patience, and my school
into the bargain. Loss upon loss.
'
"Mid. Indeed! You flogg'd too severely, I
suppose?
"Dr. S. Don't believe it. The fact is, my pupils
"had imbibed, from the spirit of the times, such
"elevated notions of liberty and equality, that they
"lost all respect for legitimate government. Where
"I expected passive obedience and non-resistance,
"I met with open rebellion, and was glad to make
a precipitate retreat with a whole skin ;" and this
so forcibly reminded me of my musical scrape, that
I struck up the old chorus of
Sings.
Fa, sol, la, fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la, me;'
Hop a twig, such a rig ought not to be.
"Mid. What was your next resort?
"Dr. S. Preaching
"Mid. Ha, ha, ha! John Darby a preacher.
"That caps the climax.
66
'Dr. S. Don't believe it. I advanced still
another step on the road to ruin. But you shall
"hear.
Sings.
I then became preacher, without any call,
When one sweet village lass came to hear brother Paul
And told her experience o'er with such grace,
That I gave the dear creature an ardent embrace,
Spoken.
There was the devil to pay, and poor Jack once
more in the vocative. But, I made my escape to
the back-woods, singing my old Goshen ditty-
Sings.
Make a death, cut a stick, high time I tramp'd,;
Rise again, tick again, credit new vamp'd.
"Mid. And what did you in the forest?
12
[Act I.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
"Dr. S. Why, finding myself, at length, among
"wild beasts of prey, I thought it was best to be-
come one myself; and for this purpose, I studied
"law. Having exhausted all the fire and brimstone
"of the pulpit, I tried the thunder and lightning of
"the bar: But making no converts with the first,
"and obtaining no suits with the second, I relin-
quished both, and have now set down at my ease
in the science of medicine, by which I am in a
fair way to make my fortune. "I do remember
me an apothecary, and hereabouts he lives.'
"Mid. Then you must have a very extensive
"practice?
<<
CC
"Dr. S. Don't believe it. I don't want much.
Having a little cash left, to keep up appearances,
"the dress and character of a physician give me
"free access to the most respectable families
which, by the way, brings me to the last verse of
my history. Pay attention."
<<
Sings.
And now a physician, with cock'd hat and wig,
I can feel ladies pulses, look wise, and talk big;
With a fine ruffled shirt, and good coat to my back,
I pluck the poor geese, while the ducks exclaim quack!
Spoken.
""
“O Doctor, I so glad you are come. I have
such a consarned beating of the heart, that I can
hardly draw my breath. Oh!" Let me see your
tongue, Miss.' "My tongue! Law souls, Doc-
tor, what in the world has the tongue to do with
the heart?" 'In general, Miss, not much; but
your case is an exception. An exception! O
goody gracious! now, you don't say so; is an ex-
"" "Not at
ception a dangerous disorder, Doctor.'
all dangerous, Miss. An application of stramonium
externally, and copious draughts of catnip tea inter-
nally, will soon restore you." The lady's heart
becomes composed, I pocket my fee, and make my
exit, singing-
Scene I.]
13
THE WIDOW's son.
Sings.
Feel the pulse, smell the cune, look at the tongue,
Touch the gold, praise the old, flatter the young,
In short, Billy, the dear little creatures are all so
fond of my prescriptions, that a dozen rich heiresses,
are, at this moment, ready and willing to run into
my arms.
Mid.
And which of the dozen, doctor, is to be
the happy fair?
Dr. S. In confidence, Billy, I will tell you. But,
mind; under the rose-You, know old squire Clo-
ver the rich farmer in the valley? That's enough
-There's something to make the pot boil.-My
hopes are in act, sir.-najor key-kecommend
me to Lee, that's all-surgeon or chaplain, I will
serve in either capacity, or in both if necessary.
Mid. Unfortunately for you, Doctor, such ap-
pointments are, at present, made by Congress. But
are you certain there is no rival in your way? “Our
cavalry have produced a wonderful revolution in
"female taste, since last June.
<<
66
"Dr. S. Don't believe it. The gold lace of
your Virginia uniforms may have turned the heads
of our farmers' daughters: But permit me to in-
"form you, sir, that Miss Louisa Clover, possesses
a mind as superior to the generality of her sex, as
"waxed calf-skin is to sheep. "My dear Doctor,"
“said she, this morning-
(6
((
Mid. Never mind what she said I am not
'ignorant of Miss Clover's superior worth.
Dr. S. Consequently, she is not to be dazzled
with ribbons, feathers, gold lace, or morocco belts.
"It is true, she is partial to gentlemen of the army,
"and is, therefore, anxious that I should get the
"appointment I am soliciting. She reveres science,
"and I, consequently, stand high in her good graces.
"Get me the appointment, Billy, and I am doubly
CC sure of success; for there is a tide in the affairs
14
[Act 1.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
"of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to
"fortune.
"Mid. Do you mean to say that Miss Clover
respects you as a man of science?
"Dr. Š. To be sure she does, and always intro-
S.
"duces me to her friends as the musical Doctor,
"who is master of seven languages.
"Mid. Seven languages! You forget how of-
“ten I have seen old Zachariah Birch flagellate you
"for not remembering the sign of the subjunctive
"mood. What are the seven languages which you
now pretend to speak?
<<
"Dr. S. Those appertaining to my seven pro-
❝fessions, to be sure. Every profession, you know,
"has its peculiar language.
"Mid. 1 understand-You mean the cant of
"the shop. But it would be better policy, Jack, to
"sink the shop.
<
"Dr. S. I know it; but between ourselves, I am
develish apt to confound my seven languages, and
"by endeavouring to sink one shop, raise up the
ghosts of the other half dozen. This sometimes
perplexes my patients, until I convince them that
it is in conformity with the late improvements in
science, and they then set me down as a don in
"the profession.
66
<<
CG
46
ઃઃ
46
Mid. What if I make the fair Louisa ac-
quainted with your real character?
"Dr. S. My seven characters you mean. But
say nothing, Billy. Exert your influence to get
me an appointment in the legion, and when I re-
"alize my golden anticipations, I will not forget you
depend upon it, but will help you out in a drag.
Mid. A drag! What's that?
.
"Dr. S. I mean you shall have a call-a lift
"under the heeltap- promotion- I'll lend you my
"influence; back your suit; nothing less than ma-
"jor. Think of that, and say nothing. Solder your
Scene II.]
16
THE WIDOW's SON.
lips, and you shall soon move pomposo; you shall
"indeed, Billy.
૬૬
"Mid. No doubt, Doctor, and gratitude. of
course, will preserve your secret.
"But what says
our sergeant-major Champe to all this? his attach-
ment to Miss Clover is no secret, and there is little
doubt but the sentiment is reciprocal.
: Dr. S. Don't believe it. Sergeant Major Champe
must hang up his fiddle, for he will be nonsuited to
a dead certainty.-Mere bone and muscle won't do
for Louisa; She reveres a scientific mind.
Mid. But not a gallimaufry like yours, Jack ;
and I shall be compelled to doubt her discernment,
if she prefer you to the Sergeant-Major. Why
he is the idol of our corps, a great favourite with the
officers, the confidant of Lee, and will shortly wear
an epaulet. Heaven made him a hero, and he has
made himself a gentleman. The bones and mus-
cles you speak of are iron and steel, his sinews brass,
and his heart, pure gold. You will not enter the
lists with such odds against you?
Dr. S. Don't believe it. All is not gold that
glitters. Even tin will receive a very high polish,
but it does not wear well. I can read men's cha-
racters a little.-I always suspected Arnold. But
time presses, and my patient expects me. Good
bye. If the army don't move, you must be present
at my nuptials; Louisa will expect you. My dear
Doctor, said she-Good morning.
[Exit.
Mid. Ha, ha, ha! The same lying, careless,
castle-building Jack-of-all trades, that he used to
be. Fluttering on the gossamer pinion of hope, he
skims over the surface of life's turbulent ocean with-
out wetting a feather.
[Exit. R. H.
} SCENE II.—An apartment in Clover's house.
Enter CLOVER and CHAMPE.
L. H.
Elov. Yes, Sir; had I twenty daughters, and
16
[Act I.
THE WIDOW's son.
twenty thousand pounds for each, I should be hap-
py to reward a score of brave soldiers in the same
manner; but not until they had fully discharged
their duty to their country, by securing her indepen-
dence.
Cham. I hope, sir, you do not doubt my devo-
tedness to the sacred cause of liberty?
Clov. I do not. You have done well so far. Lee
speaks of you in the highest terms. Go on as you
have begun, and on the restoration of peace, Louisa
shall be yours.
Cham. With that sweet hope to support me, every
toil will become a pleasure. Had every American
soldier such a reward set before him there would
be no traitors.
Clov. Our country's independence is a still higher
reward; and yet we had an Arnold. Who can be
safely trusted, since he proved false? By Heaven,
the wretch who would sell his country, is without the
pale of Christian charity. Eternal curses-
Enter LOUISA.
R. H.
Lou. Nay, my dear father, I have often heard
you say that it was wrong to curse even our dead-
liest enemies; but that we should leave them to hea-
ven and their own consciences.
Clov. True, my child, and I am not ashamed to
profit by the echo of my own precepts. I will not
waste my breath in useless curses; but were this
shattered knee as sound as it was on the morning
of Braddock's defeat, my old musket there should
speak a more effective language. But that unfor-
tunate day has spoiled my marching. When Scipio
returns, Louisa, send him to me.
[Exit .R. H.
Cham. My dearest Louisa, your father has kindly
sanctioned our attachment, with the hard condition,
however, of deferring our union until the restoration
of peace.

Scene III.]
17
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Lou. Do you call that a hard condition? It would
have been mine, if he had not prescribed it.
Cham. Indeed!
Lou. Yes, Edward; and you shall acknowledge
the propriety of it. Speak candidly, now; ought
the happiness of any individual to come, for an in-
stant, in competition with that of our country?
Cham. My head and heart would give contra-
dictory answers. But may I depend upon the sta-
bility of your affection?
Lou. I could not change it, if I would. Your
worth and virtues gave it existence; and with them
it will live or die.
Cham. Then it shall be immortal; for with such
inducements to virtue, I should be a viler wretch
than Arnold, to prove unfaithful. Henceforward my
motto shall be "Patriotism, Love, and Fidelity.”
Enter a Soldier.
L. H.
Sol. Sir, Major Lee has returned from head quar-
ters, and wishes to see you as soon as possible.
Cham. I will attend him immediately. [Exit
soldier.] Adieu, sweet arbitress of my future des-
tiny. Teach your pure lips to pray for peace, while
I prepare to fight for it.
Lou. Farewell; remember-“ Patriotism, and
fidelity."
CC
Cham. Patriotism, love, and fidelity." When I
prove false in either, may the frown of Heaven,
and the scorn of Louisa, be my recompense.
SCENE III.
[Exeunt opposite.
The American camp by moon-light.
On one side a baggage-wagon, with a bundle
of straw on the ground beneath. Lights seen
in several tents.
L. H.
Enter CARNES and MIDDLeton.
Carnes. Yes, the pickets are to be doubled; and
no one permitted to leave camp after tattoo.
3
1
1
18
[Act I.
THE WIDOW's son.
Mid. Have you learned the cause of this extra-
ordinary vigilance?
Carnes. I have not; but I con ecture that it is in
consequence of Arnold's conspiracy. The com-
mander-in-chief, it is said, has received some pri-
vate intelligence which sensibly affects him. Ma-
jor Lee is probably in the secret, for he has just
returned from head-quarters.
Mid. While we thus prepare for the worst, let
us hope for the best.
Carnes. Hope! again? I believe Middleton that
you live upon hope.
Mid. To be sure I do; I breakfast, dine, and sup
upon hope; then I sleep upon it, and dream of it.
It was the only good thing in Madam Pandora's
box, and we ought to make the most of it. I hope
for glory for fortune-for--
Carnes. Lucy Primrose.
Mid. Aye! there's a hope I would not relin-
quish to be made a major-general.
Song-Middleton.
The budding hopes which hourly spring,
While Fancy's bower is young and green,
Too often perish ere they fling
Their viewless odours round the scene;
But, Oh! there's one, which, planted here,
The heart's red current flows to herish,
And should that blossom disappear,
The soil it springs from too must perish,
[Exeunt. R. H.
Enter MARGARET, looking cautiously about.
L. H.
Marg. I traced him thither, and I know 'twas
he; for what disguise can cheat a mother's eye.
The searching gaze of fond maternal love, could al-
most penetrate the solid earth, were a lost child
within its centre hid; while, in return, so feebly
burns the filial flame, that these poor tattered weeds,
and streaming locks, conceal the mother and dis-
play the fiend. Well, be it so ;-for in this Sybil
Scene III.] THE WIDOW's son.
19
guise I better serve my country and my God-
make some atonement for ny first born's crime--
and Oh! perhaps, may cross him in the path which
leads to deeper guilt; arouse his conscience; save
his precious soul, by shrieking in its callous'd ear,
Beware!
Lee and CHAMPE enter at the top of the stage
in deep conversation, and advance slowly down.
Mar. Peace! foolish, tell-tale heart. Who comes?
'Tis Lee, but not alone. Alone he must be ere I
give him this; for ah! the leprosy of treason spreads
so fast, that I dare trust to none. Screened by this
vehicle, I'll wait unseen, and from their own dis-
oourse receive my cue.
[Retires behind the wagon.
Cham. I am duly sensible, Major, of the ho-
nour of this selection; and whatever be the nature
of the enterprise, it shall never fail for want of my
exertions.
Lee. I assured his excellency as much, when I
named you to him. But to the point, for there is
no time to be lost.-You must proceed, if possible,
this night. The object is to seize Arnold, and by
getting him, to save the life of Andre.
Cham. A glorious project!
Lee. In giving me these instructions, his excel-
lency was pleased to say, "the timely delivery of
Arnold to me, will put it in my power to restore the
amiable and unfortunate Andre to his friends.
""
Cham. Who would not sacrifice his life for such a
chief, in the cause of such a country?
Lee. His express orders are, that Arnold is not
to be hurt; but that he be permitted to escape, if
that cannot be prevented but by taking his life; as
the enemy would term such a result a base assassi-
nation, whereas, his public punishment in presence
of the army, is the only object in view.
Cham. Be pleased to honour me with his excel-
20
[Act I,
THE WIDOW's .
SONson.
I
lency's instructions; I am ready to proceed. What
is the plan of operations?
Lee. You must repair immediately to the city.
Cham. With a flag?
Lee. No-as a deserter from the American
cause.
Cham. A deserter! Edward Champe to be stig-
matized as a traitor to his country! Surely, Ma-
jor, you do not seriously propose such a step to me!
Lee. Hear me through, my friend. From my
knowledge of that nice sense of honour which has
ever endeared you to me, I anticipated this objec-
tion, and ventured to suggest it to his excellency.
"Tell him," said he, "that going to the enemy by
the instigation and at the request of his commander,
is not desertion, although it may appear to be so;
and enjoined that this explanation, as coming from
himself, should be urged upon you; and that the
vast good in prospect should be contrasted with the
mere semblance of doing wrong. This, my friend,
ought to conquer every scruple.
Cham. But the imputation of dishonour-
Lee. Will speedily be removed by your suc-
cessful return. Think you that I would advise any
step that would tarnish the honour of my friend?
Think you that the very soul of genuine honour, the
god-like Washington, would sanction an act in oppo-
sition to her most rigid precepts?
(6
Cham. I do not think so. But even for a moment
to be thought a deserter; I cannot brook the idea.
Lee. An individual sacrifice, for a great national
good.
"Reflect on the very great obligation you
"will confer on the commander in chief, whose un-
changing and active beneficence to the troops has
"justly drawn to him their affection, which will be
merely nominal, if, when an opportunity thus pre-
sents itself to an individual, of contributing to the
promotion of his views, it be not zealonsly em-
** braced. The one now presented to you, has ne-
46
46
Scene III.]
21
THE WIDOW'S SON.
46
••
ver before occurred; and, in all probability ne-
ver will occur again, even should the war con-
"tinue for ages.
Posterity will not fail to reite-
rate your own words, and pronounce it a glorious
enterprise.
!
Marg. A glorious enterprise!
Lee. Was that an echo?
Cham. No- a human voice.
Lee. Challenge.
Cham. Who goes there? Stand!
MARGARET advances, repeating the following verses,
and affecting to be ignorant that she is observed.
A glorious enterprise, sir knight
To gild thy budding name;
Then spur thy steed, and seek the fight,
To save a maiden's fame,
Lee. It is old crazy Peg the fortune-teller. Some
call her the witch of Blagge's Clove- Let her pass.
Marg. The knight invoked his lady fair,
And spur'd his courser true,
Till Ronald's turrets, high in air,
Arose upon his view.
Lee. Always harping on the days of chivalry.
That ballad, I'll be sworn, is five centuries old.
Cham. And armed too! what a singular cha-
Where does she reside?
racter.
Lee. That is a secret. She paid us a visit about
a fortnight ago, to the great amusement of the sol-
diers, while you was on forage duty.
Marg.
Beneath her prison tower he stole,
While she with cautious heed,
Contrived to drop the precious scroll,
Which he alone must read.
In repeating the last line, she passes between LEE and
CHAMPE, and puts a letter into the hand of the for-
!
mer.
Lee. What mystery is this!
Cham. A spy in the camp?
Lee. Yes, and an honest one.
Where is she?
3*
[Exit R. H.
[reads.
Here-explain.
22
[Act I.
THE WIDOW's son.
Cham. Vanished, like Macbeth's witches,
Lee. This letter is from the city, and comes op-
portunely; for it contains information that will fa-
cilitate our purpose. The traitor's quarters are con-
tiguous to the river. Will you not consent to gratify
your general in the most acceptable manner? to be
the avenger of the army's reputation, stained, as it
is, by foul and wicked perfidy; and, what is best of
all, be the instrument of saving Andre from an ig-
nominious death?
Cham. I know not how to determine; my mind
iny
is tortured with opposite and conflicting emotions.
To save that brave and innocent man, I would sa-
crifice every thing but my honour.
(6
C6
Lee. •You may
do still more: perhaps bring to
"light more guilt, or relieve innocence from dis-
"trust: quict the torturing suspicions which now
"harrow the mind of Washington, and restore to
his confidence a once honoured general. The ac-
complishment of so much good is certainly too
"attractive to be renounced by a generous mind;
"and when connected with the recollection of the
"high credit which the selection sheds upon your-
"self as a soldier, you ought not-nay, you must
"not pause. Trust me, your honour shall be
safe. Come, Sir, here is a detail of the plan, drawn
up by his excellency himself. Read, and admire
the wisdom and humanity which framed it. I leave
you now to make up your mind, and shall expect
you at my quarters in half an hour. | Exit R. H.
""
Cham. I will be punctual; but O, how shall I
decide. Honour, fame, the prospect of promotion,
are pleading on the one hand; duty, gratitude, mag-
nanimity, on the other. My brain whirls in con-
fusion.
Enter DR. STramonium.
L. H.
Dr. S. Symptoms of a vertigo, which indicate
phlebotomy. Permit me to open a vein.
Scene III.] THE WIDOW'S SON.
23
Cham. Thank you, Doctor; I am not at leisure,
and cannot be interrupted. Something must be de-
cided quickly; another hour and it will be too late.
[aside. reads.
Dr. S. Don't believe it. Blistering may answer
the purpose, with a phlegmagogue, or some gentle
cathartic, to reduce the tone of your pulse an oc-
tave lower. Let me feel, and ascertain its present
movement.
Cham. Your officiousness, sir, is ill-timed. I
may relish it better at another opportunity. [reads.
Dr. S. Don't believe it. You'll never relish it
better than now. Don't put it off another moment.
A stitch in time may prevent a fatal rip, and the
life of an American soldier is not to be trifled with.
"Reason thus with life." [Takes out a box of pills.]
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,
ten, eleven, twelve. There, sir; take one of these
every two hours-[aside] and that will keep you ab-
sent from Louisa at least twenty-four. And drink co-
piously of hot catnip tea. The very prescription 1
gave his excellency. My dear doctor, said he-
• Cham. [Soliloquising ] An admirable plan of ope-
rations, which can hardly fail of success. [reads.
A
Dr. S. That's true, sir; my operations never fail
of success. I understand you have no surgeon or
chaplain in the legion; I could discharge the du-
ties of either, or both. Recommend me to the Ma-
jor, and I will insure your promotion. I will give
you a lift under the heel-tap.
Cham. But failure will be infamy and ruin.
Dr. S. Don't believe it. The experiment is
worth trying. I understand that you are in his con-
fidence. Will you speak to him on the subject?
Cham. I will fly to him immediately, and endea-
vour to convince him that--
[exit. R. H.
Dr. S. That's right; convince him of my quali
fications. But I do not like to stay here alone
24
[Act I.
THE WIDOW's son.
1
till he returns. The atmosphere of a camp is not
congenial with the delicacy of my nerves, after all.
"Tis now the dead of night, and half the world is
with a lonely solemn darkness hung. How awful
is this gloom, and hark! from camp to camp, the
hum of either army stilly sounds.' But surgeons
and chaplains have no fighting to do; that's one com-
fort. Poh who's afraid. As there is no Dutch
courage within my reach, I'll try the effect of sing-
ing.
Arise, arise! Sir Erskine cries,
The rebels, more's the pity,
Without a bont are all afloat
And rang'd before the city,
Enter MARGaret.
Mar. Silence that croaking.
[sings.
R. H.
Dr. S. (alarmed.) O Lord what's that! (reco-
vering.) Oh, by St. Crispin, here's one of their
camp ladies, with a pair of horseman's pistols in a
leathern belt. Well, any companion is better than
solitude, so I'll pay my respects. Good evening,
aunty.
Marg. Peace, croaking raven! and listen to the
voice of fate!
Dr. S The voice of fate! Well, it may be so !
for I have seen, in a picture, three old ladies who
much resembled yourself, and I recollect they were
called the three Fates.
1
Marg. Once more, and for the third time, I com-
mand thy silence.
Dr. S. And who the devil are you, that presumes
to command a physician, a man of science, and a
reader of Shakspeare.
Marg. One who knows thee well.
Dr. S. One who has no ear for music, or you
would not call my singing croaking. Let me tell
you, old woman, I am, or rather I have been, a
teacher of music.
Scene III.] THE WIDOW'S SON.
25
Marg. Thou art, and ever hast been, nothing
-less than nothing, and vanity. The curse of
Heaven pursues thy widowed mother, for she is
doomed to see her first-born a traitor, and his bro-
ther an impostor.
Dr. S. What do yon pretend to know about my
mother, or her sons. I have not seen one of the
family these twelve years. Who are you?
Marg. One who reads the stars, and knows the
destiny of men and nations. One who now sees im-
pending destruction above thy devoted head.
Dr. S. (alarmed.) The devil, you do!
Marg. Unless thou burst the bands which long
have tied thee down to vice and meanness, assert
thy manhood, and with patriot ardour assist thy
brethren in their toils and dangers, and thus re-
deem from everlasting infamy the tarnished name
of Darby.
Dr. S. Did you read the stars correctly, old
lady, you would have known that I no longer wear
the tarnished name you speak of. You have now
the honour of addressing Dr. Stramonium.
Marg. I know thee well, poor wretch; too well
-with all thy mean resorts to fleece the unsuspect-
ing. Wert thou not too contemptible to gain a sin-
gle thought from Champe's affianced bride, I would,
to-morrow strip thy flimsy mask, to save her future
peace, and that of her high-destined hero.
Dr. S. Don't believe it; for her high-destined
hero, as your ladyship is pleased to call him, may
possibly be destined to feel the weight of my stir-
rup, I mean my cane, if he escape being shot as a
deserter.
Murg. Cowardly wretch! His manly frown.
would strike thee dumb. Could such a miscreant
spring from such a stock! Didst thou not draw thy
milk from the same fount that fed thy gallant bro-
ther William ?
Dr. S. Who is now a gallant traitor, strutting in
26
[Act I.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
a British uniform, as a reward for betraying Fort
Montgomery.
Marg. Better a traitor, than a wretch like thee!
By Heavens, I now could almost clasp thy brother
to my heart, and bathe his manly brows with tears of
pardon.
Dr. S. I should not envy him the embrace.
Marg. He is like his gallant father, brave and
generous. Oppression, insults, injuries, and shame
unmerited, have made him what he is-
Dr. S. I know. He was tarred and feathered.
Marg. Whilst thou—
[aside.
Dr. S. Come, old Sybil, no more invidious
comparisons, if you please; or I'll have you soused
in a horsepond, and your high destined hero along
with you ;-unless he gets me an appointment.
[aside.
Marg. Ha! dost threaten poor poltron! I have
a spell shall bind thee for one night, if the guard
have ears.
The
MARGARET fires a pistol close to his ear--he falls
in a paroxism of terror, and she retires.
guard enters at the top of the stage.
Sergeant. The alarm was this way. Forward.
[Exeunt. R. H.
L. H.
Dr. S. (rising slowly.) Yes. I plainly perceive
that the camp is not my destined sphere of action;
and if I can once get fairly out of this infernal place,
I'll try some other pursuit. Old lady Beelzebub
has made good her retreat, I perceive. I never
took a dose of gunpowder before, and would swal-
low all the medicine in my pocket rather than re-
ceive another.
Enter SCIPIO.
Why Scipio, what brings you to camp at this late
hour? Don't you know the guard is set?
Scene III.
27
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Sip. I come to bring letter from Missee. Where
can me find Massa Scamp?
Dr. S. You can hardly go amiss of scamps in
this place, Scipio. Which of them do you want?
Scip. Massa Scamp dat ride de big horse, and
write love to Missee Louisa.
Dr. S. Oho! Here's a swarthy Cupid, I per-
ceive.-- Love's messenger with an ebony face. So,
you have a letter for Sergeant-Major Champe, have
you?
Scip.
Yes.
Dr. S. From Miss Louisa? hey? Let me see
the superscription.
Scip. Here dem be, Massa Doctor.
Dr. S. Unsealed too-despatches to the enemy,
must be intercepted-more treason. Run home,
Scipio, I will deliver this to the Sergeant-Major.
I expect to see him here every moment. Run home
Scipio. There, that's your way.
SCIPIO retires slowly, looking back, and stops in
the shade of the baggage wagon.
Dr. S. Now, as the Sergeant-Major has gone to
do my business, it is but fair that I should attend to
his, in his absence. So, here goes. This is not
the first love letter that has been read by moon-light.
(reads.) "Dear Edward." A very tender com-
mencement. [SCIPIO advances unperceived, seizes
the letter, and retires behind the wagon.] Halio!
Who's that! My business is now done with a ven-
geance, unless I can bribe blackey. [going.
Enier GUARD.
Sergeant. Who's there? Stand!
R. H.
D. S. Friend. (SCIPIO conceals himself in the
straw.)
Sergeant. Advance, and give the countersign.
Dr. S. The countersign: "Here's a pretty kettle
of fish. The countersign, did you say, sir!
Sergt. Yes, the countersign, instantly.
28
ACT I.
WIDOW'S SON.
1
Dr. S. O, the countersign-yes, I understand.
But the truth is, my friend the Sergeant-Major ne-
glected to give it me. But I expect him back every
moment, when I shall be happy to accommodate
you, gentlemen. So excuse me, if you please, as I
have a patient at the point of death. [going.
Sergt. You cannot pass. My orders are most
strict. So come along to the guard-house.
Dr. S. Don't believe it. The guard-aouse !
Why, I am a physician; a non-combattant-a man
of science-Don't you know Dr. Stramonium? every
body knows me.
Sergt.
So march!
My duty forbids me to know any one.
Dr. S. Galen and St. Crispin! but here is a pretty
scrape for a physician to be in. Why, I am to be
surgeon of your legion. The Sergeant-Major is
now settling the business with Major Lee. Con-
duct me to his quarters and you will be convinced.
My dear Doctor, said he-
Sergt. We will conduct you to our quarters, and
not very gently, if you delay another moment.
March!
Dr. S. Oh dear! I will remember this when
you are on the sick list. But do not persist in this
business-only let me go, and I will see that you
are all promoted.-Only consider, my dear Mr.
Countersign-
Sergt. Bring him along, and gag him if he
speaks again.
Dr. S. Gag a physician! Whoever heard the
like! I will go peaceably, only don't frighten me
with those naked swords. Difficult case-can't de-
cline it. Better confess. It is all a joke. I am
not a physician. Only poor Jack Darby, the shoe-
maker the preacher-the lawyer-the peddler-
the-
Sergt. Stop your muttering, or I'll cut out your
tongue.
t
Scene IV.] THE WIDOW'S SON.
20
Dr. S. Dearly beloved! I'll be piano-dimi-
nuendo-any thing you please, from an organ to a
jewsharp-unfortunate tramp-should have stuck
to the last. (They force him off still muttering.)
SCENE IV-LEE's quarters----A small apartment
in a farm house leading to the Major's sleep-
ing room, which is supposed to be on the left
of the audience, or actor's R. H. and from
which, through an open door, the stage is
dimly lighted.
Enter LEE and CHAMPE.
R. H.
Cham. Enough, my dear sir; you have prevailed,
and my scruples have vanished.
Lee. Then I live again. Give me your hand.
Cham. But should I prove unfortunate in the at-
tempt, let my fame be protected by those who have
induced me to undertake the enterprise.
Lee. Leave that to me. But there is not a mo-
ment to be lost. You must depart without delay,
as there are strong indications of an approaching
storm, and the rain will injure the roads." "Here are
your instructions, with a few guineas for expenses;
and here are two letters from the general to two in-
dividuals in the city, who stand high in his confi-
dence. This one is for Dr. Trueman, formerly a
surgeon in the American army; but who has reti-
red from the service in consequence of a wound
which he received at the surprise of Fort Montgo-
mery. He now more effectually serves our cause
by playing the loyalist with Sir Henry Clinton.
This one is for a Mr. Godfrey, a man of singular cou-
rage, enterprise and address, a real Proteus when
masquerade is requisite. In delivering these let-
ters be extremely cautious; for though both of
them correspond with his excellency, neither of
them is in the other's secret; nor must be, except
4
30
Act I.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
in some case of great emergency, when you are at
liberty to act as circumstances may require.
Cham. You may depend upon my discretion.
Lee. And bear in constant recollection the so-
lemn injunction so pointedly expressed in those in-
structions, of forbearing to kill the traitor, in any
condition of things. (Distant thunder and rain.)
Cham. I shall not forget. Let us compare
watches. I will regulate mine by yours. (They
go over to the right wing and examine their watches.)
You will recollect the importance of holding back
pursuit as long as practicable. It now lacks nineteen
minutes of eleven. I shall be compelled to zig.
zag to avoid the out-posts, and that will consume
time.
Lee. I will do every thing that I can without
exciting suspicion. Your horse is the best in the
corps; don't spare him on this occasion.
hand. God bless you.
SCENE V The camp.
་
Your
[exeunt opposite sides.
Same as SCENE III. The
moon no longer visible. Rain, lightning, and
distant thunder. Stage dark. Scipio creeps
from the straw under the wagon.
Scip. Spose Doctor got a better bed out of de
rain. Wish dey took Scip along. No find Massa
Scamp. No go home-no sleep-no nothing-
Missée scold. O dear! Here come Massa Coun-
tersign after Scip. No-bless my heart, it be Massa
Scamp himself.´ Now I grad.
Enter CHAMPE with a lantkorn, valise, and
cloak.
Cham. Who goes there? Stand!
Scip. Me, Massa; only poor Scip.
R. H.
Cham. Why, what brought you here Scipio?
and how did you pass the sentinels.
Scip. Me hide in de straw, dere; Massa Doctor
Scene V.J
31
THE WIDOW'S SON.
go to de black-guard house-Massa Countersign
tell him shall go--den me laugh, cause Massa Doc-
tor want to read Missce letter. Den I go sleep-
and de rain come down and make me shake So,
froze. Oh!
Cham. Who sent you here?
Scip. Missee Louisa.
Doctor no read it.
[shivering.
Į
Here be letter. Massa
[Gives the letter.
Cham. From Louisa! (reads.) "Dear Ed-
ward– You were summoned away so suddenly to-
day, that I had no opportunity of informing you,
that Captain Carnes, Lieutenant Goddard, Cornet
Middleton, and as many more of your friends as
you choose to bring with you, are invited to a little
party, to-morrow evening, at our house. Lucy
Primrose, and several other young ladies will be
present. Alas! dear girl, you are doomed to be
disappointed. (reads.) My father is still venting
his denunciations against all traitors and deserters.
O Edward! If any circumstance could break your
Louisa's heart, or render her for ever wretched, it
would be (what I know is impossible) to hear your
name coupled with one of those dreadful words.
Remember, "Patriotism, and fidelity." Damna-
tion!
""
66
Scip. Don't swear so, Massa. You scare me.
Cham. This is a trial for which I was not pre-
pared. At the very moment when she is anticipating
a scene of festivity and happiness. I am about to
strike the blow that murders her peace forever. The
first name that salutes her ear to-morrow will be
mine, and coupled with the odious word desertion!
And must my hand inflict this wound! No- I will
die first.
Exit. R. H.
Scip. Massa Scamp! Massa Scampo!
[runs after him.
Enter MARGARET.
[R H.
Marg. Shame on my nerves! I thought them
32
[Act I.
THE WIDOW's SON.
feeling-proof. But this rencontre with my truant
son has shaken them too rudely. How else could
I forget? The watch is set, and I have not the
word. To-morrow has imperious claims upon
me, which, unattended to, if here detained, will ruin
all iny plans. What's to be done? Hist! some one
approaches. I must not be seen.
Retires behind the carriage.
Enter SERGEANT'S GUARD.
Sergt. Here is your post. Let no one pass with-
out the word (in a low voice) West Point. Forward!
Marg. Most fortunate! Now I am safe.
Sentinel. Who goes there? Stand!
Marg. A Friend.
[Exeunt.
[advancing.
Sent. Advance and give the countersign.
Marg. West Point.
Sent. Pass.
| Exeunt.
SCENE VI.-LEE's quarters, the same as SCENE IV.
Enter LEE, attended by two servants. L. H.
Lee. No, I shall not undress to-night: so bring
a table and the sofa hither. [Exit servants. R. H.
A relapse is always much more to be dreaded
than the original disease. But I have at length suc-
ceeded, and all goes well. (Servants re-enter with
table and sofa.) Pen, ink, and paper, and better
lights. [They are brought.] Examines his watch
which he lays on the table.) It is now thirty minutes
since the brave fellow departed. Go to bed; if I
want you I will call. (Exit servants.
L. H.) He
must be far beyond the pickets. But soft! Who
comes? It is the officer of the day, I must be found
asleep.
[Lays down on the sofa pretending to sleep.
Enter CAPTAIN CARNES.
L. H.
Carnos. Major! Awake! A deserter must be
pursued.
Scene VI.] THE WIDOW's SON.
33
Lee. (asleep.) Well, well-Let the enemy look.
to it.
Carnes. Major Lee! One of our dragoons has
deserted. I wait for orders to despatch a party in
pursuit.
Lee. Charge their right, and drive them into the
river.
Carnes. For God's sake, Major, awake!
༣
Lee. Who's there' O Carnes is it you. What
brought you here so late? Call in the morning.
I cannot attend to you now. My ride to head quar-
ters and back again has fatigued me extremely. I
need repose.
Lays down again.
Carnes. Major, my duty compels me to claim
your attention for one moment. A dragoon has de-
serted.
Lee. (starting up.) A dragoon deserted! Im-
possible!
Carnes. I wish it were; but one of our pickets
has just reported that he fell in with a dragoon, who
being challenged, put spurs to his horse and es-
caped.
Lee. (coming forward.) Who could the fellow
be? Some booby of a countryman, I suppose.
Carnes. No, sir; the patrole distinguished him
sufficiently to know that he is a dragoon; from the
army, at all events; possibly from our corps. I
have ordered out a detachment which awaits your
orders.
Lee. Pshaw! Carnes; such an idea is not only im-
probable, but ridiculous. Why, during the whole
war, not a single dragoon has ever deserted from
the legion.
Carnes. There must always be a first, Major.
No general turned traitor before Arnold; and
there is no calculating the effect of his example..
Lee. Go, examine the squadron of horse you
have assembled, and convince yourself that no one
is missing. (Exit Carnes. L. H.) This mancu-
4*
34
[Act I
THE WIDOW's son.
vre will gain a few minutes more for the gallant
Champe. (Looks at his watch.) It is now nearly
inidnight. One hour's start will ensure his safety.
Re-enter CArnes.
Lee. Well, Sir; are you convinced?
Carnes. I am sir, to my grief and astonishment.
The fugitive is known.
Lee. Indeed! and pray who is he?
Carnes. No less a personage than the Sergeant-
Major, Champe, whom you have so long honoured
with your confidence.
Lee. Champe! Impossible!
Carnes. It is true, sir.
Sergeant Champe, his
horse, baggage, arms, orderly-book, all are missing.
Lee. Are you sure of that?
Carnes. Too sure. The party is ready for pur-
suit, and request your written orders.
Lee. Champe missing! O, I see it all. He is
only gone to pass an hour with his sweetheart.
This practice of leaving camp for personal pleasure,
is an example too often set by the officers them-
selves, Captain Carnes; destructive as it is to disci-
pline, opposed as it is to orders, and disastrous as
it may prove to the corps in the course of service.
Carnes. I am very sensible, sir, that the prac-
tice is too prevalent; and yet I wish that the pre-
sent affair was no worse. But the fugitive's course
was in a contrary direction. I am certain that Ser-
geant Champe is now on his way to the enemy, and
solicit your orders for the detachment to pursue
him.
Lee.
Who commands it.
Carnes. Lieutenant Goddard.
Lee. He cannot be spared, as I have a parti-
cular service for him in the morning
Summon
Cornet Middleton for the present command.
[Exit CARNES. L. H.
This arrangement will add to the delay; and I
know that the tenderness of Middleton's disposi-
Scene VI.]
35
THE WIDOW's son.
tion will be of service to Champe, should he un-
fortunately be taken.
Enter MIDDLEton.
Mid. I have come for your orders, Major.
L. H.
Lee. I will prepare them in a moment. This
is an extraordinary affair, Middleton. [writes.
Mid. It is, indeed, Major. A soldier so much
esteemed and respected for his valour and patriot-
ism. But the treachery of Arnold is acting like an
infection.
Lee. Rigorous measures must be adopted. Here
are your orders. See that they are instantly obeyed.
Pursue as far as you can with safety, bring the de-
serter alive, if possible, that he may suffer in pre-
sence of the army, but kill him if he resists, or es-
capes after being taken. Now be expeditious.
Mid. I shall not lose a moment. But this wants
your signature, Major.
Lee. Ay, true; give it me. I am so bewildered
with fatigue and watching, that I am scarcely awake.
(writes his name, and pours the ink over it instead
of the sand.) Zounds! what a mistake.
Mid. The deserter still lengthens the space be-
tween us.
Lee. I will prepare another in a moment.
(writes, looking alternately at his watch which
lies before him.) Sixty-five minutes-and he has
the best horse in the corps. I think he is safe.
(aside.) Here, sir. (Gives the paper.) Fly to the
execution of your duty.
[Exit Middleton. L. H.
And yet a minute more might prevent his ruin.
(calls.) Cornet Middleton!
Re-enter MIDdleton.
One caution is necessary. Be not so absorbed in
the eagerness of pursuit, as improvidently to fall
into the hands of the enemy.
Mid. I will be circumspect, sir.
Lee.
going.
And, Cornet, If you recover the deserter
C
36
Act II
THE WIDOW's son.
take particular care of his horse and accoutrements.
Mid. I will not forget a word of your instruc-
tions.
[Exit. L. H.
Lee. Now my heart beats lighter. There is lit-
tle doubt of his escape, and if he succeed, a glo-
rious victory will be achieved, purchased with the
blood of none but the guilty.
[Returns to the sofa, and the curtain falls.
END OF ACT I.
ACT II.
! SCENE 1.-An apartment in CLOVER's house.
Enter LOUISA and SCIPIO.
R. H.
Lou. So, the poor doctor had a soldier's lodg-
ing. Too slight a punishment, however, for his
impertinent curiosity. Did Sergeant Champe ap-
pear pleased when he read the letter?
Scip. No, Missee; very angry.
Lou. Angry, Scipio?
Scip. Mad, like March hare, Missee; swear such
wicked word, and run off like fury.
Lou. I fear some unexpected or disagreeable
duty has been assigned him, which will prevent his
attending. Did he say he would come?
Scip. Me no understand! he talk to himself; said
he strike a blow, and do a piece of murder; and
swore he die first.
Lou. Murder! (musing.) What can this mean!
Enter CLOVER.
L. H.
Clov. Good morning, my child.-Louisa, I say,
good morning.
Lou. (without looking up.) Good morning, sir.
Clov. Why, zounds! that's as cold as an ici-
cle. What are you thinking of? Come, give me
a kiss. There-now, if your invitations are all des-
patched, I have business for Scipio.
Lou. O sir, I think I shall postpone the party.
Clov. Postpone it! What, when all the ladies
are invited?
Scene I.]
37
THE WIDOW'S SON.
+
Lou. But then I fear that something may pre-
vent the-the-
Clov. The attendance of the Sergeant-Major?
hey? Is that it? Well; we must contrive to do
without him for once.
Lou.no, my dear father, that is impossible.
Clov. Impossible? Surely the whole camp can
furnish beaux enough for one evening-if not, the
village will. For instance, here comes our new
neighbour, the musical Doctor-shall I invite hi?
Lou. Not for the world-the mean, spiteful
fellow !
Clov. Just as you please-but endeavour to amuse
him while I copy a bill.
Iwrites.
Enter DOCTOR STRAMONIUM.
L. H.
Dr. S. Good morning, squire Clover. Fair Lou-
isa, your most obedient. The colour in your cheek
is a diagnostic of fever, and indicates depletion..
How did you rest last night?
Lou. How did you rest, Doctor?
Dr. S. Humph! Professional duties, you know,
are imperious. Several patients very low-called
up at all hours. You must know, Madam, that last
night I performed a very critical operation. The
impression is good-must keep it up. [aside.
Lou. I heard of it.
Dr. S. The devil you did! That's more than I
can say.
Laside.
Lou. And am very desirous of learning the pa-
tient's name. Who was the subject of this critical
operation, Doctor?
Dr. S. There you must excuse me, madam.—
Professional secrets are sacred. But may I know
who mentioned the circumstance to you ?
Lou. One who took the job out of your hands.
Pray, Doctor, is it ever necessary to gag a physi-
cian, in order to preserve his professional secrets?
Dr. S. Gag a physician! Don't believe it. The
impression is not quite so good as I supposed.
[aside..
୫୫
Act II.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
1
P
Lou. Or is the art of intercepting private let-
ters, one of the secrets of your profession? Did you
act as Surgeon or Chaplain, in the guard house last
night?
Dr. S. Here is another pretty kettle of fish.
[aside.
Lou. A physician-a non-combattant—a man of
science. Don't you know Doctor Stramonium?
Every body knows me. Ha, ha, ba!
Dr. S. Enjoy your triumph, Madam. I have a
bolus to check it, if it operate immoderately.
Lou. Scipio, why did you not go along, to keep
the Doctor company?
Scip. O Missee, me no like black-guard house
-'pose Massa Doctor use to 'em. Me peep out of
de straw, and see Massa Doctor scared so-(imita-
ting) O massa countersign, don't take me away-
only 'sider now-- let me go home, and I see you
'moted I only poor Jack Darby. Ha, ha, ha! I
thought me die laughing.
m
Lou. Critical operation-professional secrets—
poor Jack Darby! Ha, ha! ha!
Clov. hy, what is all this? You seem very
merry, Louisa; and so does Scipio; and so does-
no, doctor, you do not appear to be very merry.
Dr. S. I doubt, Sir, if Miss Louisa will continue
so, when she learns that she has placed her affec-
tions on a worthless object.
Lou. Why, how could I help loving you, Doc-
tor? I revere science, you know, and you never
told me that you were worthless,
Dr. S. I allude to the scoundrel Champe.
Clov. What, sir!
Lou. O, let him vent his spleen. You take care
to time your invectives well, doctor. But I sus-
pect that you would rather pass another night in the
guard-house, than to have that speech reported to
the Sergeant-major.
Scene I.
39
TIIE WIDOW'S SON.
Dr. S. Whoever reports it to him, must seek him
in New-York. The Sergeant-major has deserted
his corps, and fled to the enemy.
Lou. It is false !
Clov. Hark ye, doctor. I can tolerate jesting as
well as any man; and am willing to make every
reasonable allowance for the ebulitions of disap-
pointed affection. But such a mean, malicious ca-
lumny, as that which has just escaped your lips,
must not be repeated under my roof, nor in my
presence.
Dr. S. Upon my honour, squire Clover, you do
me injustice; and here comes one will make you
sensible of it.
Enter MIDDLeton.
I.. IS.
Clov. Good morning, Cornet. What news?
Mid. Nothing agreeable. The court of inquiry
is in session, and the unfortunate Andre is now un-
dergoing an examination before them. Will the
fair Louisa excuse me, if I request a word in pri-
rate with her father?
Clov. Retire, my child.
Lou. Not till I am relieved of this horrid sus-
pense. Mr. Middleton, I intreat you to demand of
that man-
Dr. S. I will save you the trouble, Billy. I have
only anticipted the object of your present visit by
mentioning the desertion of Sergt. -Major Champe;
and as that lady seems disposed to doubt my vera-
city, I beg that you will immediately do away her
suspicions.
Mid. Malicious booby! This meanness betrays
your real character, and relieves me from the duty
of exposing you.
Lapart to Dr. S.
Lou. O say that he speaks falsely. You he-
sitate. Violently agitated.] Speak, I conjure you.
Mid. This intelligence should have been im-
parted in a more tender and delicate manner. I
am sorry to say that the devil can speak truth, wher
40
[Act II.
THE WIDOW's SON.
it serves his purpose. It is an extraordinary affair
-but the Sergeant-Major has deserted, and fled to
the enemy.
[Louisa utters a shriek and faints.
Clov. My child! My child!
Scip. That, cause Massa Scamp swear so-no
good to swear so. Massa Doctor, you no swear.
Clov. Louisa! my child Look upon me.
your father speaks.
It is
Lou. (recovers.) My Edward!-O where is Ed-
ward!
Clov. Name not the perfidious wretch! but let
the wrath of heaven-
Lou. Hold! My father! O curse him not; or
curse me also; for I will share his destiny, be it
honour or infamy.
Clov. You rave my child. Compose yourself.
Dr. S. The diagnostics threaten delirium, and
indicate phlebotomy. Permit me to open a vein.
[Malleton pushes the Doctor aside, and assists
ty support Louisa,]
Clov. Lean on my arm, and let me conduct you
to your chamber.
[Exeunt. R. H.
Dr. S. All is not gold that glitters, Billy; I
think I told you so yesterday.
Mrd. Begone! mean contemptible puppy; and
if ever you speak to me again, or intimate in the
most remote manner, that I ever honoured you with
the least notice, I'll curry your calf-skin till it's fit
for the last. So vanish! March!
Dr. S. Why, what the devil is the matter Billy?
Is this proper treatment for a physician-a man of
science--a reader of Shakspeare: one who has pro-
mised to see you promoted? Where is your gra-
titude?
Mid. There is the door, and if you are not on
the other side of it in half a minute, you shall go,
headforemost, through the panel.
Scene 1.]
41
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Dr. S. I will remember this Billy, when you are
on the sick list. I'll give you a dose of
[Middleton advances toward Dr. S. who makes a
precipitate retreat through the door; L. H. then
thrusting his head in, he finishes the sentence.] a dose
of stinkweed and poke-berries. [Exit. L. H.

Enter CLOVER.
Mid. How left you the fair Louisa ?
R. H.
Clov. Weeping as if her heart would break. But
tell me, Middleton, how did this happen? What
could have occurred to cause the defection of a man
whose reputation was so fair, his patriotism so con-
spicuous, and his prospects so flattering?
Mid. I am as ignorant on those points, sir, as
yourself; every individual in the corps was filled
with consternation and astonishment, when the event
was announced this morning on parade. The treach-
ery of Arnold is spreading secretly and rapidly, and
Heaven only knows where it will stop. No man
can now trust his best friend:
Clov. Since Champe has proved false, I will trust
no man. Was he closely pursued?
J
Mid. To the water's edge, opposite_two British
galleys which were lying in the river. I was within
two hundred yards of him, when he sprang from his
horse, and with his drawn sword in his hand, (bav-
ing thrown away the scabbard,) ran through the
marsh to the river, into which he instantly plunged,
calling upon the galleys for help, which of course
was readily given. They fired upon our horse, and
sent a boat to meet the fugitive, who was conveyed
safely on board, with his valise lashed on his shoul-
ders. His horse and equipments, with his cloak and
scabbard, are the only fruits of our expedition.
Clov. Infamous, perfidious wretch may the vul-
ture of remorse prey upon his heart, until his car-
case becomes food for crows. Excuse me, Middle-
ton, if I leave you abruptly; I have always told you.
to consider this house as your own.
5
42
[Act II
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Mid. Pray don't mention it, Sir; I am expected
by the major.
[Exit CLOVER, R. H..
My heart bleeds for the unhappy Louisa; for what
can impart consolation to that bosom whose confi
dence has been thus cruelly betrayed.
SONG-MIddleton.
Let infamy cover the dastard, that meanly
Can sport with the peace of an innocent maid,
For Oh! there's no pang which the heart feels so keenly
As finding its confidence basely betray'd
No power can retrieve such a wide desolation,
As spreads o'er the face of the mental creation,
When once a sincere trusting heart's adoration
Has been with a cold-blooded treason repaid.
For woman, dear woman, ne'er traffics by measure,
But risks her whole heart without counting the cost;
And should the dear youth whom she trusts with the treasure
Be shipwreck'd or faithless, her capital's lost.
For all she was worth was her stock of affection,
And ankruptcy follows, with sad retrospection,
As nothing can ever remove the dejection
That preys on a bosom whose prospects are cross'd.
[Exit L. H.
SCENE II.---Jutside of Primrose cottage. Same as
scene 1. in Act 1. Enter Lucy and NANCY.
Lucy. Now, be particular, Nancy, and attend to
the directions I have given you. And if the doctor
comes during my absence, tell him his future atten
dance can be dispensed with. It will probably be
eleven o'clock before I return.
Nan. Will you not be afraid to cross the camp
at that late hour?
Lucy. Shall I not have the cornet with me, and
what has a woman to fear, while under the protec
tion of an American soldier?
Nan. That's exactly my way of thinking, Miss
Primrose. I never feel afraid when I am with cor
poral Barney, if we are ever so lonesome.
Lucy. Take care, Nancy, that you be not too
confiding. We are often in the most danger when
we fancy ourselves the most secure. You ought not
Scene I.]
43
THE WIDOW's son.
to trust yourself alone with a corporal, it is very im-
prudent.
Nan. I am sorry for that, and wish poor Barney
was a cornet.
Lucy. If promotion be your object, wish for
something higher.
Nan. But then, there is no danger, you know, in
trusting one's self alone with a cornet.
Lucy. O the the
discretion
cumstances-
I mean
-cir-
Nan. You mean love, madam; and so do I.
But I thank you for your caution, and hope you
will pass an agreeable evening. Good bye. [Exit.
Lucy. Yes, I did mean love; it is a language
that all understand, from the throne to the cottage,
for the little god is no respecter of persons or rank.
SONG-LUCY.
The cottage lass, the courtly dame,
The child of toil, and slave of fashion,
Alike disown the mystic flame,
Yet feed with sighs the tender passion.
Each heart, ere age its fervour chills,
Is doom'd by turns, to throb and languish,
And prove the thousand nameless thrills
Of bashful love's delicious anguish.
But infant love attempts in vain,
To fan the flame with gilded pinion,
And quickly bursts the heavy chain,
That ties him down to wealth's dominion.
For ah! that flame but seldom lives,
In breasts with gaudy splendour laden,
1
Nor yields them half the joy it gives
The bashful, blooming, cottage maiden.
Enter MARGARET.
Exit. R. H.
R. H.
Marg. Foolhardy valiant! desperately brave!
'Tis tempting fate, and daring Heaven's vengeance,
to venture thus within the very lines, with ten rash
comrades, on each head of whom a traitor's price is
set. But I will save, or perish with him.
[Retires behind the cottage.
44
Act II.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Enter DOCTOR STRAMONIUM.
Dr. S. (Singing.)
Make a death, cut a stick, high time I tramp'd,
Rise again; tick again, credit new vamp’d.
R. H.
Ah! Jack Darby, Jack Darby! you have done
the job for yourself- Must cut a stick, and tramp
again- the thread of my medical career has
come to an end in this quarter, and so has my cred-
it. What next? assume the shoulder-iron, and
give the red-coats a hammering? There is not stuff
enough in the insole for that. I must try bogging
once more.
Enter NANCY, from the cottage.
Well, Nancy, how is the old lady?
Nancy. Much worse, sir.
Dr. S Worse! Impossible. She took the pills?
Nan. Yes, sir.
Dr. S. And the catnip tea?
Nancy. Yes, sir.
Dr. S. O, then she cannot be worse; don't be-
lieve it; beg leave to certiorari your judgment.
Nancy. Why, Doctor, Miss Lucy and I are
afraid that she will shake to pieces.
Dr. S. Shake to pieces? Pshaw my child;
you cannot discriminate between a shake and a trill.
Depend upon it your mistress is better. Give her
one of these pills every half hour, and the tone of
her pulse will fall on octave below.
Nan. And the catnip tea?
Dr. S. Certainly; and, I say, Nancy, lace it
with a little Boston particular.
Nan. Yes, sir.
Dr. S. I say, Nancy---you look ill yourself. Let
me feel your pulse. Too high, depend upon it.
Nan. (affecting alarm.) Do you really think I
am sick, doctor?
Dr. S. To be sure you are, my dear. I say?
Nancy; don't you always feel a little feverish-like,
when I feel your pulse.
Nan. I don't know, sir. (with simplicity.)
Scene II.]
45
THE WIDOW's son.
Dr. S. Don't know! why, are you not a little flur-
ried just now? don't you feel a kind of palpitation
there ?
Nan. A palpitation! what's that?
Dr. S. A quick movement-beating 3-4 time-
a sort of hammering, thumping, or pounding on the
side seam. Does not your heart beat quicker for
being squeezed a little so? Hey, my dear!
Nan. No, sir, but my hand does. There's your fec
Doctor, (slaps him in the face,) and Mrs. Primrose
will dispense with your future attendance.
[Exit.
Dr. S. Paid at sight, and the patient off. "Well.
most of my patients pop off without giving me ei-
ther a fee, or a discharge.
Enter CAPT. DARBY, wrapped in a cloak. L. H.
Capt. D. Good morning, neighbour.
Dr. S. Good day, sir.
Capt. D. Can you direct a traveller, sick, weak,
and faint, to the nearest inn?
Dr. S. Sick, sir! I rejoice to see you. I am
Doctor Stramonium, surgeon and chaplain in the
Continental army. No doubt you have heard of me.
I studied the noble art of heeling, sir, for several
years, and the like number in curing soles. Permit
me to feel your pulse, sir.
Capt. D.
You are attached to the army, then?
Dr. S. Not exactly attached, but have a great
attachment for it although its reputation has been
dreadfully tarnished by treason. Bill Darby be-
trayed one important post, and Benedict Arnold at-
tempted to betray another. You have heard of Bill
Darby, I suppose ? he that received two hundred
guineas and a captain's commission for leading the
British troops up to the rear of Fort Montgomery.
Capt. D. Yes, I have heard of him.
Dr. S. A hangman's halter awaits him. But
as I was about to inform you, sir, I have a few pa-
tients in that house, and should be happy to add you
to the number.
Capt. D. Who lives there?
5*
46
[Act II.
THE WIDOW's son.
Dr. S. Mrs. Primrose, an old lady, with her
grand-daughter, the fair Miss Lucy.
Capt. D. Formerly of Goshen?
Dr. S. The same. They have a spare room
and would accommodate you reasonably.
Capt. D. (aside) Lucy Primrose! God of Heaven!
how that name can shake this stubborn heart! O days
of innocent delights and joyous hopes! whither have
you flown! By one rash damning deed, I have for-
feited Paradise, and must now endure the hell I've
made. But stay-the lapse of ages may not restore
this opportunity. I will feast my eyes with one fond
look, and then Oh! (affected.)
Dr. S. You appear to be very weak, sir, per-
mit me to lead you in.
Capt. D. Presently. (Struggling to recover his
composure.) What news is there stirring?
Dr. S. Not much, but what every body knows,
and what is, at present the only theme of conver
sation.
Capt. D. What may that be?
Dr. S. The treason of Arnold, and the wonder-
ful operation which I performed last night.
Capt. D. An operation! of what nature?
Dr. S. Why you must know, sir, that the cele.
brity of my name having reached the ears of our no-
ble prisoner, Major Andre
Capt. D. (seizing him by the arm,) of whom?
Dr. S. Bless, me sir, you are not quite so weak
as I took you to be. I spoke of Major Andre, who
iş to be hanged as a spy.
Capt. D. Tell me-What is his situation? Where
is he? and what operation did he require ?
Dr. S. (aside.) The impression is good-I must
keep it up. Hem!! you must excuse my not an-
swering those questions, sir, until we become better
acquainted; and though I passed the whole of last
night in administering spiritual sonsolation to the un-
fortunate prisoner, his excellency, the commander
Scene I.
47
THE WIDOW's son.
in chief, earnestly requested me not to speak of his
situation to any one. My dear doctor, said he-
Capt. D. Instantly communicate every particu-
lar with which you are intrusted, or
Dr. S. Why, you recover fast, sir. But excuse
me the confidence of his excellency must not be
betrayed. The impression is good must keep
it up.
(aside.) My dear doctor, said he
Capt. D. Then you shall go where compulsion
will draw the secret from you. (whistles.)
Enter a small party of BRITISH SOLDIERS. L. H.
Seize that rebel, and bear him to the boat.
Dr. S. Galen and St. Crispin! But here's the
devil to pay, with a vengeance! seize me! Why,
gentlemen, I am a physician-a chaplain-a non-
combattant-a man of science-You cannot make a
prisoner of me. Don't you know Dr. Stramonium?
every body knows me.
Capt. D. Take him instantly to the boat, and
wait there until I come, unless you hear an alarm.
In that case, act as circumstances direct. We must
embark immediately.
Dr. S. Pray gentlemen, don't think of making a
prisoner of me--I have a patient here at the point of
death, and the consequences may be fatal. Pray,
captain, consider-
Capt. D. Stop his mouth, and take him along.
Pinion him if he resists. Sergeant Tremour, stand
sentry here, while I reconnoitre within. (Exit into
the cottage, while the soldiers pinion Dr. §.)
Dr. S. Here's another pretty scrape for a phy-
sician;-fine kettle of fish--Pray don't stop my
mouth, gentlemen. I will confess the whole-it.is
all a joke I never saw Andre in my life. I am no
doctor at all-I am only poor Jack Darby, the shoe-
maker; I mean the musician; no, I mean the ped-
dler; no, not the peddler, neither, I mean the school-
master, the lawyer, the preacher- the:
I
48
[Act II.
THE WIDOW's son.
Serg. Gag the chattering rebel; he'll raise an
alarm.
Dr. S. O, no, don't gag me; it is you that have
raised an alarm; for I was never so alarmed before
in the whole course of my practice. Let me talk
and I will go very peaceably-I'll turn traitor-I'll
enlist-swear allegiance-do any thing, only leave
my legs and my tongue at liberty, and you shall
all be promoted.
1st Sold. Bring him along.
Dr. S. Dearly beloved-another difficult case
which I can't decline-unfortunate tramp!
The soldiers force him off. L. H.
Serg. T. I don't much like our situation here.
These rebels are up to so many Yankee tricks.
Enter MARGARET from behind the cottage.
Marg. I have been detained too long: the aların
is given the chase is up, and I must warn this des-
perate boy.
Serg. Why, crazy Peg, what brought you here ?
Marg. To warn you of your danger I am come,
riding post haste upon the whirlwind's blast. You
have presumed_to laugh my art to scorn. Learn
to respect it-Beware an ambush'd foe! Retreat
like lightning-or else meet the thunder. (She fires
a pistol, and exit. R. H.) A shriek is heard in
the cottage; Captain Darby rushes out with his
sword drawn.
Serg. To the boat, Captain! Every bush and
shrub conceals a rebel.
Capt. D. We must fight our way, then. Pre-
pare for here comes one a piece for us.
Enter CARNES and MIDDLETON, swords drawn.
Car. Resistance is vain. If your lives are worth
your keeping, surrender to us; our followers may
be less lenient.
Capt. D. I am not to be the dupe of Yankee
finesse. Come on, and let blows decide.
Scene III.] THE WIDOW's son.
49
Carnes, and Captain D. engage, as do Middleton
and the Sergeant. Middleton wounds und disarms
the Sergeant, and then attacks capt. D. They
beat down his guard, throw him on the ground,
and stand in an attitude to strike.
Car. Yield! obstinate man, and ask for quarter.
Capt. D. I will not ask for life from such rebel-
lious hounds. I am overpowered by numbers, but
not conquered
Mid. "We would not strike a fallen foe. Yield
to the fate of war.
your
Capt. D. I will not yield. (draws a pistol, and
attempts to shoot Carnes, but it flashes in the pan.)
Car. That base attempt at treachery, seals
fate. Die, then, perfidious wretch. (Carnes raises
his arm to strike, when Margaret enters with a
shriek and rushes between them.)
Marg. O save him! save him! spare his life, if
you hope for the love of Heaven.
Car. Hence, meddling hag! he dies.
Marg. By Heaven, he shall not die. (She fires
and wounds Carnes, who drops his sword. Capt.
D. springs on his feet, but being unarmed cannot
renew the engagement, and assisting the Sergeant
to rise, they effect their retreat, while Middleton
supports Carnes in his arms.
[The scene closes.
SCENE HII. An apartment_in_the house occupied
by Sir Henry Clinton, in the city of New-York.
Tables, chairs, and writing materials. Enter
CLINTON, MELVIN, and other officers.
This rebel chief
Clin. Yes, I am resolved.
shall rue the day he injures a hair of Andre's head.
Unless he restore him to me, safe and uninjured, I
will hang every rebel prisoner in my possession, un-
til their misguided countrymen consent to deliver
Washington into my power, and return to their al-
50
[Act II.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
legiance to our gracious king. The gallant, the
amiable Andre! I have not patience to think of his
present situation.
Mel. Heaven grant, that the negotiations which
your excellency has put on foot, may result in his
liberation; for should his short but bright career of
glory be arrested by an ignominious death
Clin. Hold, Melville! I will not hear it inti-
mated.
Enter SERGEANT.
L. H.
Serg. Major Sanford, of your excellency's staff,
desires to be admitted.
Clin. Show him in.
(Exit Serg.)
L. H.
Enter SANFORD and CHAMPE.
You are welcome, Major. Any intelligence from
the rebel army?
San. There is, sir. I have been despatched hither
by the adjutant general, with this dragoon, who has
deserted from the enemy. This letter will commu-
nicate the particulars.
Clin. (Reads the letter.)
Mel. A noble looking fellow, Sandford. (apart.
San. Yes, and a valuable acquisition to our ca-
valry.
Clin. Sergeant Champe, you are welcome. I
learn from this letter that you effected your escape
under circumstances that forbid all suspicion of your
sincerity; and I sincerely congratulate you on that
score, as well as on your having awakened to a sense
of your duty, and voluntarily abandoned the stand-
ard of rebellion.
Cham. Your excellency has my warmest thanks.
Clin. Are there many more disposed to follow
your laudable example?
Cham. Hundreds, sir: such is the spirit of de-
fection which prevails among the continental troops
in consequence of the brave Arnold's abandonment
of a hopeless cause, that I have no doubt, if the tem-
Scene III.
51
THE WIDOW'S SON.
per be properly cherished, the ranks of Washington
will not only be thinned, but some of his best corps
will leave him.
Clin. What, in your opinion, would be the most
effectual excitements?
Cham. Gold and promotion.
Clin. What is the present situation of Major
Andre ?
Cham. He is closely confined in a strong, stone
building, at the village of Tappan, awaiting the de-
cision of a court-martial.
Clin. What is the current opinion of his proba-
ble fate? Is it generally thought that Washington
will venture to treat him as a spy?
Cham. There appears to be a general wish in the
army that his life should not be taken, and I believe
it will depend more on the disposition of Congress,
than on the will of Washington.
Clin. Well, sir, once more you are welcome.
How do you wish to be disposed of?
Cham. The height of my ambition is to serve un-
der the gallant Arnold, who, I understand is now
raising a legion of my countrymen for his majesty's
service. May I take the liberty of requesting from
your excellency a letter of introduction?
Clin. Certainly. Here, Melville, write imme-
diately to general Arnold, and state the necessary
particulars. You, sir, shall be the bearer (to Cham.)
and here are a few guineas to defray your immedi-
ate expenses.
[Melville writes.
Cham. I humbly thank your excellency. When
the kindness of this reception is reported to my
mis-guided countrymen, you may expect a vast in-
flux of provincial recruits.
Enter SERGEANT.
L. H.
Serg. Capt Darby has just returned from a se-
cret expedition, and wishes your excellency to ex-
amine à rebel prisoner.
Clin. Admit them.
[Exit Sergeant.
$2
[Act II.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Enter CAPTAIN DARBY,
L. H.
Clin. Well, Darby, what intelligence of my un-
fortunate aid.
Cham. (aside) Capt. Darby! This_then_must
be the mercenary wretch that betrayed Fort Mont-
gomery. Could I secure him along with Arnold,
I should be doubly successful.
Capt. D. Agreeably to your excellency`s caution,
I did not venture far from the river; but falling in
with a party of rebels, with whom we had a skir-
mish, I succeeded in making a prisoner, who is in
possession of every information respecting the ami-
able object of your excellency's solicitude.
Clin. Where is he?\
Capt. D. In custody of Sergeant Tremour, who
received a severe wound in the contest, and who
waits without for your excellency's orders.
Clin. Admit them instantly.
Enter Sergeant TREMOUR with his arm in a sling,
and DOCTOR STRAMONIUM,guarded by two soldiers.
Dr. S. (speaking as he enters.) Don't believe it.
I tell you, it is all a joke; I never saw Andre in my
life.
Clin. Is this the prisoner you spoke of ?
Capt. D. It is, your excellency.
Clin. And pray, sir, what is Major Andre's pre-
sént situation?
Dr. S. It is all a joke, sir; I never saw Andre in
my life.
Capt. D. Did you not tell me that you passed
the night with him in his place of confinement?
Dr. S. Don't believe it. It is true I passed the
night in a place of confinement, but not with Major
Andre, as I should have told you long ago, if my
very good friends here had not gagged me.
Cham. By your excellency's leave, here must be
some mistake.
Dr. S. Sergeant Champe! This is truly fortu-
nate! As you have deserted from Washington, you
Scene III.]
53
THE WIDOW'S SON.
must be in his excellency's good graces; so speak
a good word for me. (Melville comes forward.)
Clin. Who, are you, sir?
Dr. S. Why, don't you know Dr. Stramonium?
a physician, and a man of science? every body
knows me; and I should be happy to serve your
excellency as a surgeon, or chaplain. Sergeant
Champe, there, the deserter, will tell your excel-
lency all about me.
Clin. What say you, Sergeant Champe?
Cham. That my friend, the doctor, there, is a
harmless fellow, with more tongue than brains, and
less courage than either. Having exhausted his
credit in the country, it would be a charitable act
in your excellency to let him try his fortune in the
city. There's a good word for you, doctor.
Dr. S. Thank you, sir. Have I your excellen-
cy's leave to depart?
Clin. Go where you please. So, Captain Dar-
by, you have risked your own life, as well as your
men, for a very valuable prize.
Capt. D. I hope, sir, the purity of my intentions
may be pleaded in extenuation of the error.
Mel. (sarcastically.) No one can doubt the pu-
rity of Captain Darby's motives.
Capt. D. (significantly.) Captain_ Darby_will
never forget the obligations he is under to Major
Melville.
Dr. S. Captain Darby! Galen and St. Crispin!
Then it must be my own hopeful brother to whom
I am a prisoner. He shall not know it, however,
until a proper time.
[Exit. 1. H.
Clin. See that your future enterprises are conduct-
ed with more discretion. (Tukes the letter which
Melville, has written and gives it to Sanford.) Pre-
sent this to General Arnold, together with Sergeant
Champe; and see that suitable quarters are as-
1
6
£54
[Act II.
THE WIDOW's son.
signed him-the same as are occupied by our re-
cruiting sergeants.
(Exit Clinton. R. H.
(Officers and Champe exeunt.
L. H.
Capt. D. Rebuked by Clinton, like a truant boy!
Taunted by Melville! And must I brook it? No!
by the eternal powers, I will teach them to their
cost, that the passion of revenge was not exhausted
on my own countrymen. They who would domes-
ticate a serpent, should be careful not to wound it.
[Exit. L. H.
SCENE IV. Margaret's residence. A mean apart-
ment, the walls of which exhibit various emble-
matical devices appertaining to the occult sci-
ences. In the flat is a door, or recess, conceal-
ed by a curtain. Enter Margaret and TruE-
110 MAN.
L. H.
Marg. Practice alone can make one thus ex-
Marg
pert. could arrest a cut at twenty paces, and
scarcely scratch the arm that aimed the blow.
Tru. A singular talent for one of your sex.
But why not permit your son to know that he owes
his safety to a mother's care?
Marg. The proper period has not yet arrived.
But stay; the evening shades are falling fast, and I
must be prepared to hold my mystic court. (goes to
the side, and rings a bell.) Dupes of both sexes
hither come in pairs, to learn the secrets of futurity.
Were I as free from care as when I danced on Lif-
fey's verdant banks, how I could laugh at the ex-
pense of fools. As it is, I profit by them.
(During the following dialogue a servant brings
in a table, with lights, and a pack of cards.
[Foot-lights down.]
Tru. We were speaking of your son's adventure,
yesterday.
Marg. Twice have I saved his life, when thus,
as 'twere, suspended by a thread. O could I also
save his fame; redeem from infamv. the sullied
Scene IV.] THE WIDOW'S SON.
55
name of Darby, I'd freely yield my life, and think
the glorious prize was cheaply purchased.
Tru. To what exciting cause do you attribute
his defection?
Marg. To wrongs-damning wrongs! Too deep
-too heavy-too degrading, to be named; too cut-
ting to be borne, I must confess, by any in whose
veins the blood of Darby flows. Suspected, with-
out cause, of lack of zeal, he was, at dead of night,
torn from my widowed cot, by a lawless band of
ruthless ruffians, political fanatics, who call, licen-
tiousness by freedom's sacred name--and by them
loaded with insults-stripes! and such indignities
as I abhor to name. Stung to the soul by this un-
merited disgrace, he swore a terrible revenge; and
you have felt that too successfully he kept his oath.
Tru. Yes, I have felt it, and shall bear the wit-
ness to my grave. My blood was the first that stain-
ed the walls of Fort Montgomery. Invincible in
front, we dared an open foe, but did not dream of
treachery behind; and when at dead of night, your
son leaped upon the parapet and stood before me,
I should have hailed him as a friend, had not aston-
ishment subdued my speech. "Revenge!" he cried
with a demoniac laugh, and plunged his naked wea-
pon in my side. As I fell, he knew me, and utter-
ed some expressions of regret which I cannot remem-
ber, for reason fled, and spared my eyes the dread-
ful scene that followed. Since my recovery, we have
never met.
Murg. From good authority. I know he thinks
your wound was mortal. Let him still think so, for
remorse is physic. You were his friend. Ile on-
ly sought his foes-foes who had stabbed him to the
soul-foes who had made him what he is.
Tru. A palliation many have to plead, who
now are stigmatized as tories. But with your son
the die is cast. Were he even disposed to redeem
his error, it is beyond his power. A double traitor
forfeits all protection.
56
[Act II.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Marg. I know it--Too well I know it. But that
is not my object. I never can restore him to his
country all I can hope is to prevent his sinning
farther, and tempting fate as yesterday he did, by
inducing him to resign a commission so iniquitously
obtained.
Tru. Would you not risk the loss of Clin-
ton's confidence and protection by such a step? It
is only by serving him, you know, that we have it
in our power to further the designs of Washington.
Besides, on what foundation can your hope be erec-
ted? He is unconscious of the tender tie which in-
terests you in his fate, and only knows you as the
reputed emisary and ally of our great invisible
arch enemy.
Marg. No matter; there is an avenue-one on-
ly, known to me-by which his fortress is assaila-
ble. Though brave and daring in the hour of dan-
ger, he still, in private, is the trembling vassal of an
infant's weakness the veriest slave to gothic su-
perstition. To take advantage of this baby foible,
I've thrown out many dark mysterious hints, which
he alone could understand; until, at length, an an-
gel's oath would not convince him, but that the book
of fate lies spread before me. With this weapon I
may successfully assail him, without exciting doubts
in any breast. (A shrill whistle) But hark! he
comes. I would not have you ineet. Retire be-
hind this curtain, and noiseless, motionless, become
if possible a breathless statue. I will not keep him
long. (Trueman retires behind the curtain.)
Enter CAPTAin Darby,
L. II.
Capt. D. Well, Margaret, what say the stars to
night?
Marg. (solemnly.) Two deadly perils thou hast
well escaped. Beware the third-to save from that
is far beyond my power.
Capt. D. Are we alone?
Mar. Alone! Blind earthborn mortal! No-we

[Scene IV.
57
THE WIDOW'S SON.
never are alone. A thousand friendly beings throng
unseen around us, to warn, to succour, and reprove.
'Twas one of these, that yester morning whispered
to my soul the dreadful fate that was suspended o'er
thee. I saw I came-I saved.
Capt. D. You did more, mysterious woman, if,
indeed, you be one. You shot a rebel.
Marg. A flesh wound merely, in the arm. A
higher will than mine restrained me.
Capt. D. What is this third peril of which you
so solemnly warn me to beware?
Marg. (examining the cards.) An ignominious
death! Listen to the voice of fate.
The following verses may be either said, or sung,
at the discretion of the manager.
Gibbet, rear'd by rebel hands,
On the Hudson's margin stands
Rebel hands have dug a grave,
For the innocent and brave..
;
But before that tree be press'd,
Ere that grave receive a guest,
(So these mystic symbols read)
There's a traitor's death decreed.
Capt. D. A traitor's death!
Marg.
One that led a hostile band,
O'er the flood across the land;
One that brother's blood has quaff'd,
Saw the massacre, and laugh'd.
Capt. D. (agitated. Speak mysterious being,
and say at once
Marg.
One whose impious hand has sold,
Country, God, and fame, for gold,
Such a one, if such, there be,"
Dies upon that fatal tree.
Capt. D. (violently agitated) Perish the spell,
foul hag! my hand slew but one, and his blood was
a small sacrifice-insufficient to wash away wrongs
like mine.
8
58
[Act III.
THE WIDOW's son.
Marg. His blood cries from the earth for ven-
geance.
Capt. D. (desperately,) Name him, and I--
I will believe you.
[checking himself.
Marg. Behold him, in yonder mirror! [The
curtain is suddenly withdrawn, and Trueman dis-
covered in the attitude of a statue. Capt. D. ex-
claims “Trueman !" reels, and falls upon the
stage. Trueman retires unobserved.
END OF ACT II.
ACT III.
SCENE I.-A Street in New-York.
Enter TRUEMNAN and CHAMPE.
Cham. Unfortunate, ill-timed magnanimity! by
which he has sealed his own destiny and defeated
all our exertions in his favour. It was hoped that
examination of witnesses, and the defence of the pri-
soner, would have protracted his sentence, and af-
forded sufficient time for the consummation of our
enterprise.
Tru. He disdained defence, confessed himself
guilty, and has thus blasted all our benevolent hopes
and wishes. This letter informs me that there was
scarcely a dry eye in the army on the morning of
his execution.
"Cham. But why such expedition? It was cer-
tainly in the power of Washington to have delayed
the execution of the sentence, until the result of this
enterprise was known.
"Tru. But how could he have justified such delay
to Congress, or to the nation? Though this prompt
decision be lamentable, still we must confess that
it was warranted by peculiar circumstances, among
which the existing implication of other officers in
Arnold's conspiracy, and a due regard to public opi-
nion, are not the least important.
Scene 1.]
59
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Cham. And the traitor still lives! But if our plan
succeed, a day of retribution is at hand, when the
outraged feelings of humanity shall be appeased;
and the same eyes which wept for Andre's fate, shall
smile with joy to see his murderer perish.
True. I hope so. The enterprise will necessarily
be attended with extreme hazard; but I trust it can
be accomplished. At all events, you may depend
upon my zealous and active co-operation. We must
have another associate, however, on whom we can
depend.
Cham. I know of such a one, an individual who
is most admirably fitted for the purpose.
True. Then we can proceed without delay.
Cam. A detachment of dragoons, under the
command of my old friend Carnes, will be waiting
for us to-morrow night, on the Jersey shore.
True. You have uninterrupted access to Arnold?
Cham. Acting as his recruiting sergeant, I have
access to him at all hours, and have become famil-
iar with his habits. It is his custom to return home
at about eleven, every night; and then walk for
an houror two in the garden, where you and I,
concealed by the shrubbery, can wait for him,
and secure him with the greatest ease.
He must,
be gagged and pinioned then enveloped in a cloak
and, through a secret passage, familiar to me,con-
veyed to the boat, which must be kept in rea-
diness by our associate.
But sup-
True. The plan is an excellent one.
pose we are met, and questioned respecting our
dumb prisoner?
Cham. We must represent him as a drunken sol-
dier, whom we are conveying to the guard-house.
True. That is well conceived. I have now some
indispensable duties to perform. At noon, to-mor-
row, or thereabouts, I'll meet you at mother Dar-
by's. Till ther, Adieu. [Exeunt opposite. §
9
60
[Act III.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
SCENT II. An apartment in Clover's house.
Enter CLOVER and Middleton.
R. H.
Clov. I tell you, sir, she does not requite my af-
fection as a daughter ought. My foolish kindness
and indulgence, instead of exciting her gratitude
and obedience, have rendered her obstinate and
perverse. She still loves the traitor whom I have
commanded her to renounce and to hate.
Mid. Pardon me, sir, if I suggest the propriety
of granting time for ber sensibility to recover from
the shock which it has received.
Clon. She has had time enough. Did I not love
the scoundrel too? I loved him like a son; and yet
I would now gladly be his hangman. Did she love
her father, she would hate Champe.
Mid. Trust me, my dear sir-
I
Clov. I won't trust you. I can trust no one.
have outlived all honesty, and have therefore lived
too long. Pardon me, Mr. Middleton. If my words
offend, my heart does not intend it.
Mid. I know it, sir. Let me, therefore, once
more intreat you to spare the feelings of the af-
flicted Louisa, nor urge her on this subject, until
time has assuaged the poignancy of her grief. Re-
member, sir, that the female heart is not exactly
like that of an old soldier.
4
Clar. Well, well--perhaps you are correct.
Whether you be or not, here comes one that will be
sure to vote with you; and as I don't like to be in the
minority, we will close the debate. Good day,
Miss Primrose.
Enter Lucy.
Luc. The same to you, gentlemen.
L. H.
Mid. Ministering angel of comfort! this attention
to your unhappy friend, renders you, if possible,
still dearer to my heart.
Luc. Nay, William; you soldiers are such
latterers
Glov. And such deceivers, too, Miss Primrose:
Scene II.
61
THE WIDOW'S SON.
But I won't resume the argument. Business com-
pels me to leave you, and I will send Louisa to en-
tertain you.
| Exit. R. H.
Mid. Not finding you at the cottage, I sought
you here. Our detachment crosses the river this
evening.
Luc. So soon!
Mid. Within three hours. So, God bless you,
till we return. crowned with victory, and covered
with laurels Nay,
Nay, my love.
Luc. Permit me, for a moment only, to be a
woman, when I thus exhort you to be a man.
There [gives her hand, which he kisses] Go-
the times require Spartan virtues; and for every
sacrifice like this, we shall receive the blessings of
unborn thousands. Go-defend your bleeding coun-
try-avenge her wrongs: and, if your life be- [agi-
tated]-preserved-
Mid. Lucy's love will be my rich reward Once
more--[kisses her hand] God bless you. Ex. L. H.
Luc. May Heaven preserve thy precious life,
and I am richly blessed.
SONG-LUCY.
The god of battle be thy shield,
And guard may love from dange
When havoc desolates the field,
Whence pity flies a stranger,
Where hearts determined to be free,
Assume relentless rigour,
And arms which strike for liberty,
Possess immortal vigour
There guard my gallant soldier's breast,
Till victory light upon his crest;
And when the foeman flies before him,
O then to love and me restore him,
Enter LOUISA.
Lucy. Still in tears, Louisa ?
Lou. These are grateful drops, my Lucy, elicited
by a father's tenderness. The cloud has passed
from his brow. which is again lighted with the
sunny smile of paternal affection. What sacrifice
ought I not to make to repay his kindness!
62
[Act III.
THE WIDOW's son.
Luc. Let us not talk of sacrifices; I have a more
lively subject to propose.
What would you give,
now, to have your fortune told?
Lou. Not much; for I am too certain of its be-
ing a very dark one. Why do you ask?
Luc. Because, in two minutes, you may have
an opportunity, as I saw crazy Peg, the witch of
Blagge's Clove, in the orchard, when I came in.
Lou. I am sorry for it; for though poor Margaret's
heart may be good, I fear that her head is somewhat
out of order. There is a wild repulsive sternness in
her countenance, which, added to the sybil-like tone
of her voice, actually makes me tremble. Do you not
think she is insane?
Luc More rogue than fool, depend upon it.-
Had she lived in Salein, however, a century or two
ago, she would hardly have escaped the ordeal of
the sack. But, here she comes to speak for herself.
[Enter MARGARET.]
L. H.
Well, aunt Peggy, how do you do?--What news
from the city, and what pretty things have you in
that basket? Come--sit down here-display your
treasures-name the prices-sing one of your old
gothic ballads -and tell our fortunes.
Marg. Alas! poor twittering, chirping, gaudy
little songstress! The fowler is abroad, and thy
mate is roving. Has pleasure charms for thee while
danger theatens him?
Luc. Pshaw! that is one of those random augu-
ries with which you always contrive to dampen the
spirits of others. From what book, now, did you
learn that?
Marg. From the book of fate.
But I will spare
thee, pretty trembler. Be happy while thou canst.
Take this basket, and examine its contents. There
is food for youthful vanity, and thou art welcome ;
with the exception of this golden fruit, which is de-
signed expressly for thy friend. [takes out an orange]
Lou. I will accept it, Margaret, as a token of
your friendship.,
Scene II.]
63
THE WIDOW's son.
Luc.
(Examining the contents of the basket)
O what beautiful buckles! Look here, Louisa!
Lou. Very preity, indeed
Luc. (Still examni g.) Come, aunt Peggy,
recite one of your old ballads, about knights, and
squires, and castles, and tournaments, and beauti-
ful damsels.
༤
Marg. (To Louisa) Poor mateless dove! I have
a word of hope for thee. The groves which listen.
to thy sad complaints, shall soon be gladdened with
a sweeter strain. Thy hand.
Lou. Nay, good Margaret; you know I don't be-
lieve in such things.
MARGARET places the orange in her hand, and
then repeats the following verses, which may be
"said or sung," at the discretion of the manager.
There's a treasure in thy hand,
Noae must e'er discover;
'Tis a message, understand,
From a faithful lover.
This chequered line speaks much of disappoint-
ments; but here we see they end, and all the rest
of the fair line of life is smooth and pleasing. Good
news awaits thee.
But wouldst thou see thy country blest,
And save a lover's life,
Then lock the secret in thy breast,
Till thou becomest a wife,
As she repeats the last verse, she takes the orange
from Louisa, and opening the rind, discovers a
paper within. She then returns it to Louisa,with
signs of caution and secrecy, and repeats the
first verse:
>
There's a treasure in thy hand,
None must e'er discover, &g.
Luc. [Still engaged with the basket] Where
did you learn that ditty, aunt Peggy ?
[LOUISA reads the paper.]
Marg. Is there aught among those trinkets worthy
of thy acceptance?
9*
64
[Act III.
THE, WIDOW's son.
Luc. Look here, and I will show you.
Lou. He's true! he's true!
Murg. (with signs of caution)
Wouldst thou see thy country blest,
And save a lover's life,
Lock close the secret in thy breast,
Till thou becom'st a wife.
Lou. (Concealing the paper in
Oh, Lucy, my brain is bewildered.
her bosom)-
Bear with my
Exit. R. H.
weakness; and permit me to retire a few moments.
Margaret, I must speak with you.
Lucy. Poor Louisa! her heart is like the widow-
ed ivy, when deprived of its wonted support.
1
SONG-LUCY..
I mark'd, of late, in verdant pride,
The ivy, fondly clinging
To the tall pak's majestic side,
On whose green branches, spreading wide,
A woodlan choir was singing.
I
But soon was hush'd the sylvan lay,
The lightning's bolt invaded;
The oak was shivered in the fray,
The widow'd ivy lost its stay,
And all its verdure faded.
'Tis thus the fond confiding heart,
On manly faith reposes,
While the sweet smiles of Hope impart
Such hues to life's prospective chart
As deck the scene in roses.
But, ah! such sweets too soon decay,
By sorrow's storm invaded;
If faithless man our hopes betray,
The widowed heart will lose its stay,
And all its joys be faded.
SCENE III. A Street.
[Exit. R. 1.
Enter DR. STRAMONIUM.
Dr. S. A week in town, and not yet felt a pulse,
prescribed a bolus, or touched a shilling. At this
rate, I shall soon make a death literally, and expire
of the only disease which is beyond the reach of
Scene IV.
.65.
THE WIDOW's SON.
the faculty. One of two things only can be done ;
doff the doctor, and resume the lapstone; or ap-
ply for assistance to this traitor brother of mine,
who, I understand, intends to resign his commission.
I cannot stomach either. What a world this is,
where a man of science can be reduced to envy a
kitchen scullion. There now is a palace, where
one might feast a month and the owner be no loser;
for he whose larder is robb'd, not wanting what is
eaten, let him not know it, and he is not robb'd at
all. This must be about their dinner hour. Brass
plate on the door-there can be no harm in reading
the name. Benedict Arnold, by the head of Galen!
The door opens--let me reconnoitre. (retires.)
i
Enter JOHN from the house-ROBERT appears
in the door.
Rob. Run for the nearest doctor, John. Tell
him to come instantly. The general's life may be
in danger. ( Exii Roв. into the house. JOHN L. h.
1
Dr. S. The nearest doctor, at this present mo-
ment. I take to be myself, and as hunger knows no
law, here goes. (Knocks.) If he should die under
my hands, I shall serve my country by killing a
traitor, that's all.
(Enter ROBERT from the house.)
Rob. The doctor, I suppose?
Dr. S. Yes. What is your master's complaint?
Rob. The gout in the stomach. Please let me show
you to his chamber.
[Exit.
Dr. S. Genius of necessity! now assist me. [Exit.
SCENE IV. An apartment in Arnold's house. A
table spread for dinner, with chairs, &c. as if it
had been suddenly deserted. On a chair, at
the top of the stage, is the scarlet parade
coat of General Arnold.
Enter ROBERT and JOHN.
L. H.
Rob. You had not been two minutes gone when
the doctor arrived,
.66
Act III.
THE WIDOW's son.
SON.
John. Which of them? I found none at home,
but left orders at the doors of several. Is it Tru-
inan?
Rob. I don't know his name; but here he comes.
Enter DOCTOR STRAMONIUM.
R. H.
Dr. S. As it will be necessary for me to remain
and watch the operation of the medicine I have
given your master, I will despatch my dinner im-
mediately, for I am very nervous on an empty
stomach.
(takes a seat at the table.)
?
Rob. I will wait upon' the doctor, ohn. You are
wanted in the kitchen.
xit John L. H.
Dr. S. An elegant canvass-back. Fine subject
for dissection. (carring.) No wonder the gout flies
to the general's stomach, if it is stored with such
temptations. Help me to some wine.
Rob. Here, sir. Do you say the gout is still in
the stomach ? (Doctor drinks.)
Dr S. It has possession of those premises at
present. But if the dose which I have prescribed
dose not act as a writ of ejectment, I have read
Blackstone for nothing.
Rob. It is a very dangerous complaint.
Dr. S. Don't believe it. The diagnostics indi-
cate-more
more wine. The general is not in half the
danger he was a fortnight ago. This bass is deli-
cious.
Rob. A fortnight ago? That was before I served
hiin. What was the matter with him then, sir?
Dr. S. Why there were, at that period, such
unequivocal symptoms of impending strangulation--
fine oyster sauce--that not a moment was to be
lost-a timely application of Vulture's wings, was
the only thing that saved him. This beef is too
rare.
Rob.
Vulture's wings, learned sir! What sort of.
a medicine is that?
Dr. S. (aside.) Learned sir! The impression is
good-must keep it up. What sort of a medicine?
Why it is a vegetable compound, of which the
Scene V.]
67
THE WIDOW's son.
essence of hemp is the principal ingredient, (bell
rings,) attend to the bell. [Exit Robert, R. H.
What a lucky dog am I to find such a table ready
spread for me, like a feast in the wilderness. (rises,)
Here will I dine to day-but where to-morrow?
Well, all's one for that. Come, let's survey the ad-
vantage of the ground. Here's the general's coat.
I wonder how I should look in it. The general's
wine has made me somewhat bold; perhaps his
coat will finish the job, and make a real hero of
me. I will try the experiment at all events. (Puts
on the coat, and looks in the glass.) Hem! Well,
that's not so bad. To the right about, face! For-
ward, march! It will do, it will do. Now if I could
meet that blustering brother of mine, I'd pay him
for the fright he gave me. Ha! what's that! Galen
and St. Crispin! That was his voice; (seizes his
hat.) Where shall I hide? This closet? No, that is
fast. Here's another! In I go; for I am in for it.
Pretty scrape for a Physician-a man of science—
a preacher. The general's coat I suppose is used
to scrapes of this kind.
[Exit.
Capt. D. (without, R. H.) Turn him out instant-
ly, or send him to the provost. He is an impostor.
(Enters.) A rebel quack whom I caught by mistake.
Why, where the devil is he?
Rob. Here's his coat.
Capt. D. Jumped out of his skin with affright, I
suppose. Well, let him go. You can keep his
coat as spoils of the enemy. Sir Henry's surgeon
has arrived, and pronounced your master out of
danger. Repair to his chamber. I am waited for
at head quarters.
SCENE V. Margaret's Residence. Enter CHAMPE
and TRUEMAN.
R. II.
Tru. I readily admit that both the traitors
ought to die; it is a sacrifice which our country's
wrongs imperiously demand. But let us count the
1
13*
68
Act III.
THE WIDOW's SON.
cost. If Darby suffers, Margaret is lost. She is
now an invaluable agent, because suspicion could
never light on such an object. (Enter Ma. guret
unperceived) A few trifling services performed tor
Clinton, secured his confidence, and a perpetual
passport, by means of which she goes, and comes at
pleasure. Through her agency alone, have I main-
tained a correspondence with Washington and Lee.
Let us, then, consider whether the punist ment of
Darby will not mar some greater good.
Cham. Perhaps it may. But yet I know 'twould
be a service highly acceptable to Washington.
Marg. 'Tis false! ungrateful, barbarous men!.
You know 'tis false; or else you know not that
great god-like man. Those eyes that wept for
gallant Andre's fate, could never smile on such a
damning deed as that which you now contemplate.
What! stain your hallowed cause with needless
blood, and bear the widow's curses on your heads?
A hundred fold my services have atoned for William's
crime; and twice a bundred more I mean to pay,
and will you have his wretched life besides ? tram-
ple upon this lacerated heart, and thus reward fidel-
ity like mine! By Heaven 'tis monstrous ·
Chm. Be calm, good mother. We are not the
cruel men you deem us. The idea which has so
much shocked you, and which was not intended for
your ear, was suggested by a sense of public duty,
with which, in times like these, the tenderer sy pathies
of our nature ought not to interfere. One terrible
example, might save our country, and the lives of
thousands.
Marg. Hear, then, my firm resolve. Take but
a single step that hazards William's safety, and I
become your foe. Freely would I yield my own.
life in the cause of freedom; nay, with Spartan
firmness, I could view my son expire upon the field
of battle; but not upon the gibbet. O spare me
that one pang, and I am yours to death.
Scene V.]
69
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Tu. A Spartan dame would not protect a traitor
in a son; but, with her own hand plunge a dagger
to his heart. Boast not of Spartan firmness.
Marg. I do not boast, but, Oh! I am a mother;
a proud, stern, haughty, injured woman, who has
risked more than life to aid your cause, but who.
has never deign'd, before, to ask a favour. Yet here,
upon my knees, I do implore that you will not thus
insist on blasting all your hopes by dragging Wil-
liam to a shameful death. A sacrifice I know is due;
but let the guilty Arnold be the victim. He had
no injuries to urge him on: he has no mother
whose heart will break with shame. O then, show
pity to the WIDOW'S SON.
Tru. No more of this, weak, selfish woman!
When duty and humanity are incompatible, we
cannot hesitate which to pursue; and if we suc-
ceed.-
Marg. (starting up) Then, by high Heaven I
swear, you never shall succeed, unless you lay me
lifeless at your feet. Ingratitude like this proclaims
you brutes. Do you forget that one word breath'd
by me would soon suspend you both upon a gibbet ?
Trueman, 'tis plain that mean revenge prompts you
to this. Your bosom bears a scar, inflicted by a
beardless boy, and he must die for it. Such mag-
nanimity does honor to your cause. (ironically) Mark
me--(with dignity If you persist in this, your en-
terprise will terminate in shame.
Cham. Be satisfied, good Margaret. Rest as-
sured that no step shall be taken which duty, hon-
our, and humanity, do not sanction. Be still our
friend, and you will not find us ungrateful.
[Trueman and Champe Exeunt. L. H.
Marg. I will not trust a promise so equivocal,
but watch their movements closely. I'll hover
round them like a viewless spirit, and if they mean
me false, Arnold and William both shall know their
danger.
[Exit. R. H.
70
[Act III.
THE WIDOW's son.
SCENE VI. An apartment in Arnold's house, the
same as Scene Iv. in this Act. Enter DoCTOR
STRAMONIUM from the closet.
·
Dr. S. Two hours have I been crammed up in
this infernal hole, almost as tight as a boot-tree in a
backstrap leg, without a single chance of escape,
and am now as hungry as if I had not dined. All
my martial ardour is dissipated with the fumes of
the general's wine. I wonder if that be the case
with all your great heroes. The table has disap-
peared, and so has my coat, which compels me to
remain a general whether I will or not. What pre-
cious secrets have I learned through the key-hole.
Here was my traitor brother with a long cock-and-
bull story about the desertion of Arnold's new re-
cruits; and then an order was given to send all the
recruits on board a transport, and a pretty set of
Scoundrels they are, with sergeant Champe at their
head. Now if I can only slip out into the garden,
I may escape a visit to the provost. Softly here's
more intruders. I must back to my hiding-place.
Exit.
Enter MELVILLE and DARBY,
R. H.
Mel. The general expects you to superintend
this service. These runaway rebels must all be em-
barked immediately, for what confidence, Captain
Darby, can be placed in any scoundrel who has
once basely deserted the standard to which he owes
allegiance.
Capt. D. From your tone and look, major, it
might be inferred that you intended that question as
a personal sarcasm.
Mel. I give no explanations.
please.
Take it as you
Capt. D. Then I take it, sir, as it was intended;
and as I never owed allegiance to the rebel stand-
ard, I pronounce the insinuation false. Let rank be
waived, and I'll prove it so.
Mel. Not here. I like your spirit, and to ac-
}
Scene VI.]
71
THE WIDOW'S SON.
commodate you, will be but a captain when we
meet again.
Cupt. D. Let it be soon.
room to-morrow.
Mel. This night, at twelve o'clock. There is
a secluded spot at the bottom of the garden, and
a private passage for the convenience of the survi-
vor. In the mean time., despatch this service of the
embarkation. Arnold, 'tis hoped, will leave his
[Exit. R. H.
Capt. D. Remember twelve. [Exit. L. H.
Enter DOCTOR STRAMONIUM, from the closet.
Dr. S. There's more secrets, and my hopeful
brother is engaged in a duel. I wish I was safely
out of this scrape. If I can only find my way to
the garden, and discover the secret passage the
Major spoke of, it would be the most important se-
cret I have discovered yet. O the devil; bere is
another interruption. I must retreat again. [Exit.
Enter TRUEMAN,reading a letter, followed by God-
FREY in a sailor's dress.
Tru. (aside) Champe on board the transport, and
not permitted to come on shore! What an unlook'd
for disaster; the ruin of all our hopeful plans.
(Reads.) "The bearer is a true and active friend
of ours, and may not only be safely depended uron,
but can furnish you with more assistance if requir-
ed. He is not what he seems, but will assume any
shape to aid us Let not my misfortune give the
least interruption to the enterprise. I should wish
to share the glory with you, but fate forbids. If
I survive this night, you shall see me to-morrow;
for twenty brave fellows have sworn to assist me in
an enterprise infinitely more hazardous than yours.
This transport shall change masters, or we perish
in the attempt." Heaven grant them success! You
know, ther
Godf. I know the whole, and am ready to co-
operate with you in any thing. I have two daring
comrades concealed at mother Darby's.
10
72
[Act III.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Tru. Then, there I will meet you within an hour,
to mature our plans, and drill these new recruits.
Godf. I will not fail you.
[Exit. R. H.
Exit. L. H.
SCENE VII. A garden; with an arbour on one side.
Moonlight; stage dark. Enter MARGARET. R. H.
Marg. Yes, they shall have a Darby, but not the
one they seek. In this arbour will I remain con-
cealed and act as circumstances shall require. Ha!
by my fears that manly form is his. It is-I know
his firm and heavy step. Oh, how could fate be
so unkind as to send him here to night? How shall I
warn him of his danger without betraying those I've
sworn to serve! I'll cross him by surprise, and play
again upon his baby fears. [Exit into the arbour.
Enter CAPTAIN DARBY, wrapped in a scarlet cloak,
with a drawn sword in his hand. R. H.
Capt. D. This is the spot, but where's my haugh-
ty foe? Let me but meet this proud imperious En-
glishman alone, and he shall learn a lesson that may
do him service. He shall know that some provin-
cials have souls as proud as his.
{
Enter MARGARET, from the arbour.
Marg. Two deadly perils thou hast well escap-
ed. Beware the third! To save from that, is far
beyond my power.
Capt. D. Good Margaret, why are you here?
Marg. To warn thee of thy fate, if thus thou
will persist in bidding it defiance.
Capt. D. If you would serve me, direct your
conjurations against my abusive adversary. My
honour is at stake.
Marg. Thy life, short-sighted mortal, is at stake.
An ignominious death awaits thee, on a gibbet!
Till after midnight leave this fatal spot. There's
nothing else can save thee.
(Enter TRUEMAN, wrapped in a dark cloak, at
the top of the stage.)
L. H.
Scene VII.
73
THE WIDOW's son.
Capt. D. Then will Į perish. Yonder stalks my
foe. Follow me not, old woman, at your peril!
He advances towards Trueman, who meets him in
the centre of the stage. Capt. D. throws off his
cloak, and appears in an altitude of defence.)
Capt. D. Now, Melville, we meet upon a par.
Prepare yourself-I am ready-and our time is
short.
Trueman throws open his cloak, and discovers
himself to Capt. D. who appears convulsed with
terror, and exclaims—
Capt. D. That form again! Then hell and hea-
ven both are leagued against me. [Ex. Trueman.
Marg. Leave this fatal spot! The sheeted dead
have left their graves to warn thee! Beware! De-
part !
Capt. D. (Desparately.) No! Not till I meet the
object of my just revenge.
[Exit. R. H.
Marg. Ha! this, perhaps, may be the means to
save him. (Takes up his cloak, in which she wraps
herself, and exit. R. H.).
Enter Dr. STRAMONIUM.
R. H.
Dr. S. Thank heaven; at last, I have cut a stick
and made my escape from that uncomfortable clo-
set. Now for this secret passage.
If I once
gain the street, with all these blushing honours
thick upon me, this scarlet coat and trimmings will
no doubt secure me respect. Ha! who comes
here? This arbour will conceal me till they pass.
[Exit into the arbour.
Enter Trueman and Godfrey; the latter is now
in a citizen's dress.
True. Hist! our prey is housed. One moment's
firmness now insures success. To stop his mouth,
and secure his arms, must be simultaneous acts.-
The first be mine. Now!
74
[Act III.
THE WIDOW's SON.
:
Music. They rush into the arbour, and drag out
Dr. S. gagged and pinione. Trueman throws
his cloak over him, and the two lead him off at
the top of the stage. They then re-enter.
True. Arnold is now secure, and Darby must
share his fate. He's somewhere in the garden,
wrapped in a scarlet mantle, seeking a hostile in-
terview with Major Melville. I saw him here this
moment.
Enter MARGARET, wrapped in the cloak.
Godf. Yonder he comes!
True. Heaven defend the guiltless!
Music.-They seize Margaret, gag her, pinion
her arms, and bear her off.
Enter CAPTAIN DARBY, looking at his watch.
Capt. D. My hot impatience wrongs this Mel-
ville. It is not yet the hour. Twill quickly strike,
though. The sorceress is vanished, and all the coast
is clear. Let me but quench this hellish flame in
that proud Briton's blood, and I will die content.
(Clock strikes twelve) Hark! the clock strikes !
Will he baulk my vengeance!
1. H.
Enter MELVILLE.
Mel. No-- never doubt me But, Darby, be-
fore we strike a blow that cannot be recalled, were
it not better to reflect-
Capt. D. Reflect! Hell and furies!
I have
reflected, till I am driven mad. Quick! Prepare!
Not ready yet! Coward!
Mel. Then be your blood upon your own head.
Capt. D. I came not here for words, but ven-
geance! Come on!
[They fight, and Darby falls.]
Capt. D. My hurt is mortal: consult your own
safety by flight.
Mel. Not till I see you under medical care. Let
me support you to the house.
Melville raises Capt. D. in his arms, and bears
him off nearly lifeless.
Scene VIII.]
75.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
SCENE VIII. Western bank of the Hudson. Moon-
light. Enter CARNES and MIDDLETON R. H.
Carnes. (Speaking as he enters.) Let no one
leave the line without my orders.
Tis now past
three o'clock.
Mid. You are too fast. I lack seven minutes.
Car. At any rate, 'tis past the time we were to
expect the barge. Can you conjecture the object
of this service?
Mid. Not 1, indeed. Our general's secrets are
where they ought to be; locked up in his own
breast. The detachment, you know, is to remain
here until daybreak, unless the expected barge ar-
rive before.
Car. There's yet no signs of it upon the river.
How shall we contrive to make the minutes trot a
little faster?
Mid. By chanting amorous madrigals in praise
of some fair sheherdess.
Car. That you may do, but I have little taste for
such amusements. However, I will lend you one
ear; the other I shall have occasion for, to catch
the first sound of an approaching oar. Come, begin.
SONG-MIDdleton.
The moon-beam on the Hudson sleeps,
While yon enamoured billow
Delighted to the stranger creeps,
And makes his breast her pillow.
The rest, with dark and frowning mien,
And jealous murmurs, languish,
While amorous zephyrs pass the scene,
And sigh with kindred anguish.
So, when the fair Pastora's smile,
Her favoured Lubin blesses-
Who steals a kiss, and plays the while
With her unbraided tresses;
The shepherds who have woo'd in vain,
In sorrow doom'd to languish,
Behold the happy, envied swain,
And sigh with jealous anguish.
Car. Hark! I hear the dashing of an oar.
Mid. So do I, and voices also.
10*
76
[Act III.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
}
Car. It must be the object for which we are wait-
ing. (speaks off) R. II. Attention! Lieutenant
Goddard, the signal.
Three pistols are discharged behind the scenes,
R. H. answered by three others, at a greater
distance, on the opposite side. Music. A boat
approaches, L. H. containing Margaret, wrap-
ped in a scarlet cloak, and Dr. S. in a dark
cloak, guarded by Trueman and Godfrey. The
boat is propelled by two oarsmen.
Car. The signal is correct. Challenge for the
watch-word.
Mid. Who goes there?
True. Congress !
Car. It is well. Approach the landing,
Music. TRUEMAN and GODFREY conduct their
prisoners on shore.
True. Capt. Carnes, I presume? Is your detach-
ment at hand?
Car. At the angle of the road yonder. To whom
have I the honour of speaking?
Godf. Doctor Trueman, the friend of Washing-
ton and Liberty.
Car. These, then, are the prisoners which we
are to conduct to the American camp?
True. They are, sir; and deserve an honourable
escort. You see before you Benedict Arnold.
Car. Is it possible! WHICH IS THE TRAITOR?
Godf. (To Dr. S.) Permit me, sir, to relieve you
from these now unnecessary incumberances. [Di-
vests him of the cloak, and takes the bandage from
his mouth. Behold the traitor, sir!
Dr. S. Don't believe it. All start and starc
with astonishment.] It is only the traitor's coat,
which you may hang as soon as you please, without
the formality of a court-martial.
Car. Why, who the devil have we here?
Dr. S. Don't you know Doctor Stramonium!
Scene VIII.]
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Every body knows me. A physician-a man of
science. Prescribed for Arnold; drank his wine,
and captured his coat. My dear doctor, said he—
Mid. Jack Darby! How is this!
Dr. S. O Billy, you will condescend to speak to
me, now I wear a military coat. I say, when will
your calfskin be covered with the spoils of the
enemy?
Car. How do you explain this, sir! (To Trueman.)
Tru. It seems that the fates have too successfully
conspired against us, and that the devil protects
treason.
Godf. Not in every instance. Here is the be-
trayer of Fort Montgomery. [Releases Margaret,
who addresses Trueman.]
Marg. Behold my work. I never utter auguries
in vain. You had no pity for the WIDOW's Son.
Dr. S. Galen and St. Crispin! My fellow cap-
tive is the same old lady who gave me a dose of
gunpowder in the camp. I say, madam sybil, did
you read of this incident in the stars?
Marg. Trueman, this is the fulfilment of my
last prediction. You would persist in seeking blood
of mine; and that has defeated your enterprise, and
covered you with shame and confusion.
Car. This is not the only favour for which I
have to thank you, old woman; I bear another here
[points to his arm.]
Marg. Know, then, short-sighted mortal, that I
scratched your arm, to save your life. Had Dar-
by not regained his boat, in two minutes more your-
self and Middleton would have been surrounded by
his desperate band. But lead me to your chief.
To him alone will I now condescend to justify my
conduct.
Tru. Godfrey, our laurels have not budded yet.
Godf. It is well they have not, or this chilling
event would have withered them. I envy Champe
his birth on board the transport.
78
[Act III.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Carn. Come-let us on to camp. It is now
daylight; there will be time enough for explana-
tions hereafter. [The firing of distant cannon.
1
Mid. Hark! What alarm is that.
Tru. Champe has succeeded. Huzza!
Music. A transport appears L. H. sailing up the
river, with the American flag flying above the
English; as she passes the stage, she fires a gun,
and the characters all huzza, as do the detach-
ment of dragoons behind the scenes.
Carn. This, I predict, will be a joyful day.
(Speaks off, R. H.) Officers, to your posts. March!
Come, gentlemen, it will be sunrise before we reach
the camp.
[Exeunt Omnes.
SCENE IX. An apartment in CLOVER's house.
Enter LOUISA and Lucy.
Luc. If the story reaches New-York, they will
soon set it to music, in retaliation of the battle of
the kegs. A quack Doctor, and a crazy old woman,
mistaken for Arnold and Darby,! Ha ha! ha!
Lou. It is certainly laughable.
Luc. Why don't you laugh, then? and not make
me spend so much breath for nothing.
Enter NANCY.
Nan. O, Miss Primrose, such news! Miss Clover,
you never heard of such a thing in all your life.
"Tis the most curious thing in the world.
Lou. What is it Nancy?
Nan. Corporal Barney saw the prisoners.
Luc. Who? Crazy Peg and the Doctor?
Nan. O no-a whole ship load-a British trans-
port, I think they call it.
Luc. A British transport captured! By whom?
Nan. Corporal Barney-
Luc. By Corporal Barney! Impossible!
Nan. No, no; I mean he told me of it. The
vessel was taken last night by Sergeant Major
Champe,whom every body supposed had gone off to
join the enemy.
Scene IX.] THE WIDOW's son.
79
!
Lou. All bounteous Heaven! grant this be true!
Enter CLOVER.
Clov. It is true, you dear little disobedient
perverse girl; and here is the Sergeant Major to
swear. to it.
Enter CHAMPE, TRUEMAN and GODFREY.
Cham. Louisa"!
Lou. Edward! [they embrace]
Cham. Patriotism, love, and fidelity.
Lou. How could I ever doubt you!
Clov. Every thing is explained: Champe was
employed by his commander, But we are all too
happy to talk about it now; there'll be time enough
a month hence.
Enter MAJOR LEE.
Lee, Mr. Clover, once more I give you joy,
Ladies accept my congratulations. Our friend, here,
has returned to us, without a single stain upon his
reputation, and with a thousand laurels added to
the chaplet which already adorned his brow.
Clov. I always said he would be a hero.
Lee. It is true the first grand object of his mission
was not accomplished; but the glorious termination
of the enterprise has inflicted a blow upon the enemy
which he will feel much more keenly than he would
the punishment of Arnold.
Clov. Congress shall reward him.
Lee. He has already received the thanks of the
cominander in chief, in general orders; in which our
faithful friends, Trueman and Godfrey, are also
honourably mentioned.
Clov. That's all very well. But thanks are
mere empty words.
Cham. I wish no greater recompense, sir, than
that which I have already received.
Clov. Give me leave to know better; I have a
reward in store for you, that you will not refuse.
Hey, Louisa, you little obstinate disobedient gipsey
-you refused to hate him when your father com-
manded you.
80
[Act III.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Lou. If it be your positive command-
Clov. If you dare to obey such a positive com-
mand, I will disinherit you.
Enter CARNES and MIDDleton.
Cham. I only regret that my poor services are
not worthy of such a sweet reward.
Carn. And here is my friend Middleton, who lives
upon hope and music. What reward is he to have
for his wild-goose-chase after the Sergeant Major?
Mid. I think I read my recompense for not over-
taking him, in those sweet smiling eyes. Do I read
correctly, Lucy.
Luc. Time must determine; but here comes
one whose vision can pierce futurity; refer the
question to her.
Enter. MARGARET and DoCTOR STRAMOnium.
Tru. Our two prisoners, Godfrey.
Godf. We are not the first who have aimed at
eagles and shot pigeons.
Mrg. Be satisfied, impatient selfish mortals.
More good has been effected by this singular mis-
take than if your contemplated scheme were fully
consummated. A plan of intended operations at
the south, of a most important nature, drawn up, and
signed, and sealed, by Clinton, was found within a
secret pocket of the traitor's coat, which my eccen-
tric son here-
Dr. S. Captured from the enemy. Yes, gen-
tlemen, it is true, and the document is now in the
han's of Washington. My dear Doctor, said he-
Tru. Your son!
Dr. S. Yes, sir. This good old lady here, who
reads the stars, is indeed my honoured mother;
and Captain Darby, of the royal infantry, is my own
hopeful brother. So you perceive that my family
connexions are highly respectable; and, as I found
a handsome little sum of money in another secret
pocket of Arnold's coat, I shall no longer be com-
pelled to make a death, or cut a stick; but, with
my honoured mother, will retire to some peaceful
Scene IX.1 THE WIDOW'S SON.
81
cottage, where we can read the stars, and make
shoes together, till the wars are over,
Marg. Renounce the Doctor, then, and be a
man.
Dr. S. Done !-good mother; henceforth I am
plain Jack Darby.
Marg.
Adhere to that resolve, for thou art now
the widow's only son. Thy brother tell last night,
by Melville's hand.
True. I heard of it an hour ago, but feared to men-
tion it to you.
Marg. Because thou knowest me not. My fears are
now at rest. He lies upon the bed of honour; he fell
contending with Columbia's foe. For what else have
I toiled, and prayed these many months? Believe
me, I am happy.
Dr. S. Then we will all be happy together.
Lee. The mistakes of last night are indeed for-
tunate.
Clov. So fortunate, Major, that we must this
night celebrate them with a dance; and, notwith-
standing my lameness, I think, that on this occa-
sion I can contrive to hop a little myself.
Lucy. I second that motion. Here, Scipio!
Enter SCIPIO.
Your mistress will have business for you directly.
We are to have a dance; (to Champe) and may it
not be again postponed by your desertion.
Cham. Unless such desertion enable me to dis-
charge a higher duty.
Nun. A dance, Scipio. O, I wish Corporal
Barney was here.
Scip. Me wish Dinah Polhemus was here. Di-
nah she better dancer in all Tappan.
Lou. I beg that Dr. Stramonium will honour us
with his presence on this occasion.
Dr. S. Certainly, madam. Do you hear that,
Billy? My Dear Doctor, said she-
Mid. But not a word about the guard-house.
Dr. S. Hush! My unfortunate scrapes are all over,

THE WIDOW'S SON.
[Act III.
and I shall now, doff the Doctor; and, as plain
Jack Darby, settle down for life.
(sings)
“A snug little cottage, a friend and a wife.”
Car. Stay, Doctor; if there's any singing to be
done, your friend Billy is the man.
Mid. As it is the natural language of a joyful
heart, I hope every one present will give it ut
terancé.
AIR-MIDD Leton.
Now, amity, hope, and pleasure,
Smile placidly, kiss, and toy,
While, trippingly dance in measure,
Love, liberty, peace, and joy.
Night's ebony car descending,
Rolls rapidly down the sky,
While numerous sylphs attending,
Show revelry's hour is nigh.
CHORUS.
Now amity, hope, and pleasure, &c
AIR-LUCY.
Late dismally, pining daily,
Hearts languidly, sank in wo,
Now merily bounding gaily,
All playfully throb and glow.
CHORUS.
Now amity, hope, and pleasure, &c,
AIR-DR. S.
I'll doctor the flats and ninnies,
Bleed dandies, and blister apes,
Plead, tinker, or sing, for guineas,
Then cut a stick out of scrapes.]
CHORUSS
ow amity, hope, and pleasure,
Smile placidly, kiss, and toy
While, trippingly, dance in measure,
Love, liberty, peace, and jo
END
O OF THE Wow'
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UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA
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Woodworth, Samuel, 1785-1842.
The widow's son, or, Which is the traito
3 1951 002 320 750 L
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