" 
 
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 ^ 
 
 9S-S 
 

 
 
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POEMS AND PLAYS. 
 
 BY 
 
 DONN PIATT, 
 
 Author of " Memories of the Men who Saved the Union," "The Lone Grave 
 
 of the Shenandoah, and Other Tales," "The Rev. Melancthon 
 
 Poundex," Sunday Meditations," etc. 
 
 CINCINNATI: 
 
 ROBERT CLARKE & Co., PUBLISHERS. 
 1893. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1893, 
 Bv. ELLA ^KI.RBY PtATT. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS 
 
 THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND THE TASSEL 
 ON THE CORN, ..... 9 
 
 MAC-O-CHEE. I, ..... n 
 
 WE PARTED AT THE OMNIBUS, ... 14 
 A SAINT, ...... 17 
 
 LAKE GEORGE, ... .18 
 
 BY THE GOLDEN GATE, .... 22 
 
 THE CANDIDATE, ..... 24 
 
 THE DINNER HORN, .... 26 
 
 OBITUARY. F. K., ..... 29 
 
 To , ... 30 
 
 THE LABORER'S HYMN, ... 32 
 
 THE OHIO BOAT-HORN, . . . . 34 
 
 THE BLUE JAY, . . . -36 
 
 GARFIELD DEAD, . . . . 39 
 
 AN ADIEU, . . . . . . 44 
 
 A. C. F 48 
 
 SONG, ... . . . . .51 
 
 FROM AN ALBUM, . . . . . 53 
 
 I SEND You YOUR LETTERS, . -55 
 
 (v) 
 
 R41958 
 
vi Contents. 
 
 POEMS. Continued. 
 
 MAC-O-CHEE. II, ..... 57 
 
 THE LITTLE SHOE, . . , . . 61 
 
 SERENADE, ...... 63 
 
 MONODY, ...... 65 
 
 SONG TO , . . . . 69 
 
 AFTER THE BALL, . ... 70 
 
 IN MEMORIAM B. M. P., ... 73 
 
 MELINDA'S TRAIL, ... 74 
 
 ARIEL, ...... 77 
 
 NEW WORDS TO A CHOICE OLD SONG, , . 79 
 
 ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE, . . 81 
 
 A PATHETIC BALLAD OF CHICAGO, 86 
 
 YE GRANGER is POKING ROUND, . . 89 
 
 LOUISE KlRBY PlATT EPITAPH, . . .92 
 
 To A STAR, . . . . ^ 
 A MEMORY, 
 
 7T 
 
 DEATH OF CUSTER, .... 9 6 
 
 THE COWBOY, ..... ^g 
 
 KING MIDAS'S TOUCH, ... IOO 
 
 THE KICKERS, ... IO2 
 
 WE MAY NOT MEET AGAIN, . . Io . 
 
 A JUDICIAL CHARACTER, . ... 106 
 MORNING PRAYER, , 
 
 To DIE ALONE, 
 
 lo s 
 
Contents. vn 
 
 POEMS. Continued. 
 
 CHANGE, ... 109 
 
 TECUMSEH, ... .no 
 
 OH, SING NO MORE, . . . m 
 
 DEATH, ... ... 113 
 
 PLAYS. 
 
 LOST AND WON, .... "5 
 
 A KING'S LOVE, . . .192 
 
 EMOTIONAL INSANITY, ... 271 
 
 BLENNERHASSETT X S ISLAND, ... 303 
 
POEMS. 
 
 The Bloom mas on the Aider and the Tassel on the Corn. 
 
 T HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dewy breath of 
 
 morn ; 
 
 The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the corn. 
 T stood with beating heart beside the babbling Mac-o-chee, 
 To see my love come down the. glen to keep her tryst 
 
 with me. 
 
 I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along, 
 And pause to pluck a flower, or hear the thrush's song. 
 Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, 
 She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen. 
 
 Above my station, Heaven knows, that gentle maiden 
 shone, 
 
 For she was belle and wide-beloved, and I a youth un- 
 known. 
 
 The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on 
 bended knee 
 
 For love this gracious princess gave with all her heart to me. 
 
 (9) 
 
i o The Bloom was on the Alder, etc. 
 
 So like a startled fawn, before my longing eyes she stood, 
 With all the freshness of a girl in flush of womanhood 
 .1 trembled .is I put my arm about her form divine, 
 And. stammered as, .in awkward speech, I begged her to 
 ' -be mine. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain that lulls a dim-lit 
 dream ; 
 
 'T is sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the rip- 
 pling stream ; 
 
 'T is sweet amid the -mountain pines to hear the south 
 wind sigh 
 
 More sweet than these and all besides was th' loving, low 
 reply. 
 
 The little hand I held in mine held all I had in life, 
 
 To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife. 
 
 'T is said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned from 
 
 above ; 
 My angel walked with me on earth and gave to me her 
 
 love. 
 
 Ah ! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dimmed 
 
 with tears; 
 
 I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years; 
 For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy morn, 
 With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the corn. 
 
Mac-o-chee /. 1 1 
 
 pae-0-ehee I. 
 
 TV/fY days among these wilds are spent 
 
 In restful, calm repose ; 
 No carking cares or discontent 
 
 Disturb life's fitter close. 
 Beyond these wooded hills I hear 
 
 The world's unceasing roar, 
 As breaks upon some inland ear, 
 The tumult of a shore. 
 
 To me these are no solitudes ; 
 
 For, all by memory tinged, 
 From somber shadows of the woods 
 
 To meadows willow-fringed, 
 Are peopled with the forms I lost 
 
 And loved so long ago, 
 Ere on life's ocean tempest tossed 
 
 I tasted of its woe. 
 
1 2 Mac-o-chee /. 
 
 The shy thrush sings for me a strain 
 
 No other ear may hear, 
 That brings to dreamy life again 
 
 The forms my heart holds dear ; 
 The red bird warbles overhead 
 
 Its mellow woodland note, 
 Recalling voices of the dead 
 
 Hid in its tiny throat. 
 
 The cat-bird carols to the day, 
 
 The bob-white whistles free, 
 The restless jay shrieks far away, 
 
 Babbles the Mac-o-chee ; 
 There 's not a scene nor sound but brings 
 
 Its own sweet memory, 
 There 's not a flower nor shrub but flings 
 
 Its magic spell o'er me. 
 
 Ah, what to me the ceaseless din, 
 
 This fevered thing called life 
 What fools may fail, what knaves may win, 
 
 In their ignoble strife ? 
 This world so round is cold and bare, 
 
 And tempts me not to roam, 
 For heartless greed and gaunt-eyed care 
 
 Will drive the weary home. 
 
Mac-o-chee /. I 3 
 
 The trees I trim, the flowers I tend, 
 
 Have but one sunny mood ; 
 My honest dog, my trusty friend, 
 
 Has no ingratitude. 
 And, oh, the crowning joy of life, 
 
 Where'er that life may be, 
 Is the true heart that through all strife 
 
 Still loving trusts in me ! 
 
14 We Parted at the Omnibus. 
 
 We Parted at the Omnibus. 
 
 '1 1 7E parted at the omnibus, I never can forget, 
 
 Your eyes, my dove, like stars above, with dew were 
 
 heavy wet, 
 Your luggage, love, I handed up, as the driver 'round 
 
 did pull, 
 
 I could not speak, for, oh ! my heart, like the omnibus, 
 was full. 
 
 Your slender hand's six-buttoned glove lay nestling soft 
 
 in mine, 
 
 Those tender eyes upon me shone in sadness so divine ; 
 '* Through life, my love, I go with you," I boldly had 
 
 begun, 
 When spoke a German passenger: "Dere's only zeats 
 
 vor vun." 
 
 Your miniature I had, my sweet, all painted warm and 
 
 bland, 
 My photograph I handed you, as the agent gave his 
 
 hand. 
 
We Parted at the Omnibus. 1 5 
 
 "You'll write to me, I know you will, this aching heart 
 
 to ease, 
 And every line x from you will be" " Miss, ten cents, if 
 
 you please." 
 
 I placed you in a corner, dear, to take that dreary ride, 
 I saw a pair of checkered pants close sitting at your side ; 
 With gun and hound from out the town to hunt 't was 
 
 going down ; 
 I heard a suit of rusty black call pants a Mister Brown. 
 
 With wooden damn the stage door slammed and shut 
 
 you from my sight, 
 I felt, indeed, that all was wrong, when the driver called 
 
 "all right." 
 
 Off rolled the yellow misery that took of mine no heed ; 
 Four spanned hatracks prancing, a racker in the lead. 
 
 The war came on, and I went off what patriot heart 
 
 could lag ? 
 
 I seized a musket in my zeal and rallied round the flag ; 
 I left two fingers on the field where gallant Hooker led, 
 And lost a leg at Shiloh, where Sherman lost his head. 
 
 I fought and marched, and starved, alas ! the toughest of 
 
 our set ; 
 A captain in the line, my girl, a gen'ral by brevet. 
 
1 6 We Parted at the Omnibus. 
 
 Of checkered pants I got a view, resplendent in the blue, 
 As sutler bold, he rallied too where profits did accrue. 
 
 When peace her downy pinions spread o'er all our land 
 
 and sea, 
 
 I stumped me home, a veteran, with war's sad legacy ; 
 I sought you love, to find, alas ! no footing left to me, 
 For General Brown was to the front, a millionaire was he. 
 
 'T was at a grand reunion, given in honor of our cause, 
 The banners waved, the champagne popped, I got some 
 
 wild applause ; 
 
 I saw you enter, sweet and fair, the General led you down, 
 You leaned to him with loving trust, he called you Mrs. 
 
 Brown, 
 
A Saint. 17 
 
 ft Saint. 
 
 O O gentle yet so just, so firm and yet so kind, 
 With never a thought of self to mar the good 
 And noble nature of her womanhood ; 
 
 Such as the mother striving us to bind 
 
 In links of flowers to our dear Lord, her son. 
 He sought to lift us to a heaven above 
 She brought that heaven down to earth in love 
 
 And wrote upon our hearts, " Thy will be done! " 
 
 In meek submission to life's sorest ills. 
 
 Ah ! darling wife, thy sainted patience stills 
 
 The tumult of my being. Martyrs die 
 
 And leave God's glory here to mark their loss; 
 
 You living, bear, with no impatient sigh, 
 
 Through all the years, the torture of the cross. 
 
1 8 Lake George. 
 
 Lake George. 
 
 T LINGER sadly, loth to say adieu 
 
 To that which of me forms so sweet a part; 
 The crystal waters, and the mountains blue, 
 Are mirrored deeply in my heart of heart, 
 And lake and mountains, rocks and wooded streams, 
 Now pass from pleasant seeing to my world of dreams. 
 
 Upon the lofty wooded mount I stand, 
 
 Where erst of old the simple huntsman stood. 
 
 I see about me far and wide expand 
 The scenes of lake and mountains, isles and wood ; 
 
 Like him I linger loth to break the spell, 
 
 That lives in one sad word, and vainly says farewell. 
 
 How like vast giants in their deep repose 
 
 These mountains rest beneath the autumn day ; 
 
 From early morn until the evening's close 
 The dreamy shadows on their summits play; 
 
 While in the distance dim they catch the hue 
 
 Of heavens, and melt in cloudland's deepest tint of blue. 
 
Lake George. 19 
 
 I stood by lakes where peaks do pierce the sky, 
 Snow-clad, and grand in rocky solitudes, 
 
 I saw the homes where round them living lie 
 Tradition-haunted tales of love and feuds ; 
 
 Sweet human gossip chased the gloom so drear, 
 
 And gave to what was grand humanity more dear. 
 
 They had no beauty like to thine, Lake George, 
 
 Where all that's grand, with all that's sweet, entwine. 
 
 I see thy fairy isles, while down each gorge 
 The birch and maple tint the gloomy pine ; 
 
 Thy mountain sides are forests wide and deep, 
 
 Where song birds nestle and the eagles scream and sweep. 
 
 And all is wild, as in that early day 
 
 The nations found a highway on thy shore, 
 
 And meeting, battled for a world's wide sway; 
 Thy mountains wakened to the mouthing roar 
 
 Of deadly cannon, while from out each glen 
 
 Came back the doubled thunder to the strife of men. 
 
 And all is wild, as when the solemn mind 
 Of Cooper told its tale of savage war ; 
 One were not startled in the wood to find 
 The sage Mohican, or wild Iroquois, 
 The dusky shadows of those shadowy things 
 That will survive our life, in men's imaginings. 
 
D Lake George. 
 
 Ah! lovely lake, how I do long to dwell 
 
 In humble quiet on thy fairy shore, 
 With rod, and books, and those I love so well, 
 
 Forgetting and forgot, live evermore; 
 To float upon thy water's peaceful sheen, 
 Where love is life, and life a poet's happy dream. 
 
 It may not be, for I am doomed to fight 
 Where the arena calls for deadly strife, 
 
 Facing the throng, to win, like Ishmaelite, 
 A heritage of hate a dreary life 
 
 Beloved by few, misunderstood by all, 
 
 Where wit seems wantonness and impulse is but gall. 
 
 Earth carries daylight in the heart of night, 
 Swinging its glare amid eternal gloom ; 
 
 So in our hearts we nurse our own delight, 
 Nor measure aught by other's hope, or doom ; 
 
 We are not what we seem to each, and yet 
 
 We haste to try and punish, with no vain regret. 
 
 But why, in scenes like these, make weak complaint, 
 Array our little ills, and fight them o'er ? 
 
 When life is like the shadows, swift and faint, 
 That dim these waters and are seen no more. 
 
 Eternal hills are here, the flower and stream, 
 
 Themselves survive the race that pass as in a dream. 
 
Lake George. 21 
 
 Now dies apace the golden autumn day, 
 
 Now steal the ghostly shadows from the glen, 
 
 The stars are gathering in their glad array, 
 And stillness falls upon the haunts of men ; 
 
 Earth parts from me, and closing on my view, 
 
 Back to the busy world I go. Fair lake, adieu ! 
 
22 I Know that by the Golden Gate. 
 
 I pom that by the Golden Gate. 
 
 T KNOW that by the golden gate, 
 
 Where Heaven the sinless see, 
 Mine own doth longing watch and wait, 
 
 In joy to welcome me ; 
 No subtle change of spirit birth, 
 
 Can aught of love disown, 
 And she my angel while on earth 
 
 Is mine before God's throne. 
 
 No robes of light may hide that form, 
 
 No joys can change that voice, 
 That mid life's dreary toil and storm, 
 
 Had made my heart rejoice ; 
 Ah ! darling, in those blessed spheres, 
 
 So far from sin and care, 
 One voice of praise wells up through tears, 
 
 For that I am not there. 
 
I Know that by the Golden Gate. 23 
 
 Above thy grave, child like apart, 
 
 I wring my hands and weep, 
 Dread silence chills my aching heart 
 
 To desolation's deep ; 
 My life had end where thine had birth, 
 
 When freed from care and pain, 
 And thou, who brought me Heaven on earth, 
 
 Lifts earth to God again. 
 
24 The Candidate. 
 
 The Candidate. 
 
 politician, smooth and bland, 
 Has many winning ways, 
 And to and fro throughout the land 
 He travels all his days. 
 
 A modest man, of modest ends, 
 
 He runs reluctantly; 
 He 's ever forced, by certain friends, 
 
 A candidate to be. 
 
 It injures much his business 
 
 To be a public func.; 
 For oftentimes, while under stress, 
 
 He getteth beastly drunk. 
 
 He speaks a piece to every man, 
 However low and rude ; 
 
 Much takes he from newspapers, and 
 Much is a platitude. 
 
The Candidate. 25 
 
 The beer to drink, the babes to kiss, 
 
 He hastily doth pass ; 
 Among the agriculturists 
 
 He tramples down the grass. 
 
 He asks, with earnest bend of head 
 
 After your family, 
 And be they sick, or well, or dead, 
 
 Never a cuss cares he. 
 
26 The Dinner Horn. 
 
 The Dinner Koim. 
 
 AS SUNG BY OLD SHACK. 
 
 T~\E sun shine hot, as I hoe de cawn, 
 
 De sweat rolls down like rain, 
 Its nuffin but work from early mawn, 
 
 Till de stahs peep out again ; 
 Oh ! white man eats de whitest bread, 
 
 De darkey eats de pone, 
 De white man has de fedder bed, 
 
 De darkey shucks an' stone. 
 
 Wake up, wake up, ole Dinah, 
 Ise horn' here since mawn, 
 
 Ise weak as sin, Ise comin' in, 
 Oh ! blow de dinneh hawn. 
 
 De bob-white whistles for his wife, 
 De cat-bird mews low down, 
 
 De jay 's a screamin' for de strife, 
 De crows am cawin' round ; 
 
The Dinner Horn. 2 7 
 
 De woodfrush rolls de music out , 
 
 From top ob yonder tree, 
 Dere 's best ob music all about, 
 
 But 't aint de best fob me. 
 
 Wake up, wake up, ole Dinah, 
 From day dat I was bawn, 
 
 I 'd start an' stan', and clap my ban', 
 To heah de dinneh hawn. 
 
 De preachah say dat ole Gabril 
 
 Has hawn to wake de dead, 
 He blows from off de highest hill, 
 
 An' all jes raise de head; 
 I wants to heah dat 'ligious toon, 
 
 To set dis spirit free, 
 But Oh ! ole Gabe, along 'bout noon ! 
 
 De dinneh hawn foh me. 
 
 Wake up, wake up, ole Dinah, 
 
 I perish in de cawn, 
 Its noon ob sun, de hoe-cake 's done, 
 
 Oh ! blow de dinneh hawn. 
 
 Miss Lilley opes pianner, 
 
 Dis darkey foh to please, 
 Her white hands oh Susanner ! 
 
 Charm music from de keys ; 
 
28 The Dinner Horn. 
 
 Dey fluttah like de snow-white bird, 
 
 Above de tasseled cawn, 
 Dey catch my soul what's dat I heard? 
 
 Good Lawd! de dinneh hawn. 
 
 Blow high, blow low, Oh ! Dinah, 
 Jes make de windin' stawm, 
 
 Foh,high or low, I draps dat hoe, 
 When comes de dinneh hawn. 
 
Obituary F. K. 29 
 
 Obituary. F. K. 
 
 Art and eloquence, 
 
 And all the shows o' the world are frail and vain, 
 To weep a loss that turns their light to shade. 
 It is a woe " too deep for tears," when all 
 Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, 
 Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves 
 Those who remain behind, nor sobs nor groans, 
 The passionate tumult of a clinging hope ; 
 But pale despair and cold tranquillity, 
 Nature's vast frame, the web of human things, 
 Birth and the grave, that are not as they were. 
 
3 To .; 
 
 To 
 
 "\ 1 7HEN from the half-forgotten past 
 
 Return my youthful days, 
 And through the rift of clouds o'ercast 
 
 The light of memory plays, 
 My eyes are dimmed with idle tears 
 
 That dead affections claim ; 
 For thy sweet face so sweet appears 
 
 At mention of thy name. 
 
 I knew thee when we both were young, 
 
 And in Bohemia's clime 
 We lived and laughed and loved and sung 
 
 With art alone divine. 
 Ah ! what a subtle, girlish grace 
 
 You o'er my pathway threw 
 An angel in an earthly place, 
 
 So fair and frank and true. 
 
To 
 
 And many a love since that far time 
 
 Rose tints my wild career, 
 And beauty, wit and grace divine, 
 
 Claims each its smile or tear ; 
 *Yet over all thy earnest eyes 
 
 Return so sweet to me, 
 As if a single star should rise 
 
 To light a troubled sea. 
 
 So you 're a mother, matron, sage, 
 
 And I am growing old : 
 With all the faults of frosty age, 
 
 So cynical and cold ; 
 And yet my heart within me glows 
 
 When memory o'er it plays, 
 As sunset tints Sierran snows 
 
 With summer's softest rays. 
 
 I hear the waves around me roar, 
 
 And where the dark clouds dip, 
 Fades out the dim and distant shore, 
 
 As sails our stately ship, 
 Ah ! thus I pass from out my past 
 
 And sweet romance of life, 
 To where my weary lot is cast 
 
 In bitterness and strife. 
 
32 The Laborers Hymn. 
 
 The. Labor's flymn. 
 
 rich and proud they pass me by, 
 For I am poorly born, 
 A workman rough, but naught care I 
 
 For all their lofty scorn. 
 I feel my manhood in me stir 
 No envy of their greed, 
 For Christ was bred a carpenter, 
 And God our work decreed. 
 
 My humble home is by the road, 
 
 Where my dear ones abide ; 
 I care not for the rich abode, 
 
 Where dwells dishonest pride ; 
 For peace and love breathe o'er us all, 
 
 And we can spurn the scorn 
 That looked down on the humble stall 
 
 Where Christ himself was born. 
 
The Laborer's Hymn. 33 
 
 I know that from our dreary toil 
 
 They steal their silks and lace ; 
 Their very bread wrought from the soil 
 
 We give them, with their grace ; 
 And man must sweat where fraud prevails 
 
 And theft holds high command, 
 For cunning wins, while labor fails, 
 
 Throughout the freest land. 
 
 Let not despair our souls enthrall, 
 
 For God is with the right, 
 And we who feed and foster all 
 
 As readily can smite, 
 When guant privation haunts the den, 
 
 And children cry for bread, 
 We wait the painted vermin then, 
 
 When Labor strikes them dead. 
 
 We patient beasts, with human hearts, 
 
 Can bear the burden long, 
 But comes a time when nature starts 
 
 To right the cruel wrong, 
 As when miasma fills the air, 
 
 With fever's fearful train, 
 The thunder's roll, the lightning glare, 
 
 And storms come on amain. 
 
34 
 
 The Ohio Boat-Horn. 
 
 The Ohio 
 
 "O boatman! wind thy horn again." 
 
 WM. O. BUTLER. 
 
 /^\ LIST ! the boat-horn's soft refain 
 
 O'er eve's still waters, swelling clear, 
 So wildly sweet, so sad a strain, 
 
 Ne'er woke before to charm the ear. 
 What dreams its melody awakes 
 
 Of life upon the lost frontier, 
 When to the rivers, forests, lakes 
 
 There came the sturdy pioneer. 
 
 Out on the wave, while floating down, 
 
 He boldly trod his little deck, 
 And dreamed, his dearest close around, 
 
 Of wild adventure, storm and wreck ; 
 That strain he wound his way to cheer, 
 
 In dewy eve or golden morn, 
 The startled Indian paused to hear 
 
 In echoes sweet his simple horn. 
 
The Ohio Boat-Horn. 35 
 
 That note erst smote on tower and town 
 
 Its winding challenge, clear and high, 
 And battling hosts for land and crown, 
 
 Were summoned. out to do or die; 
 And so it herald empire then 
 
 O'er wilds that stretched from sea to sea. 
 Wild music to the tramp of men 
 
 That told of millions yet to be. 
 
 O boatman ! wind thy horn again, 
 
 I fain would hear its note once more. 
 There lives along its magic strain 
 
 The deeds our fathers wrought of yore. 
 Their forms are moldering into dust, 
 
 Their very homes have passed away, 
 How strange your strain should hold in trust 
 
 Their sacred memories from decay ! 
 
36 The Blue Jay. 
 
 The Blue Jay. 
 
 HPHE little scamp, I hear his shriek of warning 
 
 That tells his blue police the foe is nigh 
 A goggle-eyed old owl caught out by morning, 
 
 So dazed by light he can not fight nor fly. 
 From field and forest, haystack, fence and thicket, 
 
 Shrieking like fiends they swiftly gather in ; 
 There 's no pursuit of gain, or grain, but quick it 
 
 Drops the bit for duty in the din. 
 
 The night assassin sees in grotesque wonder 
 
 Blue streaks about his horned noddle dart; 
 From side to side they flash now o'er, now under 
 
 And every prick but make him snap and start. 
 Ah ! have a care, most noble, daring Captain 
 
 A clutch, a snap, a shriek of wild despair : 
 There 's one brave jay beyond the need of Chaplain- 
 
 A cloud of feathers flash upon the air. 
 
The Blue Jay. 37 
 
 Then comes a blessed silence of a minute ; 
 
 For Death's grim presence even chills a jay. 
 Brief space for grief, the shrieks again begin it ; 
 
 Angn the woods are ringing with the fray. 
 The downy, pinioned thief, night's dark marauder, 
 
 Feels all the anguish of a hopeless fight 
 With foes despised ; and so in grave disorder 
 
 He spreads his wings and fairly takes to flight. 
 
 How like a dream he floats o'er field and meadow, 
 Fast followed by his foes' victorious cries, 
 
 To where the burr-oak glen, with trees bent head low, 
 Dims the fierce light for better use of eyes. 
 
 The little scamps accept the situation, 
 
 And leave their foe his fortress to command ; 
 
 They quick disperse, with shrill congratulation, 
 To thieve like Satan over all the land. 
 
 The little Frenchman of the fields and wildwood, 
 
 The dashing, daring, handsome cavalier, 
 Dear companion of my dreamy childhood, 
 
 Of all the birds the boldest buccaneer, 
 Nest robber, orchard thief, round stack and garden, 
 
 Busy as sin, with such a business air, 
 On scare-crow's very hat with corn grain hard in 
 
 His little claw he cracks without a care. 
 
38 The Blue Jay. 
 
 When storm clouds gather in the Fall's dark session, 
 
 And rain makes music on my maple trees, 
 While other birds are hushed in damp depression, 
 
 The clear "e-lii-ick" floats upon the bteeze. 
 Snow can not cow, nor bitter winter boss 'em ; 
 
 No want nor hunger can their spirits tame ; 
 In Spring with blue they shade the apple blossom, 
 
 And Summer finds them shrieking all the same. 
 
Garfield Dead. 39 
 
 Garfield Dead. 
 
 "Duncan is in his grave; 
 After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. 
 Treason has done his worst ; nor steel, nor poison, 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
 Can touch him further." Shakespeare. 
 
 T T URT unto death and dead at last. In vain 
 The cry of anguish from the people wrung, 
 That like a tender mother, tearful hung 
 
 In grief sublime, 
 Counting by pulse-beats the fatal steps of time 
 
 Above that bed of pain. 
 
 The land was dark with sorrow. From wooded Maine 
 To where the wide Pacific chafes the Golden Gate, 
 From blue north lakes down to the flowery state, 
 From cities, hamlets, mountain, glen, and plain, 
 
 E'en from the wilderness, 
 Wherever a human heart has beat, or human footstep trod, 
 
 Went up to God 
 The cry for succor in our sore distress. 
 
 The fearful rent 
 
40 Garfidd Dead. 
 
 That internicine war wrought us in twain, 
 
 His precious blood is God's cement 
 To bind us in one brotherhood again. 
 Grief washed out passion's angry hue, 
 And mingling tears for him come gray and blue. 
 
 In vain 
 Many selfish factions seek once more to reign, 
 
 And stir to life 
 
 Our evil passions into bloody strife, 
 That once our nation's hopes in common ruin blent. 
 Land whispered unto land. Beneath the solemn main, 
 Through dark, unfathonied caves, the lightning laden 
 
 nerve of life 
 For an instant trembled with our tale of pain, 
 
 And nations paused amid their vexing strife 
 To send their sorrow back to us again. 
 Crowned heads were bowed, and back-bent toil, 
 Watering with unrequited sweat the alien soil, 
 
 With uncovered head, 
 Stood in the presence of our mighty dead. 
 The dead have lain in state, 
 The wise, the good, the great 
 Soldier, statesman, potentate 
 And o'er the land, to grief awake, 
 Huge bells swinging to and fro, 
 
 Solemn and slow, 
 
Gar field Dead. 41 
 
 With iron tongues have told their tales of woe, 
 While waves of music beat upon the air 
 In rhythmed sweetness all their wild despair. 
 It was our living that we laid in state, 
 
 And the nation, desolate, 
 Through the heavy watches with breath abate, 
 And hearts nigh broken praying for the balm 
 Of health again ; for on that quickening breath 
 And fever hurried face rode Death 
 Ah ! not for him alone ; we saw with dread 
 The Great Republic hanging by a slender thread ; 
 
 And he alone was calm. 
 Patient and brave, as gentle as a child, ' 
 
 He sadly smiled, 
 While grief around was wild, 
 
 And took the chance they gave him. Tender and true, 
 How sweet and homely were his words of cheer, 
 In answer to his poor wife's tears and fear, 
 " Do n't cry, sweetheart; we will yet pull through." 
 What recks all glory to that lonely home, 
 Where sits the mother, aged and alone ? 
 Of all, alas ! bereft, sad she sits, and dreams 
 
 Upon life's earlier scenes ; 
 Of the hard struggle and her noble son, 
 Who fought through all until the goal was won ; 
 
42 Garfield Dead. 
 
 And in th' hour of triumph, with loving grace, 
 Turned to kiss her in the nation's place. 
 
 She can not feel him dead ; 
 His manly form and noble head 
 
 Are ever with her; he's "her baby" still; 
 The dim perceptions cloud the present o'er, 
 
 And save the pains that kill. 
 The broken rainbow yet its arch retains, 
 And points to earth like life. Our grave remains, 
 Whatever glory be for us in store. 
 God help the brave, true heart 
 
 That lost not hope till hope itself was dead 
 The loving wife who filled an angel's part, 
 
 And smiled to cheer above a heart that bled ; 
 Who crowded down the blinding tears 
 And anguished fears, 
 Hiding her pain, 
 
 That she alone might nurse her lord to life again. 
 Our hero's widow is a nation's care, 
 Her babes the people's own, 
 Ah, me ! of what avail the groan, 
 The lamentations all must share ? 
 Vain mockery of words. They deeper grief will start 
 To one who carries dead like this upon her living heart. 
 
 Thou art gone, 
 And the great world goes roaring on 
 
Garfield Dead. 43 
 
 The cities hum of human life, the roar 
 
 Of ocean on the rocky shore ; 
 
 Season follows season, and o'er the land, 
 
 In sun and storm, the farmer's horny hand 
 
 Tills the warm earth ; 
 
 Myriads of men have birth, 
 
 And myriads are carried to the tomb; 
 
 Birds sing, and flowers bloom, 
 
 And shining rivers roll in music to the sea ; 
 
 No more, no more ; oh ! never more may we 
 
 Turn in our love to thee. 
 
 We search in vain, 
 By mountain side, or lake, or plain, 
 Or thy loved solitude 
 Of thought haunted wood, 
 
 Or rocky glen, 
 Or mid the busy haunts of men ; 
 
 No more may we our hero see, 
 Thy kingly form is moldering into dust; 
 Thy spirit is with God, we trust; 
 
 Thy life has passed into a memory. 
 
44 An Adieu. 
 
 fin fldiea. 
 
 *T^HE season 's ended and we part, my belle; 
 
 I try to smile you off, yet find it no go. 
 It is absurd, and yet my feelings swell 
 And heart is heavy as your Saratoga, 
 That holds your many graces and my pain 
 And marks alike my conquest and your reign. 
 
 We met, 't was at a " german " Mrs. Beal's, 
 The gayest throng ah, well I it remember, 
 
 The snowy shoulders, and the pointed heels 
 
 That swelled a tide of dazzling grace and splendor, 
 
 And filled the ancient house from base to attic 
 
 Solons, sailors, soldiers and corps diplomatic. 
 
 I saw you, fresh and sweet, among the flirts, 
 I saw your gorgeous dress direct from Paris ; 
 
 You rose a Venus from a sea of skirts, 
 The world and me, alas, in love to harass, 
 
 There was such meaning in your witching smile, 
 
 So simply, yet so knowing, guileless guile. 
 
An Adieu. 45 
 
 In this first season, out upon your cheek 
 The color came and went in its sweet way; 
 
 You looked so modest when I came to speak, 
 And yet so queenly graceful, I could say 
 
 Naught of the patronizing rot we hiss 
 
 Into the listening ears of wife or miss. 
 
 We talked the weather, then we diagnosed 
 Your parent's ailments each was ill I know ; 
 
 Mamma had indigestion ; papa toed 
 
 Rheumatic gout or something in his toe ; 
 
 I was so charmed by stomach and by toes 
 
 That seemed such music from your lips of rose. 
 
 Ah, what an ass is man when man's in love 
 An ass he must be then his love to win ; 
 
 The Bottom found Titania all a dove, 
 
 And we must sigh though all the world may grin ; 
 
 And so, my belle, I lifted you on high, 
 
 Then breathed my very soul out in a sigh. 
 
 We make the thing we worship; you to me, 
 Too pure and artless were for sinful earth ; 
 
 The terrapin I fed you seemed to be 
 
 Food for the gods ah, what a blighting death 
 
 Fell on the house, when just at two 
 
 Your papa's carriage whirled you from my view. 
 
46 An Adieu. 
 
 And so we " germaned" into love at night, 
 And flirted mildly, dear one, day by day ; 
 
 At last encouraged by your eyes' soft light, 
 At Mrs. Stockton's dancing matinee, 
 
 I pressed your little hand, so soft and nice, 
 
 And told my burning love above an ice, 
 
 You blushing, laughed, and laughing looked again 
 A shy, sweet glance that did my love eclipse, 
 
 And ate in silence ; oh what blissful pain ; 
 My soul and ice seemed melting on your lips, 
 
 Reckless in bliss, entranced, I never stirred, 
 
 Though Clarkson Potter heard my lowest word. 
 
 'T was after dinner, at your papa's house, 
 I clasped you to my heart, my all adored, 
 
 Whispering accepted love, you little mouse, 
 While in a chair your solemn papa snored. 
 
 I clasped and kissed and begged you mine to be, 
 
 You said, " go speak to my paternal B." 
 
 You ran away and I awakened him, 
 
 Alas, I wakened, too, from dreams of bliss; 
 
 Paternal bird, he made my senses swim, 
 By a few words that fairly seemed to hiss ; 
 
 "That girl is crazy," cried paternal B., 
 
 "You are the sixth this week she sent to me." 
 
An Adieu. 47 
 
 And now adieu, my little witch, adieu, 
 The season ; s ended, take my parting sigh. 
 
 Our ways go widening still the wide world through, 
 The night is done, morn trembles in the sky ; 
 
 The love I cherished that once seemed my star, 
 
 Dies like the light from this, my last cigar. 
 
48 A. C. F. 
 
 fl. C. F. 
 
 TV /TY eyes are dim with tears unshed, 
 
 My heart is stirred with pain, 
 For memories of the sainted dead, 
 
 Are haunting me again. 
 The blue-bird's carol, on the limb 
 
 Where apple blossoms bloom, 
 Has brought the vision, dear yet dim, 
 
 From out its heart-locked tomb. 
 
 Sweet spirit of the opening spring, 
 
 And incense laden air, 
 When orchards bloom and wild birds sing, 
 
 And earth is fresh and fair ; 
 No violets from the winter wake, 
 
 Nor buds burst from the tree, 
 Nor wood-thrush sings, but join, to make 
 
 For thee, a memory. 
 
A. C. F. 49 
 
 I see again thy perfect face, 
 
 And strangely lustrous eye, 
 The slender form, the girlish grace, 
 
 And ways so frank, yet shy. 
 Ah ! me, what years since then have fled, 
 
 Along their troubled way, 
 And left me here to mourn the dead, 
 
 And memorize decay. 
 
 The spring returns, but no return 
 
 Of life's young love and trust, 
 Fond memory lingers o'er the urn, 
 
 That marks the mold'ring dust; 
 Alone I pace the pleasant round, 
 
 So oft in fancy traced, 
 Where every rood seems fairy ground, 
 
 Her gracious presence graced. 
 
 Ah ! child of genius little known, 
 
 But largely loved on earth, 
 What careless wit by thee was sown, 
 
 What fancies had their birth 
 To drop, like rose leaves, on the road 
 
 That shadowed all thy days ; 
 Dear, gentle form to bear such load, 
 
 Along life's dreary ways. 
 5 
 
50 A. C. P. 
 
 'T is peace at last, above thy grave 
 
 The grass is green again, 
 The wild birds sing, the flowers wave 
 
 Soft falls the silvery rain. 
 Ah ! blessed rest, that ends this coil 
 
 This fevered thing called life 
 The long, long sleep that, after toil, 
 
 Sooths down our weary strife. 
 
Song. 51 
 
 Song. 
 
 A HEALTH, a health to Lizzie lass, 
 
 And let the wine go round, 
 For here within each sparkling glass 
 
 Her lovely self is found; 
 Her beauty 's like the bubbling rain, 
 
 That dazzles ere 'tis past; 
 Her wit, how like our own champagne, 
 Can floor us all at last. 
 
 Her smile is sunlight, and her laugh 
 
 Tnat sunlight set to tune ; 
 Her breath the honey-bee might quaff, 
 
 Drowned in its rich perfume. 
 Flower-born from out the sunny south, 
 
 Her form makes stoics sigh, 
 Love lingers round her rosy mouth, 
 
 The devil in her eye. 
 
52 Song. 
 
 This night 1 pressed her little hand, 
 
 And breathed my last adieu ; 
 To-morrow sees my native land 
 
 Sink in the waters blue. 
 Oh ! nevermore may eyes of mine 
 
 My little darling see. 
 Oh! comrades, drown me deep in wine, 
 
 The world is dead to me. 
 
From an Album. 53 
 
 an fllbam. 
 
 AT'OU never asked poor me to bring 
 My humble tribute to your shrine ; 
 Perchance you thought I could not sing 
 
 Where sweeter bards have sung sublime ; 
 But feelings make the song, not words, 
 Or else our bards were brainless birds. 
 
 I 've gazed upon thy gentle face, 
 When little noted, long and oft, 
 
 T ve loved thy form of witching grace, 
 And heard thy voice so low and soft : 
 
 The charms that common men adore, 
 
 Saw these and dreamed of something more 
 
 There is a meaning in those eyes, 
 
 That few may fathom, all may feel, 
 
 Telling of thought that underlies 
 
 Our better nature, when we steal, 
 
 Prometheus like, another soul 
 
 To strengthen, soften, and control. 
 
54 From an Album. 
 
 And can it be that one so young, 
 
 So fair, so fresh, so gay and bright, 
 
 Has yet a memory o'er her hung 
 
 That gives us all a second sight ? 
 
 What see'st thou, oh maiden fair, 
 
 To bring this nameless charm and air ? 
 
 The sea-shell whispers of the sea, 
 
 And evening dews the rose distills, 
 
 And, music lives in memory, 
 
 The sound though dead the soul yet thrills, 
 
 And each in each itself repeats, 
 
 The heart alone its secret keeps. 
 
 Oh! shallow fool, to speculate, 
 
 And on such shadow thus refine, 
 
 The what thou see'st is but fate 
 
 That waits upon the gift divine, 
 
 The genius rare that swiftly flings 
 
 What dull experience slowly brings. 
 
 My rhyme is ended. Oh ! that I 
 
 Could end my sorrows with my song.- 
 
 I close these pages with a sigh 
 
 And realize the pain of wrong ; 
 
 For charms thy face and form adorn, 
 
 Though born to bliss leave me forlorn. 
 
1 send you your Letters. 55 
 
 I send you you* Letters. 
 
 T SEND you your letters, 
 
 Oh ! would I might send 
 The feeling that fetters 
 
 My being and end. 
 Like light on the mountain 
 
 These joys of the past, 
 Eve's rays on the fountain, 
 
 The lovliest and last. 
 
 Oh ! dost thou remember, 
 
 The dim little room, 
 Where gloomy November 
 
 Saw our joy and doom ? 
 We met but to sever, 
 
 We meet not again ; 
 Ah ! vain the endeavor, 
 
 The anguish, how vain ! 
 
56 / send you your Letters . 
 
 These close-written pages, 
 
 These forms of the past, 
 In the war the heart wages 
 
 With fate they are cast ; 
 Yet I give them all to thee, 
 
 True heart, once my own, 
 Let others go woo thee, 
 
 I now am alone. 
 
Mac-o-chec //. 57 
 
 T T OW many a vanished hour, and day, 
 
 Have sunlight o'er me shed, 
 Since last I saw these waters play 
 
 Along their pebbly bed. 
 The bird bent bough above them swings, 
 
 The waves dance bright below, 
 From the hazel near the cat-bird sings, 
 
 As in long years ago. 
 
 O'er blue-edged height, and sun-lit plain, 
 
 Soft falls the purple noon, 
 On rustling corn, and waving grain, 
 
 On stream and still lagoon ; 
 Hard by the brook the black bird trills, 
 
 The glossy coated crow 
 Croaks hoarsely on the breezy hills, 
 
 As in long years ago. 
 
5 8 Mac-o-chee II. 
 
 The falcon, like a censor sung, 
 
 Circles the blue above, 
 The quail is calling to her young, - 
 
 While coos the mournful dove; 
 The elder bloom, by road and stream, 
 
 Lies heaped, like drifted snow, 
 The meadow birch nods to its dream, 
 
 As in long years ago. 
 
 The drowsy bee, on laden wings, 
 
 Voices the dreamy day, 
 The squirrel chatters as he swings, 
 
 While screams the restless jay ; 
 The mild eyed cattle, slow and grave, 
 
 Swish in the shaded pool, 
 Where hoarse frogs croak, and tall flags wave, 
 
 And clear springs bubble cool. 
 
 And now, as in that far-off time, 
 
 The village sounds are dear, 
 The cry of children, and the chime 
 
 Of bells, break on the ear ; 
 My playmates then are bearded men, 
 
 The men wax old and slow, 
 Or sleep within God's silent glen, 
 
 Where broods the long ago. 
 
Mac-o-chee //. 59 
 
 I may not sing, my eyes so dim, 
 
 I may not sing the change 
 That wrought upon my soul within, 
 
 Its sadness, still and strange; 
 Nor here by fragile flower and stream, 
 
 Repeat the well worn lay, 
 How we the fleeting shadows seem, 
 
 Immortal substance they. 
 
 But ah ! these trees, and birds, and skies, 
 
 And scented flower's bloom, 
 Are all to me as one who lies 
 
 Hid in a hollow tomb ; 
 Where murmurs of a busy world, 
 
 Sift through the creviced stone, 
 And like a leaf but half unfurled, 
 
 Leaves all the tale unknown. 
 
 Round every life an Eden lies, 
 
 In golden glow of youth, 
 When romance tints with tender dyes, 
 
 The solemn page of truth, 
 When newer being thrills the heart, 
 
 To young love's magic hand, 
 And, as awake from dreams, we start 
 
 To gaze on fairy land. 
 
60 Mac-o-chee //. 
 
 What deeper blue the skies assume, 
 
 What tints the earth takes on, 
 What roseate hues our paths illume, 
 
 A moment, then 't is gone. 
 And back to earth we turn again ; 
 
 Back to its weary strife, 
 Yet, through all sorrow, sin, and pain, 
 
 One vision sweetens life. 
 
The Little Shoe. 6j 
 
 The Little Shoe. 
 
 E sweetest little girl that ever lived 
 Is chatting gayly by my easy chair, 
 Adown her shapely head like sunlight sieved 
 
 Through evening shadows falls her golden hair , 
 Her fairy form is leaning on my knee, 
 
 Her earnest eyes are gazing up to mine, 
 With what a faith she all believes in me, 
 
 That child-like faith our Savior called divine. 
 
 The pain her presence brings she can not dream, 
 
 Reviving sorrow long since worn dry, 
 From out a channel of a storm born stream, 
 
 That tore my aching heart in years gone by ; 
 Her silvery voice recalls the voice of one, 
 
 Long passed through death, unto the dread unknown 
 When my ewe-lamb, my one, with life was done, 
 
 And, left me childless, homeless and alone. 
 
62 The Little Shoe. 
 
 In yonder drawer there lies a little shoe, 
 
 Tear stained and faded, in its wraps apart, 
 All scuffed out and torn to tawny hue 
 
 It patters yet upon my aching heart. 
 Frail relic thus to hold so grave a trust, 
 
 And bridge with grief the many weary years 
 The little form 's long molded into dust, 
 
 I see it only through my blinding tears. 
 
 Along these halls there sound no pattering feet, 
 
 No eager face peers through the door ajar, 
 No joyous shout my comings ring to greet, 
 
 No busy fingers my sad labors mar. 
 One little death has made my house a tomb, 
 
 One cruel stroke has forced my life apart 
 From all its healthful growth, and it was doomed 
 
 To fruitage of a mutilated heart. 
 
 We pity the deformed, the crippled find 
 
 Of human charity a helpful store, 
 But take no thought of hurts that blind 
 
 And half destroy our being at its core. 
 Back to thy hiding-place, dear little shoe, 
 
 Back with thy memories of saddened years ; 
 You give to dreary life a softer hue, 
 
 And, after all, a blessing in these tears. 
 
Serenade. 63 
 
 Serenade. 
 
 \ 1 7HILE bright stars are keeping, 
 * Their watch in the sky, 
 
 And song-birds are sleeping 
 
 To Summer's low sigh, 
 I leave the lone pillow 
 
 My weary head prest, 
 And steal to the lattice 
 
 Of her I love best. 
 
 Breathe low, gentle music, 
 
 Steal into her dream 
 Like the sweet voice of flowers 
 
 That whispers the stream ; 
 I would not recall her 
 
 From dreamland of bliss, 
 Even in music, 
 
 To troubles of this. 
 
64 Serenade. 
 
 As white as the snow-flake, 
 
 As warm as the sun, 
 As soft as the moss rose 
 
 The South breathes upon ; 
 Sleep holds her enchanted 
 
 In dreamy repose, 
 As odors of evening 
 
 In clasp of the rose. 
 
 Oh, long night of sorrow, 
 
 Of heartache and sighs, 
 Without the bright morrow 
 
 That sleeps in her eyes ! 
 What gulf lies between us, 
 
 From goodness to sin, 
 From the passion without 
 
 To the heaven within ! 
 
Monody. 65 
 
 Ittonody. 
 
 I weep, for Adonis he is dead ! Shelley. 
 
 POLAND is dead ! We weep for Poland, 
 
 High old bishop of the mountains green \ 
 Brass-buttoned, swallowed-tailed, in no land 
 Will the venerable pump, lofty and serene, 
 Any more be seen. 
 It seemeth now a dream 
 That erst he stood among the solons solemn, 
 Gray-haired, erect, a very column 
 Of pious sweetness, playing with his fob 
 
 Where hung the ancient seal, 
 While spreading softly o'er each dirty job 
 The unctious cover of his righteous zeal. 
 
 The great investigator is at rest, 
 
 In the final home by Christian statesmen blest, 
 Where ghostly shadows stalk the silent shore, 
 Where smiling Schuyler smiles no more, 
 
66 Monody. 
 
 And Pomeroy, Harlan, Hooper and the rest 
 Have journeyed o'er. 
 
 Last of the Christain statesmen, over thee 
 
 We drop our several tears. 
 The lobby's hung ir black, and lo ! we see 
 The weeping carpet-baggers pale with fears, 
 And huge contractors and petticoated dears, 
 Forming the long procession, and loud they cry 
 Along the vaulted sky : 
 
 "Our mighty Poland's dead; 
 Our Bishop 's dead ; 
 Old Subsidy is dead; 
 The deadest sort of dead; 
 Let tears be shed. 
 For no perq's can raise him from his lowly bed. 
 
 We are forlorn; 
 We see the crib and can not get the corn." 
 
 The White House seems a whited sepulcher 
 
 There is no stir 
 
 Along its lofty rooms, but sounds 
 Of wailing reach us from camp-meeting grounds, 
 When the dread Caesar prays. 
 He seeks at last to leave the crooked ways, 
 
Monody. 67 
 
 Startled by Poland's fate and shortened days; 
 Forsaking all fast things, he fasts always. 
 
 Hearken now to Dana Dana of the Sun- 
 The sun that shines for all ; 
 He singeth a madrigal ; 
 For that his enemy is dead and done, 
 Who, with ye Harrington 
 And other villians, to the Capital 
 
 Him would have dragged 
 In grievous irons bound, 
 Likewise well gagged. 
 
 Now hearken to the joyful sound : 
 Great Dana lately in a funk, 
 Drinketh much lager and forthwith getteth drunk. 
 
 Hear the sainted Mormons loud rejoice 
 
 In tones polygamous, 
 Lifting a solemn voice 
 
 To thank the Lord for thus 
 Destroying the great Goliah of the House, 
 
 Who sought to rob them of their many wives, 
 
 Likewise their lands and mines and teeming hives, 
 That carpet-baggers might carouse 
 
 On gains ill-gotten the thieving crew 
 That God will yet gridiron for his favored nation. 
 To this old Brigham had a special revelation, 
 
68 Monody. 
 
 For he foretold our Poland dead, 
 
 And heard the solemn tolling of a bell 
 That said old Poland's gone to hell, 
 
 And Satan's breaking bark upon his legislative head. 
 
 Now hear the fearful chimes. 
 
 Newman's iron rhymes, 
 
 How they ring and roar and swell, 
 
 Ding dong bell, 
 
 Making each listener hold his aching head, 
 Wishing old Poland damned as well as dead. 
 
 No more, no more, oh ! never more may we 
 Count up our little perq's, nor ever see 
 
 The sweet subsidy 
 
 Blessed by Poland for poor humanity. 
 A pall hangs over Willard's, the Ebbitt's done, 
 And gloom has settled on the Arlington ; 
 In Welcker's fascinating rooms the lights burn blue, 
 Crape hangs on knobs south of the avenue ; 
 From sample-rooms the joyous laugh has fled, 
 Hertzog a mammoth tear has shed, 
 
 For Poland dead. 
 
Song. 69 
 
 Song. 
 
 A S rivulets to the river run, 
 
 The rivers to the sea, 
 'Neath starry skies, or cloudless sun, 
 
 To where their rest may be, 
 My heart's deep love, oh, dearest one, 
 Forever flows to thee. 
 
 Nor birds, nor flowers, nor bending trees 
 The restless waves may stay, 
 
 Nor shining stars nor wooing breeze 
 Win e'en a brief delay ; 
 
 They murmur of the distant seas, 
 And murmuring flow alway. 
 
 I want the words to sing, my love, 
 
 Of love's sweet ecstasy, 
 Resistless as the rivers, love, 
 
 And boundless as the sea, 
 That cares not for the heaven above 
 
 If heaven holds not thee. 
 
70 After the Ball 
 
 flfte* the Ball. 
 
 T CARE not for these stars of earth, 
 
 Though ever lovely things, 
 Unless, dear girl, they gather worth 
 
 From what wild fancy brings. 
 'Tis thus, oh, Lucy! with the wreath 
 
 That late you gave to me, 
 For ever since it seems to breathe 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
 I look on it and see again, 
 
 Beneath the chandelier, 
 Where fell in waves the witching strain 
 
 Of music on the ear, 
 Thy lovely form that seemed to rise 
 
 As from a foamy sea, 
 The goddess of my heart held eyes 
 
 Born of the melody. 
 
After the Ball. 71 
 
 I joined you in the whirling dance, 
 
 I clasped your fairy form ; 
 I drank in madness from the glance 
 
 That lost its look of scorn. 
 I had one glimpse for life to sigh 
 
 From out those lustrous eyes, 
 As one who lingers longing by 
 
 The gates of Paradise. 
 
 'Twas seen 'twas gone; I stood alone 
 
 Amid the merry throng; 
 The lightning's flash had o'er me shone, 
 
 Then darkness swept along, 
 The music lost its tone or mirth, 
 
 And seemed a funeral strain, 
 That marched me back to weary earth, 
 
 To weary self again. 
 
 And once again we met 'twas brief; 
 
 My heart with envy stirs, 
 To dream upon thy form beneath 
 
 The cloak of silks and furs. 
 I said, Good night ; your papa said, 
 
 "The carriage waits, my dear," 
 When softly from your lovely head 
 
 This wreath you dropped me near. 
 
72 After the Ball. 
 
 The night is passing, and its sheen 
 
 Of stars melt in the morn ; 
 I sit alone to drink and dream 
 
 So weary and forlorn ; 
 For now we go our various ways 
 
 While mine is cold and drear, 
 For you, as papa fondly says, 
 
 The carriage waits, my dear. 
 
In Memoriam. B. M. P. 73 
 
 In Iflemoriam B. |H. P. 
 
 O O brave and true through all the troubled past, 
 Guiding his life on honor's highest plane, 
 Strong in his guard 'gainst selfish greed of gain ; 
 
 So sad and tragic to break down at last ! 
 
 He stood so calm 'mid sulphurous smoke of death, 
 Worked on in patience 'neath privation's sway, 
 
 Found wealth in love, with ne'er a hasty breath 
 To mar with strife life's saddest, darkest day; 
 
 We thought him strong, nor took account of pain, 
 That wrecked his trusting nature as it fell; 
 
 The silver cord was broken in the strain, 
 
 The golden pitcher shattered at the well. 
 
 Poor Ben ! grief builds for thee a purer fame, 
 
 So sleep in peace beneath thy honored name. 
 
74 Melindtfs Trail 
 
 Belinda's Trail. 
 
 " Whereby hangs a tale, sir ? Marry, sir." 
 
 Othello. 
 " Mistress, you must tell us another tale." 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
 OHE walks upon the avenue, 
 This female friend of mine, 
 
 With figure that is exquisite, 
 And face that is divine, 
 
 And dresses in the latest style, 
 That develops much behind. 
 
 The hair upon her philo 
 
 Is heaped up like a stack, 
 
 The pannier on her n. w. side 
 Looks like a camel's back ; 
 
 Her trail upon the dirty street 
 A comet in its track. 
 
Melinda' s Trail 75 
 
 This trail is made of satin 
 
 Or silk, as may be seen, 
 And cost her verdant father 
 
 No end of backs called green, 
 And for the sweeping of the street 
 
 Is a rather high machine. 
 
 The fashion comes from Europe, 
 
 Where 't is called a carriage dress ; 
 
 But Melinda has no carriage 
 Her little soul to bless, 
 
 So the filthy bricks and asphalt 
 Get a satiny caress. 
 
 Now as Melinda sweeps along 
 
 The sunny avenue 
 She looks so pure and innocent 
 
 In every line and hue, 
 She seems an angel in disguise 
 
 Dropped from the very blue. 
 
 But when this lovely creature seeks 
 
 At home her night's repose, 
 And dofPs her carriage garment, Lord 
 
 What facts she can disclose 
 In the horrible condition 
 
 Of her hidden underclothes. 
 
76 Melinda' s Trail. 
 
 Her balbriggins, that 's Irish now 
 For a better style of hose, 
 
 Have dust and dirt and oder too, 
 Enough to turn one's nose, 
 
 While her petticoats, etc., 
 
 A board of health would pose. 
 
 There's miasma in Melinda, 
 
 This creature soft and frail ; 
 
 She gets it on the avenue 
 And holds it at retail ; 
 
 But what a tale she can unfold 
 In unfolding of her trail. 
 
 'Tis said on one occasion she 
 Turned out many a quid, 
 
 Some very dirty paper and 
 An old tobacco lid, 
 
 A defunct frog and something worse 
 That in the folds were hid. 
 
 Now if you meet Melinda sweet 
 In all her glittering show, 
 
 And feel a soft emotion where 
 
 The heart throbs come and go, 
 
 The cure is to remember well 
 Her fearful fix below. 
 
Ariel. 7 7 
 
 Mel. 
 
 T LONGED to see thee, sweet unseen, 
 I longed to hear thee, sweet unheard, 
 
 Before the ideal of my dream, 
 
 My heart within was strangely stirred; 
 
 As if thy soul, unseen, all seeing, 
 
 Had touched the inner cord of being. 
 
 I stood as on that magic isle, 
 
 Where clouds hung heavy in the sky, 
 And rocks and trees were still the while, 
 
 The troubled waters tumbled by, 
 Wrathful at winds no longer near, 
 So fair and grand, and yet so drear. 
 
 'T was then thy music seemed to sweep 
 Along the pure and storm-seived air 
 
 ' ' Thy hopes are buried in the deep, 
 Full fathom five ; in death so fair, 
 
 They sleep, they sleep, while o'er them leap 
 
 The surging waves that requiem keep." 
 
78 Ariel. 
 
 The rocks looked on the cloudy sky, 
 The sky looked on the rolling sea, 
 
 O'er sands and waves the weary eye 
 No sign of human life could see; 
 
 And after pause the sweet refrain 
 
 Stole like a dirge upon the brain. 
 
 Oh ! world of waters wide and deep, 
 
 Oh ! lovely isle that mocked my dole, 
 
 Oh ! music wild and weird and sweet, 
 That brought such solace to my soul. 
 
 My hopes were buried ; would they change 
 
 Swift into something rich and strange ? 
 
 The fairest barks go down at sea, 
 
 The saddest hearts mourn on the shore, 
 
 A dirge is all our melody, 
 
 No more, no more, oh ! never more ! 
 
 Then mock us not with hope of change 
 
 Into that something sweet and strange. 
 
 They all have melted into air, 
 
 The sea and isle and song have fled, 
 
 I sit with my companion, Care, 
 
 With heavy heart and weary head ; 
 
 And yet I thank thee for the strain 
 
 That woke to life the dream again. 
 
JVew Words to a Choice Old Song. 79 
 
 flem Words to a Choice Old Song. 
 
 T KNEW a man once built his house 
 
 Upon an icy plain, 
 And thought, poor man, his house would stand, 
 
 Throughout the summer's rain. 
 
 That man he was a wondrous fool ; 
 
 A greater fool is he 
 Who puts his trust in woman's love 
 
 And lauds her constancy. 
 
 I knew a man once take his hound 
 
 His better friend to be, 
 And in his ears his hopes and fears 
 
 He poured incessantly. 
 
 That man he was a wondrous fool ; 
 
 A greater fool is he 
 Who feels a lack for women's clack ; 
 
 And lauds their brilliancy. 
 
8o New Words to a Choice Old Song. 
 
 Then let us clink and drain our drink 
 
 To women, wit and wine, 
 Things very good when understood, 
 
 But not at all divine. 
 
 For he who drinks till he gets drunk 
 Has little wit, I ween, 
 
 But less has he whom love makes see 
 His wench a very queen. 
 
One More Unfortunate. 81 
 
 One Jttore Unfortunate. 
 
 ! tell me, am I dying? 
 Can this indeed be death, 
 That weighs so heavy on my heart 
 
 And clutches at my breath ? 
 Oh ! tell me, am I dying ? 
 
 Before I grow too weak 
 There are within my weary soul 
 
 Some words I fain would speak. 
 
 My name is not Belle Henry 
 
 Ah ! no, a dearer name 
 Was mine of early girlhood, 
 
 Before I brought it shame. 
 There is a lowly cottage, 
 
 Where peaceful waters flow, 
 Where wild birds by the window sing, 
 
 And gentle flowers blow ; 
 I can not say it was my home, 
 
 It seems so long ago. 
 
82 One More Unfortunate. 
 
 My mother, dearest mother, 
 
 I see her strangely now, 
 Her sad, sad eyes and bending form, 
 
 And care upon her brow. 
 I see my poor old father, 
 
 Who had no word of blame, 
 Though upon his snow-white head 
 
 I brought this burning shame. 
 
 I am dying, father, dying 
 
 In this dreary place alone ! 
 No hand to smooth my pillow, 
 
 No heart ache for my moan ! 
 Oh ! well I now remember 
 
 The snowy little bed, 
 Where mother came to bless me 
 
 In prayers so softly said; 
 I see the apple blossoms, 
 
 I hear the partridge call 
 In the dewy light of morning, 
 
 Peace brooding over all. 
 
 I was fifteen, only fifteen, 
 
 When the cruel tempter came ; 
 
 I knew but how to love him, 
 And he to bring me shame. 
 
One More Unfortunate. 83 
 
 How my playmates all forsook me 
 
 In the cold world's look of scorn, 
 
 When in shameful sense of horror 
 My little babe was born. 
 
 Ah ! brief the joy he brought me, 
 
 For joy it was to me 
 To feel one cling so closely 
 
 When all so hard could be. 
 But he faded from my clasping, 
 
 I laid him down to rest, 
 His little hands soft folded 
 
 Upon his little breast ; 
 Shall I nevermore behold him, 
 
 Ne'er clasp his form again, 
 After all these years of anguish, 
 
 And all this life of pain ? 
 
 I fled one dreary midnight; 
 
 Indeed I could not bear 
 My father's silent sorrow, 
 
 My mother's look of care ; 
 And lower still and lower 
 
 Passed on my weary feet, 
 Until I stood an outcast 
 
 Upon the darkling street. 
 
84 One More Unfortunate. 
 
 Oh ! sickness, cold, and hunger, 
 Oh ! degradation's ban ! 
 
 Ye are soft and kinder-hearted 
 Than heart of cruel man. 
 
 My father oft has read us, 
 
 While I knelt beside his knee, 
 
 Of the woman and the Savior- 
 No Savior came to me ; 
 
 But scorn and bitter curses, 
 
 And wrongs I may not tell, 
 
 From they whose blighting shadows 
 Upon my pathway fell. 
 
 Oh ! father, dearest father, 
 
 Oh ! mother, far away, 
 You mourn your long-lost outcast 
 
 I am twenty-one to-day 
 Oh ! would that I were with you ! 
 
 To have you near me now 
 Would take this pain from out my heart, 
 
 This anguish from my brow; 
 You would not spurn your darling, 
 
 But clasp the wasted form 
 Of the poor, weak, erring creature 
 
 The world can only scorn. 
 
One More Unfortunate. 85 
 
 My prayer is not unanswered, 
 
 I feel a spirit sweet 
 Steal o'er my soul, and ease my heart 
 
 I pray you let me sleep. 
 
86 A Pathetic Ballad of Chicago. 
 
 fl Pathetic Ballad of Chicago. 
 
 With the accent heavy on the "go." 
 
 T SING a breach of promise 
 That happened long ago, 
 
 Where the waters of the river 
 Like roses seem to flow, 
 
 Where Amanda Craig was trifled with, 
 In the town of Chicago. 
 
 There was an ancient duffer 
 As rich as rich could be, 
 
 Who loved the fair Amanda, 
 " The inexpressive she," 
 
 And he "loved her as his Jesus," 
 And he spelled it with a " G." 
 
A Pathetic Ballad of Chicago. 87 
 
 Amanda was no chicken, 
 
 Though tender as a doe ; 
 She lived in Cincinnati, 
 
 Where the market is but slow ; 
 So she listened to this duffer 
 
 Of the wicked Chicago. 
 
 His love it was so burning, 
 
 It cooked him on the raw j 
 And so to cool his passion 
 
 He went to Saginaw, 
 And wrote her sundry letters, 
 
 Ne'er dreaming of the law. 
 
 The tender maid, Amanda, 
 
 Had taught in common school ; 
 
 So kept these loving letters 
 A-written by this fool 
 
 Who sought in breezy Saginaw 
 His burning love to cool. 
 
 Now, this illiterate villain 
 
 Remained in Saginaw, 
 Until his burning passion 
 
 Was cool as any slaw ; 
 And then he went to buying lots 
 
 And Amanda went to law. 
 
88 A Pathetic Ballad of Chicago. 
 
 Oh ! blessed dispensation, 
 The wicked one to tease, 
 
 That cures up our affection 
 
 And brings the heart its ease ; 
 
 Some find it sweet in heaven, 
 Some in the Common Pleas. 
 
 What did this cunning cheese-wax 
 But shave his ancient pate ; 
 
 Put on old clothes and bend his form, 
 Take out the dentist plate, 
 
 And wrinkle up his countenance, 
 Great pity to create ? 
 
 But the jury were all fathers, 
 
 And some were husbands, too ; 
 
 And the tricks of this deceiver 
 
 They saw right through and through ; 
 
 So they found a hundred thousand 
 To make the cuss look blue. 
 
 So all ye ancient lovers, 
 
 A-roving to and fro, 
 Now take from me a warning 
 
 Do n't let your passion flow, 
 Or, if you breach a promise, 
 
 Steer clear of Chicago. 
 
Ye Granger is Poking Round. 89 
 
 Ye Grange* is Poking Hound. 
 
 AIR: " Tlie little pigs lay with their tails curled up." 
 
 *T^HE little pigs lay with their tails curled tight, 
 
 Tight, tight, tight ; 
 
 The little pigs lay with their tails curled tight, 
 A-snoring so sweet in the cloudy night, 
 When they all got up in terrible fright, 
 
 Plight, fright, plight, 
 For ye Granger was looking* round. 
 
 These little pigs numbered just fifty-two, 
 
 Two, two, two ; 
 
 These little pigs numbered just fifty-two ; 
 They had very long tails, but ears were few, 
 For their ears were gone to make a stew, 
 
 Stew, stew, stew, 
 As ye Granger went poking round. 
 
po Ye Granger is Poking Round. 
 
 There were Kelley and Dawes and fifty more, 
 
 More, more,' more; 
 
 There were Kelley and Dawes and fifty more, 
 That lay very low and let on to snore 
 In innocent sleep, while the terrible bore, 
 
 Bore, bore, bore, 
 Of ye Granger went searching round. 
 
 " My pigs were marked by Uncle Sam," 
 Quoth ye Granger with a terrible damn ; 
 ' ' I want them all for shoulder and ham, 
 
 Ham, ham, ham," 
 Quoth ye Granger while poking round. 
 
 ' ' Their bowels are good for sausage, too, 
 
 Too, too, too ; 
 
 Their bowels are good for sausage, too ; 
 Their little feet make an excellent stew. 
 We will have sides and heads a few, 
 
 Few, few, few," 
 Quoth ye Granger a-poking round. 
 
 " We are no pigs," squealed Kelley and Dawes, 
 Dawes, Dawes, Dawes, 
 
 " We are no pigs," squealed Kelley and Dawes; 
 
 "We are good men who make good laws, 
 
 And fight the fight of the negro cause, 
 Cause, cause, cause, 
 
 But ye Granger went poking round. 
 
Ye Granger is Poking Round. 9 1 
 
 The moral I give of this sweet little song, 
 
 . Song, song, song, 
 
 For all the pigs to the slaughter have gone ; 
 To be safe in the House as ye go it strong ; 
 Let your tails be short and your ears be long, 
 
 Long, long, long, 
 For ye Granger is poking round. 
 
92 Louise Kir by Piatt. 
 
 Louise 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON HER TOMB. 
 
 " I "O thy dear memory, darling, and my own, 
 I build in grief this monumental stone ; 
 All that it tells of life in death is thine, 
 All that it means of death in life is mine; 
 For the dread King, who tore our lives apart, 
 Gave me the dead, to you the living part ; 
 You, dying, live to find a life divine, 
 I, living, die till death hath made me thine. 
 
To a Star. 93 
 
 To a Star. 
 
 A MID the somber pines the winds are sighing, 
 
 While nature drops her livery of green ; 
 About my home the maple leaves are dying, 
 Ah me ! what spaces lie our lives between. 
 
 Through all the hazy autumn hours I wander, 
 Dreaming upon the mysteries of life ; 
 
 With ear against the world's great heart you ponder 
 In pain upon its glory and its strife. 
 
 And when night comes, with clear unequaled splendor, 
 I see the star-king from Eastern shadows start ; 
 
 Far in the West shines one less bright, more tender 
 With even pace they keep their ways apart. 
 
 One sinks, the other rises, and there lies on 
 A separate fate ; for one, alas ! forlorn, 
 
 Sinks slowly 'neath the murky, low horizon, 
 While melts the other softly into morn. 
 
94 ^ Memory. 
 
 Narragansett's storm-beat sand 
 We walked with slow, reluctant feet ; 
 I held enclasped her slender hand, 
 
 With loved possession, deep and sweet. 
 Out on the wave the wild foam swung, 
 The circling sea-gulls upward sprung ; 
 While o'er the level sand the sea 
 Came rolling soft and dreamily. 
 
 The sunset's glow was on her cheek, 
 
 Where love and heaven seemed to blend ; 
 So full our hearts we could not speak, 
 
 As summer's glories found an end. 
 What tender lights seived through the mist, 
 As waves and sunlight sparkling kissed, 
 While o'er the sea, to setting sun, 
 Swung thunder of the evening gun ! 
 
A Memory. 95 
 
 Ah ! gentle form, what gift was thine 
 
 To make the sky a deeper blue, 
 To make the barren sands divine, 
 
 And heaving sea a rosier hue ? 
 'T was morn of life, and love's sweet glance 
 Gave dreary years their one romance, 
 When yielding form and tender eyes, 
 Return to earth its paradise. 
 
 On Narragansett's dreary sand, 
 
 Now bent and old, alone I stray, 
 Nor see the lights, nor waves, nor land, 
 
 But one lone grave so far away. 
 The storm-tossed foam and gulls distraught - 
 Return like dreams, with haunted thought 
 "No more, no more, oh! never more! " 
 Moan the dark waves along the shore. 
 
96 Death of Custer. 
 
 Death of Caste*. 
 
 13 E hearty, my braves, for the hour draws nigh, 
 
 When, in white man's blood, we wet our knives ; 
 The light shall not dawn in the eastern sky 
 
 Ere we torture the men and scalp their wives. 
 There's plunder on hand and wampum in store; 
 
 We 're deadly as lightning, and still as the night ; 
 Your chief is here, and leads you once more : 
 
 The hero am I of a hundred fights. 
 
 The long haired chief, like a hunting hound, 
 
 Followed our trail with his eagle eye ; 
 The Indian sought and the Indian found : 
 
 He came to kill, and remained to die. 
 As a roaring wind he lead on his braves ; 
 
 As snakes so still we awaited here ; 
 They sought our scalps, they found their graves, 
 
 They fought without hope, they fell without fear, 
 
Death of Custer. 97 
 
 In a circle of fire we hemmed them 'round, 
 
 His braves fell in heaps, but never he quailed ; 
 Firm as a rock he held to his ground, 
 
 Though the succor he sought in terror failed ; 
 They left him to die, as he lived, alone, 
 
 Proud, fierce, and fleet, as a hawk on high. 
 His life was his country's, his deeds all his own, 
 
 He knew how to live, as he knew how to die. 
 
98 The Cowboy, 
 
 The Comboy. 
 
 TV /TY name it is Buck Stockton, 
 
 It is a sound to fear ; 
 The Ingun and the Greaser start, 
 
 That dreaded name to hear ; 
 For my finger 's on my trigger, 
 
 And my hand is on my knife, 
 And when Buck Stockton 's challenged, 
 
 He answers with a life. 
 
 I came from old Kantucky, 
 
 Was born one blessed night 
 Next a bar-room when a fight went on; 
 
 So I was born to fight. 
 The plains are my possessions, 
 
 My saddle is my home, 
 And it 's death to any human 
 
 Who says that I can't roam. 
 
The Cowboy. 99 
 
 My hoss is young Red Thomas 
 
 A blue grass hoss is he ; 
 His sire won the Derby, 
 
 And he can win for me. 
 He makes a mile a minit, 
 
 And he makes it every day; 
 A flash, a shot, a death yell, 
 
 And we are far away. 
 
 The border's full of hell-hounds, 
 
 There 's death at every turn; 
 Who 's right, who 's wrong, who lives, who dies, 
 
 Is never my concern. 
 My hoss and my revolver 
 
 Make my commission still, 
 To keep the peace for Stockton, 
 
 To keep the peace or kill. 
 
zoo King Midas 's Touch. 
 
 King jVIidas's Toaeh. 
 
 ING Midas was a wondrous king, 
 
 His like we'll ne'er behold; 
 For what his kingship deigned to touch 
 
 At once was turned to gold. 
 But ah ! the days are changed, I trow, 
 
 Since those of that old king ; 
 For touch a man with gold and now 
 
 He '11 turn to any thing. 
 
 The magi of the East, they say, 
 
 Possessed a magic ring, 
 That gave, when touched, all human sway, 
 
 And every pleasant thing. 
 The lobby at the Capital 
 
 Has a better thing in store : 
 Can see the magi's magic ring 
 
 And go them forty more. 
 
King Midas' s Touch., ,'', ; . 
 
 There 's not a statesman in the land, 
 
 Whate'er may be his swing, 
 But knuckles to the dark command, 
 
 He 's slave unto the ring. 
 He looks the eagle, soaring grand, 
 
 But, like a common kite, 
 He 's made of old newspapers, and 
 
 A string controls his flight. 
 
The Kickers. 
 
 The 
 
 r T^HERE was an ancient millionaire, 
 
 Who was both old and green, 
 Who loved a girl, with golden hair, 
 
 A girl of sweet sixteen ; 
 When wed, alas! the war began, 
 
 That drove the groom to liquor, 
 For the little wife had lovers, and 
 
 This good man died a kicker. 
 
 There was a mighty Senatair, 
 
 A boss both strong and high, 
 Who wore a lock of curly hair, 
 
 That took the pop'lar eye ; 
 One day he did resign in spleen, 
 
 And then began to bicker, 
 But now among the herd he 's seen, 
 
 A most uncommon kicker. 
 
The Kickers. 103 
 
 We know a great divine, who, dear 
 
 To the commercial mind, 
 Drew crowds immense, each day, to hear 
 
 His theologic find ; 
 Alas ! he once stepped down and out 
 
 With Satan for a dicker, 
 Since then he sadly goes about, 
 
 A discontented kicker. 
 
 So life has many a crown and cross 
 
 Full many a joy and sorrow, 
 And if to-day you feel a loss, 
 
 You '11 find success to-morrow ; 
 But whether it be joy or woe, 
 
 Or, be it slow or quicker, 
 Never among the people go, 
 
 And show yourself a kicker. 
 
104 ^ ma y n t Meet Again. 
 
 We may not flleet Again. 
 
 \ 1 7E may not meet again, 
 
 For earth has many ways, 
 And lips in other lands, 
 
 Are ringing in thy praise. 
 
 But memory o'er me lies, 
 
 As a mantle in my sleep ; 
 
 And olden hopes will rise, 
 
 Like spirits from the deep. 
 
 We may not meet again, 
 
 As once we fondly met ; 
 
 All hope of that were vain, 
 But vainer to forget. 
 
 For not a flower that flings, 
 Its fragrance on the lea, 
 
 Or not a bird that sings, 
 
 But breathes, lost one, for thee. 
 
We may not Meet Again. 
 
 We may not meet again, 
 
 But from around my heart, 
 
 The light of other days, 
 Alas, will not depart; 
 
 But like some lonely star, 
 
 That lights the deep, blue sea, 
 Thy beauty shines upon 
 
 The wave of memory. 
 
io6 A Judicial Character. 
 
 R Judicial Charaeter. 
 
 O EE where our pig-eyed pettifogger sits, 
 
 A man by court'sy and a Judge by fits ; 
 How like an owl, upon the bench he blinks, 
 Striving in vain to make us think he thinks. 
 On legal points to shock our virile sense 
 He fumbles vainly in his impotence ; 
 So steeped in sin, yet innocent of law, 
 He deals out judgment like a tailed Beshaw. 
 In Goldsmith's time there once a wonder grew 
 How one small head could carry all it knew ; 
 But here 't is changed, we now a wonder find 
 To see much carcass with so little mind. 
 Clad in a pious garb, to church he hies, 
 And in the presence of his Maker lies. 
 Mean hypocrite and meaner demagogue, 
 He holds combined the worst of cat and hog ; 
 Coarse as the one and as the other sly, 
 He walks the earth an animated lie ; 
 But, when he rides, great Scott ! what lies 
 His horse and carriage forthwith advertise ; . 
 A home-stead judgment is the steed he drives. 
 
Morning Prayer. 107 
 
 Prayer. 
 
 " I A O Thee, great God, I humbly pray 
 
 For grace and light and will and power 
 To do each hour of every day 
 That 't is Thy will on earth to stay, 
 The duties of the day and hour. 
 
 I know not, Lord Thou knowest all, 
 
 When I shall pass through death's dark river, 
 
 And what to me shall then befall \ 
 
 Weak, ignorant, and blind, I call 
 
 To Thee, of all good gifts the giver. 
 
 That Thou, my Father, just and true, 
 
 When death all ties to earth shall sever, 
 
 Thou who hast led me hitherto, 
 
 With joys and blessings ever new, 
 
 Will be my trust and hope forever. 
 
io8 To Die Alone. 
 
 To Die fllone. 
 
 r ~pO live in crowds, yet doomed to die alone; 
 What sudden sev'rance in the fateful call, 
 When the scared face is turned unto the wall 
 
 To deal with death. No agonized caress nor moan 
 
 Can aught avail. The feeble hands unclasp ; 
 Forth from the windings of our sunlit shore 
 Alone the soul departs forevermore, 
 
 And echoless in space our cries are cast. 
 
 The birds sing on, the tender flowers bloom, 
 While fading memory finds in time a calm; 
 
 Dust gathers slowly on the sculptured tomb, 
 And cold oblivion holds its healing balm. 
 
 If loved and lost, ah, me ! live yet to bless. 
 
 Why this relief in dull forgetfulness ? 
 
Change, 109 
 
 Change. 
 
 One after one we see our friends depart, 
 
 As stars of midnight melt unto the morn ; 
 From sweetest dreams awakes the weary heart, 
 
 To throb, like Ruth's, "amid the alien corn," 
 When, sick for home, she sighed, so dreary and forlorn. 
 
 Yet not of thee I grieve, Oh ! mighty Death 
 Thy ways are pleasant ways, thy paths are peace, 
 
 As flowers will fall in Autumn's quiet breath, 
 At thy still coming, all our troubles cease 
 
 But of the death called Change the living death, 
 That mocks us with a semblance falsely shown, 
 
 The ghost of what it was without the breath 
 That animates the soul, the altered tone 
 And cold, averted look that leaves us so alone. 
 
no Tecumseh. 
 
 Tecaiuseh. 
 
 T T E lived as lives the warrior, 
 In heavy stream of fight, 
 He died as dies the chieftain 
 
 Ere came the cry of flight ; 
 He closed his eyes forever 
 
 On his nation's endless night. 
 
 No marble gleams above him, 
 No people for him weeps ; 
 
 The tears are dews of autumn, 
 
 The sighs the wind that sweeps 
 
 Above the lone cell narrow, 
 
 Where the deathless hero sleeps. 
 
 Ah ! vain the brave endeavor, 
 Ah ! vain the earnest cry, 
 
 The many sleep on ever, 
 
 The few march out to die, 
 
 While finds heroic failure 
 Its record in a sigh. 
 
Oh, Sing no More. nl 
 
 Oh, Sing no 
 
 ! sing no more that song so glad, 
 Wake not its melody, 
 For now, alas, the strain is sad 
 
 That once was sweet to me ; 
 For she whose tender loving hands 
 
 First smote its magic chord 
 In heaven amid the sinless stands 
 To sing before her Lord. 
 
 Ah ! bitter tears of vanished years, 
 
 Ah ! heart benumbed by pain, 
 How quickening anguish reappears 
 
 To live along that strain; 
 The dull, dead longing comes apace, 
 
 That years in death has lain, 
 To look upon that loving face 
 
 I ne'er may see again. 
 
ii2 Oh, Sing no More. 
 
 Forgive me, love, if my weak plaint 
 
 A shadow o'er thee shed; 
 Ah ! more than wife, nor less than saint, 
 
 We mourn our common dead. 
 The sweet romance of sunny birth 
 
 Has faded from my brow, 
 For that which was but love on earth 
 
 Is our religion now. 
 
Death. 113 
 
 Death. 
 
 T 1 7HY should I shrink from thy dark presence, Death, 
 So near me now when fleeting years are brief; 
 
 Soon thy chill touch shall be my sole relief 
 From racking pains, dimmed eyes and gasping breath. 
 
 To die from earth and never feel agen 
 
 The kiss of love nor kindly grasp of men 
 I would not fear if from those fleshless lips 
 
 Aught I could learn of that dim life to come ; 
 Yet light in night has but a hushed eclipse, 
 
 The grave is silent and its master dumb. 
 Startled I gaze into the starlit sky, 
 
 When God recedes from thought in boundless space, 
 
 And faith grows faint in His redeeming grace 
 Oh, Holy Mother ! hear my helpless cry ! 
 
 10 
 
LOST AND WON. 
 
 CHARACTERS OF PLAY. 
 
 HON. HAMILTON BARR, Virginia gentleman. 
 YOUNGER BARR, his son. 
 
 CAPTAIN, after, COLONEL, LACY, U. S. Army of Volunteers. 
 AMOS ADZE, private, after, cabinet maker. 
 BUCKTHORN, overseer, after, detective. 
 OLD SCHACK, colored house servant. 
 OLD JEFF, colored "Prophet of de Lawd." 
 LORD TOMNODDY, English attraction. 
 FITZPOODLE, American attraction. 
 SERGEANT BANG, servant to Lacy. 
 BESSIE BARR, daughter of Hamilton Barr. 
 AUNT HESTER BARR, sister of Hamilton Barr. 
 HELEN DASH, after, MRS. COL. LACY. 
 Slaves, soldiers, ladies and gentlemen, police, and creditors. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SCENE: On the James. Distant view of river and moun- 
 tains beyond. To the right an old family tomb with " Barr " 
 above the entrance. Time, sunset. As the sun goes down 
 camp fires appear on mountains, and through entire scene distant 
 roar o* artillery heard. 
 
 Curtain discovers old Schack, Jeff, and slaves, men and 
 
 women, looking off toward mountains. 
 
 
 
 First Slave. Dye 's comin', shu enuff. An' de Lawd 
 knows dye 's thousands and thousands ob 'em. 
 
 ("5) 
 
n6 Lost and Won. 
 
 Second Slave. An' dey 's got big guns, too. Jis you 
 listen. Aint it awful ? 
 
 First Slave. Dey'l hab use foh 'em. Young Mass' 
 Barr say dat one Souvner is good foh tree dem Yankees. 
 
 Second Slave. Oh, shaw, dat 's talk. Aint dey come, 
 and do n't they keep a' coming ? Where 's yer Souvner 
 as keep 'em back ? You talks foolishness wid yer young 
 Mass' Barr. 
 
 First Slave. Don't know. Hope's its foolishness. 
 When Yanks come, de nigger go. Mind dat. He draps 
 de hoe handle like a hot poker, an' has his freedom on 
 de spot. De Lawd knows I want dem Yankees. But 
 I'se afraid, I is. 
 
 Second Slave. The Lawd's on dar side, and when de 
 Lawd takes side, as ole Mass' Barr says, dar 's a majority. 
 I stand by de Lawd and de Yanks, I do. 
 
 Schack. An' I 's ashamed ob you. You here 'uns 
 has been a eating' of Massa's bread and wearin' de Massa's 
 clos, you sleeps under de roof he gibs you, an' when 
 you 's sick, he doctors you, and when you dies he buries 
 you. 
 
 Second Slave. An' when we do n't work he whips us, 
 an' when he wants de money, he sells us to de plantations 
 down Souf. 
 
 Schack. Shut you lyin' mouf. Dar aint bin a darkey 
 sole off dis place for a hundred year. 
 
Lost and Won. 117 
 
 Second Slave. Dat 's so. Ole Mass' Barr mity good, 
 but you jis wait till young Mass' Barr comes in, honey; 
 den you look out. Dey do say ole Mass' Barr done sole 
 us aready. 
 
 Schack. Dey says lies, you ornary nigger. Ole Mass' 
 Barr neber do sick thing. He's mity kind to his niggers. 
 
 Second Slave. Yas, an' he lets dat oberseer, Buck- 
 thorn, work us, and Mass' Buckthorn mighty handy wid 
 de whip. 
 
 Schack. 'Cause yer so ornary. Look at Mass' Harris' 
 niggers. Dey do moh work in a day dan you git off in a 
 mounf. It jes makes me sick, it does. You 'uns got no 
 t'anks in ye. 
 
 Second Slave. Dat's all high talk in ye, ole Shack. 
 You'se a house nigger. You's got de best ob everyting. 
 You wears de best ob clos; you eats ob de fat ob de Ian'. 
 We 'uns, field niggers, hab de rags, de con pone, an' de 
 lash. Oh, you go 'long. I 'se foh de Yanks, all de time. 
 
 Schack. Heah him, heah him. Oh, you ornary cuss. 
 De Mass' ought to take dat out you black hide wid de 
 whip. 
 
 Second Slave. Got to cotch me fust. Onct de nigger 
 went to de Norf ; now de Norf comes to de nigger. Onct 
 de nigger run; now de Massa run. Yes, sah, dat's de 
 fact. 
 
 Schack, Dis talk is disgustin'. You poh debil, you 
 
n8 Lost and Won. 
 
 do n't know what you talk 'bout. You wants to leab your 
 kind massa an' your warm home for de cold Norf, yer 
 does, wha' de snow an' ice makes nigger ob no 'count. 
 I 'se bin in de Bah family de richest an' grandist family 
 in all Virginy man an' boy, nigh onto seventy year, an' 
 please de Lawd, I means to die under dar roof. Ef de 
 wus' comes to de wus', I shahed dar prosperity an' I'll 
 shah dar troubles. 
 
 Second Slave. Aint much left to shah, Schack, wid 
 'em. You's ole, Schack. 
 
 Schack. Yes, I 'se ole, an' I 'se grown ole in dar ser- 
 vice. Mass' Barr an' me played togedder as chilern. 
 My mudder was his mammy, an' I 'se too ole to turn 
 ornary and bite de han' dat git me bread. I 's sick ob 
 you, you poh trash. 
 
 Second Slave. Dem hard words don't hurt. Thar's 
 ole Doctah Jeff. Stan' back, niggers, ole Jeff sees de 
 Lawd. (OLD JEFF comes solemnly forward and gazes off.) 
 Jis ye look at him. Get yer eye on de colored prophet 
 ob de Lawd. What is it, Jeff? 
 
 Jeff. (After a roar of artillery in the distance.) It's de 
 Lawd proclaiming freedom to de oppressed on de moun- 
 tains an' in de valleys. He says in thunder: "No moh 
 chains and whips foh his chilern." De poh slave fled 
 from de oppressor. He followed de norf star by night 
 an' hid in the swamps by day ; now de norf star comes to 
 
Lost and Won. 119 
 
 de poh slave in de day time, and de thunder ob de Lawd 
 says: "Bewah!" (Artillery as before.'} (Sings): 
 
 Dah 's light upon de mountains 
 
 Sing, Oh, de Jubalee; 
 'T is de coming ob de Savior 
 
 To set de darkey free. 
 He takes burden from de sholdah 
 
 An' de shackles from de han'; 
 Dah 's light upon de mountains 
 
 An' freedom in de Ian'. 
 
 Chorus Sing, Oh, sing de Jubilee. 
 
 Oh, hurry up good Savior and set 
 de darkey free. 
 
 ( Union soldiers in the distance sing a verse from John 
 Brown.) 
 
 (JEFF sings): 
 
 Oh, harken to de voices 
 
 A 'ringing in de a'. 
 'T is de comin' ob our Moses, 
 
 An' he tells 'em to bewah. 
 We has waited long in sorrow, 
 
 We's toilin' in de night; 
 But do n't you see de morrow 
 
 A breakin' into light ? 
 
 (Chorus as before, answered by Union soldiers. After, a 
 negro dance). 
 
 Enter BUCKTHORN, cracking a whip. 
 Buckthorn. You black devils, stop this racket. Slope, 
 I say. (Cutting among them.) The Yanks may set you 
 
120 Lost and Won. 
 
 free ; but, until they do, I 'm master here. Get to your 
 quarters, you lazy snakes. 
 
 Old Jeff. But, Massa Buckthorn 
 
 Buckthorn. Not another word, or I '11 break your 
 damned infernal jaw. Off, I say. (Drives them off with 
 whip. Looks off.) The Yanks have covered the river in 
 spite of Colonel Randolph's guns. They '11 soon be here, 
 and then good-bye Barr Hall and my pleasant business of 
 whaling niggers. I wonder what the old man is about ; 
 been busy as the devil all night with that English agent 
 and his lawyer. Thought at first 't was the police after 
 me, and so I watched. Saw the Bull give the old man a 
 pile that he handled as if it was very precious. What is 
 he up to? Hello, here he's coming with his son and 
 that pretty daughter. I'll watch a little longer. (Steps 
 behind tomb.) 
 
 Enter HAMILTON BARR, BESSIE, and YOUNG BARR, the 
 latter in new Confederate uniform. 
 
 Elder Barr. I have brought you here, my children, 
 that you may be parties to and witnesses of a business of 
 vital importance to us all. It can not be delayed. The 
 Union army approaches, and you, my son, leave us to- 
 night. 
 
 Young Barr. Yes, my father. I must hasten to re- 
 port to my General and with the unpleasant news that 
 
Lost and Won. 121 
 
 the Yankees have forced the passage of the river. They 
 will soon be here. What will you and Bessie do, 
 father? 
 
 Elder Barr. Remain quietly at home. I suppose 
 the Federal General in command is a gentleman and will 
 give us protection. But time presses and I have a matter 
 of vital importance to communicate. This war, appealed 
 to by the South, will end disastrously to the South. 
 
 Young Barr and Bessie. Oh, father ! 
 
 Elder Barr. I know it is hard to say, but my head 
 is not disturbed by prejudice nor passion. The South 
 will hurl itself with frantic courage against the inevitable. 
 It calls a wrong its right and attempts to fling back the 
 civilization of a thousand years. Sustaining this wrong 
 we have weakened in peace, while the North grew strong. 
 We appeal to arms with an enemy we have fattened, 
 while we lost strength, and in this war against civilization, 
 humanity and brute force, the South will go down with 
 nought left in memory of a lost cause but the high 
 courage of a desperate one. 
 
 Young Barr. Why then should I go out to battle for 
 a wrong and a defeat ? 
 
 Elder Barr. Because you are a Virginian, and when 
 in the clash of arms the Old Dominion calls to her sons, 
 they can not pause to question right or wrong. 
 
 Young Barr. I can not believe the courage and de- 
 
 TI 
 
122 Lost and \tfon. 
 
 votion of such sons, in repelling an invasion of hired ruf- 
 fians, will go for naught. God is with us. 
 
 Elder Barr. We have slept away our strength. My 
 son, have you thought that the uniform you wear was 
 manufactured in Massachusetts? Your pistols came from 
 Connecticut. Your very boots were made in some New 
 England village. The sword you are to wear, and be 
 proud of, was wrought in New Jersey, and, Oh, my son, 
 should you fall, your coffin itself, if you are so fortunate 
 as to have one, will be from Pennsylvania. While we 
 have slept in peace on our plantations, supported by .a 
 remnant of barbarism, called slavery, the world has swept 
 by us, and now we waken in wrath to offer our naked 
 breasts to inevitable ruin. 
 
 Young Barr. And we will make the march of the 
 invaders a highway of human bones, and about every 
 bier of a Southern soldier pile a monument of dead. 
 
 Elder Barr. Go, my son. To do your duty you 
 have given bond in being a Barr and a Virginian. May 
 Heaven protect you. Before we part let me say to you 
 that, believing this cruel war will end in ruin to our side, 
 I have converted all my property into money and English 
 securities. It was my intent to go with sister to Europe 
 with them, but the lines have closed in on us so suddenly 
 that I can not hope to escape at present. But I have 
 thought of a safe deposit where they can remain until 
 
Lost and Won. 123 
 
 opportunity for removal offers. In this tomb of our 
 fathers I will conceal this wealth. Should aught unfor- 
 tunate occur to me, it is well you should know the place 
 where it is to be found. (Unlocks door of tomb; enters 
 with YOUNG BARR and BESSIE. BUCKTHORN steals in and 
 looks at them. 
 
 Buckthorn. So, so, hiding his money. I have it. I 
 see my way out. Now for a Yank to help me move the 
 deposits. (Exit.) 
 
 Re-enter from tomb ELDER and YOUNGER BARR and BESSIE. 
 
 Elder Barr. There, I feel relieved. We can now go 
 our several ways in safety, for no one will think to dis- 
 turb the dead, and, if so, the treasure will yet remain 
 concealed. (Enter AMOS ADZE, prepared for travel.) 
 What, Amos, you prepared to leave? 
 
 Amos. Yes, sir, with a heavy heart. The hour is on 
 us when I must take sides in this awful conflict, or, like 
 a coward, get beyond its hearing. 
 
 Young Barr. And, my adopted brother, you go with 
 me to repel these invaders ? 
 
 Amos. No, my brother. I have thought of all you 
 urged, and the same motive that animates you influences 
 me. You take up arms for your State, and the same duty 
 calls me to mine in the cold North. I am, you know, a 
 native of New England ; I first drew breath in the moun- 
 
124 Lost and Won. 
 
 tains of Vermont. They are all my kin. I am not 
 native here. 
 
 Young Barr. Nor a true son by adoption ! Your 
 State is not invaded. 
 
 Amos. Pardon me. When Virginia strikes at the 
 Union she invades Vermont. The flag we follow, that you 
 would trail in the dust, is the flag given us by our fathers, 
 and, like the broad heavens above, covers all the land. 
 
 Young Barr. Ingrate ! Is this the return made us 
 for the nurture and care given you from your childhood ? 
 A beggar, dependent on my father's bounty ! 
 
 Bessie. Oh, Charles! 
 
 Elder Barr. For shame, my son ! Recorded obliga- 
 tions cease to be gifts. The truly noble 'take no account 
 of favors bestowed. 
 
 Young Barr. But this is life or death. The hired 
 ruffians invade our soil, and seek over our bodies to 
 desolate our homes, and an adopted son 
 
 Elder Barr. Is not to be judged by us. There is a 
 higher tribunal to which we must appeal. Let such judg- 
 ment condemn, and condemn it will one side or the other. 
 
 Young Barr. I forgot your presence, sir, and ask 
 your pardon. 
 
 Elder Barr. You forgot yourself. Under no circum- 
 stances can a true Virginian cease to be a gentleman. 
 This lad is yet under our roof and shares our salt. 
 
Lost and Won. 125 
 
 Young Barr. Your hand, Amos. We have not yet 
 grasped the weapon that is to shed our blood. Forgive me. 
 
 Amos. With all my heart. 
 
 Young Barr. Come, sister, my sword. 
 
 Bessie. I will buckle it on. Oh, my brother, may 
 Heaven send you safe again to us. (Weeps). 
 
 Young Barr. I go with all my heart, an officer to 
 offer my life for a holy cause. 
 
 Amos. And I as a private to sustain the flag your 
 fathers, as well as mine, gave us as a sacred trust. 
 
 Bessie. I have no sword for you, Amos. 
 
 Amos. I must win before I can wear one. Farewell. 
 (To elder Barr.} I lack the words to fit the feelings of 
 my heart for all you have done for the widow and orphan. 
 
 Elder Barr. I but did my duty, boy, no more. Go 
 you to yours by such lights as to you seem best. Fare- 
 well, my sons. (Exit YOUNG BARR to right; AMOS to left.) 
 A cruel war that sends thus into hostile ranks two brothers 
 of one race, if not one blood ! Come, my child, the old 
 and the young, feeble alike, are left to suffer in their 
 lonely homes, there to await the desolation that comes of 
 death. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Enter BUCKTHORN, followed by CAPTAIN LACY. 
 Lacy. Come, now, my man. I go no further. What 
 is it you have to communicate ? 
 
126 Lost and Won. 
 
 Buckthorn. No need to travel off this spot. See that 
 old tomb ? 
 
 Lacy. Quite plainly. 
 
 Buckthorn. The rebel who owns, or did own, all this 
 part of the country, has turned his lands, niggers, and 
 cotton into cash, and hid it there. 
 
 Lacy. You infernal scoundrel, would you have me 
 rob the grave ? 
 
 Buckthorn. Hard words, Captain, and a little incon- 
 sistent. You came out to kill and hesitate to plunder. 
 You will leave a million to help on the rebellion. 
 
 Lacy. True enough. It is my duty to seize this 
 wealth and turn it over to the government. 
 
 Buckthorn. Why, certainly. Seize first and turn it 
 over afterward. I '11 assist in this good work. ( Wrenches 
 open door with bar, and both enter.] 
 
 Enter HELEN. 
 
 Helen. What can my handsome Captain be doing in 
 that old tomb? (Looks in.) He and another are digging. 
 What can it mean? They come. (Hides behind tomb.} 
 
 Re-enter LACY and BUCKTHORN. 
 
 Buckthorn. Your troops approach. I must not be 
 caught here. Farewell, most noble Captain. We will 
 meet again when you have turned that million over to the 
 
Lost and Won. 127 
 
 government. Do n't fail in that, the government is so 
 poor. (Exit hurriedly, stooping as if to avoid observation.) 
 
 Lacy. (Looking at securities). A million, he said, and 
 I hold it in my hand. May make it mine. The gathered 
 accumulation of many toilsome lives, and mine by one 
 easy act. I hold ease, power, luxury in my hand and am 
 lifted from mean privation. Shall I ? (HELEN, unseen by 
 him, touches his arm. He starts.) Damnation ! how you 
 startled me ! 
 
 Helen. A soldier, and afraid ? 
 
 Lacy. What are you doing here ? 
 
 Helen. I followed you to the camp ; I followed you 
 to the grave. There 's devotion for you ! 
 
 Lacy. Your following is a bore. I am being laughed 
 at. I am weary of it. I shall make complaint and have 
 you sent back through our lines. 
 
 Helen. No! you will not, my handsome Captain. 
 When you return me through the lines, you turn that 
 million over to the government. Make yourself mine 
 and you make that million your own. It is my marriage 
 portion. 
 
 Lacy. You tempt me to crime. 
 
 Helen. As you have tempted me. Turn about is fair 
 play. 
 
 (A roll of drums is heard, with roar of artillery. A 
 bright light illumines the stage. ) 
 
128 Lost and Won. 
 
 Lacy. The rebels burn their stores and are in full 
 retreat. Our troopers advance. Come, girl. (Exeunt.} 
 
 The tramp of soldiers heard. A band plays the ' ' Red, 
 White, and Blue." Union forces march in upon the left, as 
 a crowd of slaves, men, women, and children, rush in from 
 the right and fall upon their knees. Tableau. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE: Garden to a cottage. Hudson and Palisades seen in the 
 distance. Cottage on the right and a few rustic seats and flowers. 
 Old Schack discovered watering flowers. 
 
 Schack. Well, well, dis am a comin' down, shu 'miff. 
 De Bah family had a hundred niggers, chariots and 
 coaches, wuk hosses and race hosses ; 'bakker in Virginy, 
 cotton at the Souf ; a house of fifty rooms and barrels ob 
 money. All come to lib in a mean house like dat an' 
 amost dependin' on Schack for dar daily bread. Foh de 
 Lawd, I doan know how long dis thing goin' to las', I 
 doan. Dese heah credtors gittin' thicker an' thicker ebery 
 day. Heah is de wus ob 'em all. He 's de butcher's 
 agent. Now, ole Schack, brace up. Dis a credtor, dat 
 zasperates de cuss. 
 
 Enter SKINBILL. 
 
 SkinbilL I say, old powder-puff, where is the boss ? 
 
Lost and Won. 129 
 
 Schack. {With dignity). Who you designate as pow- 
 dah puff? Who you terms boss, eh ? 
 
 Skinbill. My eyes ! Aint old Africa dignified ? Why, 
 he carries more dignity to the square inch than an obe- 
 lisk. 
 
 Schack. An' you carries moh dam brass 'an ed make 
 a copper kettle. You is one ob 'em poh debils as is hired 
 to be disagreeable ca'se you is so ornary. 
 
 Skinbill. Well, I aint going to stand here all day 
 swapping sass with a nigger. I want to see this old Vir- 
 ginia gent. Got to have the money or know why. 
 There's the bill and if it aint paid before night, got to sue. 
 We do n't furnish meat for poor old Virginia gentlemen to 
 live on without paying for it, we do n't. 
 
 Schack. You do n't ? Nobody 'specks you ebber did. 
 I'd like to see how you lib. 
 
 Skinbill. I put up at the Brunswick, old coon. Just 
 drop in and I will present you to Mrs. Skinbill and the 
 little Skinbills, and we '11 have a champagne lunch. There 
 comes another bill on legs. 
 
 Enter GROCER. 
 
 Grocer. I say, uncle, can J t you do something for us 
 to-day ? Sorry to trouble you. 
 
 Schack. No trouble in de wor', sah. I was jus' makin' 
 de necessary preparation foh dat, sah. 
 
 Skinbill. Hear him. For cool impudence and dignity 
 
130 Lost and Won. 
 
 I'd back this old darkey against an alderman. Hello, 
 here comes more of us. As Booth says, Come like 
 shadows and so depart, without a shadow of settlement. 
 {Enter creditors.} Welcome, gentlemen. Room for all. 
 The more the merrier. 
 
 First Creditor. I want to see Mr. Barr, and I haint 
 much time to lose, either. 
 
 Schack. Berry sorry, sah ; berry sorry, sah, but Mas' 
 Bah left on de early train foh de city on bizness ob great 
 importance. 
 
 Second Creditor. Believe your lyin', old man. I was at 
 the depot at the early train and I didn't see "Mass' 
 Bah," as you call him. 
 
 Third Creditor. Well, I 've been put off long enough. 
 You have promised me every day now for a month, and 
 making that bill bigger and bigger all the time. 
 
 First Creditor. Let 's raid the house and smoke out 
 the old gent. {They make a move.} 
 
 Schack. Genelmen ! genelmen ! Doan want to git you 
 into any trubble, but doan you go ni dat house. 
 
 First Creditor. Why not ? 
 
 Schack. Why, did n't heah de news ? Did n't ye heah. 
 de awful calamity dat come on dat house ? 
 
 Second Creditor. No, what is it ? Old boss dead ? 
 
 Schack. No, sah; no, sah; dat's not it. Its wus! 
 Why, my younges' chile has taken down wid de small-pox. 
 
Lost and Won. 131 
 
 I 'specs de amb'lance ebery minit. All de family has 
 
 gone to de city. 
 
 Skinbill. Holy Moses ! And I 've been here breathin' 
 
 this old rascal for ten' minutes. I feel as if I was breakin' 
 
 out this minute. (Moving off.) 
 
 First Creditor. Better get out of this ! (All move. ) 
 Schack. Doan be skarred ; I 'se had it afore, genel- 
 
 men. Genelmen, I want dose bills. Anyway shake 
 
 hands. 
 
 Second Creditor. Oh, go to the devil. (All huiry off.} 
 Schack. Yah, Yah, but dey is skarred. Well, well, 
 
 dat angel Gabriel must be kept purty bizzy puttin' down 
 
 my lies an' all tole foh de ole massa. 
 
 Enter AMOS ADZE with lady's work-table. 
 
 Amos. Good morning, uncle Schack. How are the 
 folks to-day ? 
 
 Schack. Dey's purty well, Mr. Amos, purty well, 
 considerin' I introduced de small-pox in de house dis 
 mornin'. 
 
 Amos. What do you mean ? Small-pox ? 
 
 Schack. Yah, yah. I jis did. Now, Mr. Amos, I 
 puts it to you, aint de small-pox a legal offense agin credi- 
 tors ? You can 't take hot water to 'em ; nor set de dog 
 on 'em ; nor shoot 'em wid a shot-gun, but you can say 
 small-pox at 'em an' see 'em run. Yah ! yah ! 
 
132 Lost and Won. 
 
 Amos. I see. Yes, I met them looking decidedly 
 alarmed and one warned me to take care. But, uncle 
 Schack, this will have unpleasant consequences. The 
 Board of Health will be after you, and every one in the 
 village will avoid you. 
 
 Schack. Oh, shaw ! I jis tells it was a false 'larm. 
 Dat it was only vary-lawd. You see ? 
 
 Amos. But are you so pursued by creditors? 
 
 Schack. I is. But, bress your soul, I stand 'tween de 
 family and dis gang and I does it so de family doan know. 
 De ole massa and Miss Bessie 'd go destrackted if dey 
 knew. 
 
 Amos. Poor old man, and has it come to this ? And 
 does he know nothing of these troubles ? 
 
 Schack. Well, he has to know sometimes. You see, 
 dar is a bill gits in in spite of me. An' den he talks about 
 a 'mittance from Washington. I doan know what he 
 means about dat sort ob property. I looks mity close 
 'bout his desk and in his clos' when I brush 'em, an' doan 
 see no 'mittance about. I doan b'lieve, Amos, dat de ole 
 man has a 'mittance. He rather gittin' loose about de 
 head. 
 
 Amos. You mean a remittance, uncle Schack. He 
 has that monthly, I know, but that wont go very far to- 
 ward keeping a family. How do you manage, I can not 
 make out ? 
 
Lost and Won. 133 
 
 Schack. Well, you see, Mr. Amos, de Lawd is good 
 to the poh, and he has put our lines in among de chickens 
 an' de eggs of rich enemies. I has n't lived in ole Virginny 
 an' not know how to charm de chickens an' de eggs into 
 the poh man's pot. 
 
 Amos. Good Lord, uncle Schack, you are not stealing 
 chickens and eggs for the Barr family ? 
 
 Schack. Mr. Amos, I 'se a reasonin' like. I larned 
 from de pulpit dat when de chilern of Isrel was driven 
 from de house ob bondage dey done took wid 'em all de 
 chickens an' de pots an' pans ob de 'pressor. An' de 
 preacher, Mass' Beecher, tells us dat de Lawd approved 
 of dem proceeduns. 
 
 Amos. (Laughing.} I hardly think the cases parallel. 
 
 Schack. Doan know 'bout de parlels, but dem Yanks 
 cumd down in our Ian' and jis gobbles up ebery ting. 
 Why, bress you soul, honey, but de pigs, chickens an' de 
 turkeys, dey go like snow afore de sun, and dey takes all 
 Mass' Ban's money hid in de ole toomb, an' we can't 
 'talliate. 
 
 Amos. All very well to your mind, uncle Schack, but 
 you better not let Mr. Barr know. 
 
 Schack. Lor' look-ye-heah ! I want born dis mornin'! 
 But I say, Mass' Amos, could you help us a little, nanshally, 
 you know ? 
 
 Amos. I fear not, uncle Schack. I wish I could. 
 
134 Lost and Won. 
 
 But it is as much as I can do to live. When I came out 
 of the war on one leg I had to look about for a living. 
 Find some trade good for wages. I had to steal it. 
 
 Schack. Steal it, Mr. Amos ? 
 
 Amos. Yes, Schack. These labor unions are close 
 corporations and seek to keep up prices by restricting pro- 
 duction. So only a favored few are permitted to learn a 
 trade. 
 
 Schack. Doan clarly see. 
 
 Amos. Well, labor is combined against capital, as 
 capital is combined against labor. Only labor has seized 
 on one of the worst features of capital organization that 
 of forcing a limited supply. 
 
 Schack. Doan understan' dem language. But it do 
 seem to dis chile dat you white folks dat was so ready to 
 fight for de darkey, might fight foh yourselves. 
 
 Amos. Not much good in fighting, Schack. In all 
 the century long war for human rights the people lose 
 through fraud all that they gain through violence. 
 
 Schack. Jis, so ; jis, so ! I has obsarved de same. 
 But tell us how you steal yer trade. 
 
 Amos. I found an old bullet-headed German willing 
 to teach me cabinet making. It was a hard struggle, but 
 I have it at last, and, thank Heaven, I am one of the 
 union, and now we are all on a strike. Uncle Schack, 
 
Lost and Won. 135 
 
 will you place this little workstand in the room of Miss 
 Bessie ? God bless her. 
 
 Schack. To be shu; to be shu. (Exit with table.} 
 
 Enter AUNT HESTER as from a walk. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Bless me, but I am tired. Walked 
 from Fourteenth street to Central depot because I had n't 
 money enough to pay car fare. Ah, Amos, you here ? 
 
 Amos. Yes, Miss Hester. I am but now up from the 
 city. Missed each other by a train. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Dear me, I am sorry. It would have 
 been pleasant to have had your company. It is very un- 
 pleasant, Amos, to be so restricted in money matters as we 
 are. When I think of our profusion in the past and our 
 embarrassment now, I can scarcely believe we are the 
 same people. 
 
 'Amos. I can testify to the difference, Miss Hester. 
 
 Aunt Hester. We had such abundance, so much com- 
 pany, horses, carriages and servants without limit. I was 
 a giddy young thing when brother Barr entertained at his 
 house the entire legislature. Dear me, dear me, how long 
 ago that seems ! There was an elderly gentleman, Senator 
 Shinglepeg, a man of large property, an old bachelor. 
 You do n't remember, Amos ? 
 
 Amos. No, Miss Hester. 
 
 Aunt Hester. No. Why how could you ? You wern't 
 
136 Lost and Won. 
 
 born then. Well, the senator fell desperately in love with 
 me, and asked brother Barr for my hand. Well, well, I 
 could n't abide him. He had a blue tooth and a cast in 
 his eye not much in the way of looks but large property. 
 Amos, I am sorry at times that I did n't shut my eye to his 
 blue tooth and irregular eye. When I see the trouble we 
 are in I am real sorry I did n't shut my giddy eyes to his 
 two defects, for, in the main, barring the tooth and the 
 eye, he was a good man and had a large property. 
 
 Amos. What became of him ? 
 
 Aunt Hester. Why he just went on until he died. But 
 a curious thing occurred one day after I refused him. My 
 refusal seemed to have soured his temper, and, in an alterca- 
 tion with the sheriff, he used some inflammatory language, 
 and the sheriff struck him on the head with a poker. 
 That blow knocked out the blue tooth and straightened 
 his eye. 
 
 Amos. You should have accepted him then. 
 
 Aunt Hester. He did n't propose again. I do n't be- 
 lieve I would have had him anyway. He had n't much 
 hair, but a large property. I was a gay, giddy young 
 thing then, Amos. You would scarcely believe it now, 
 would you, Amos ? 
 
 Amos. I do n't know about being gay and giddy, but 
 my earliest recollections are hearing of the beauty, accom- 
 plishments and fascinations of Miss Hester Barr. 
 
Lost and Won. 137 
 
 Aunt Hester. Dear me, dear me ! Now, Amos, that 
 is very kind of you. Now, I venture to say that, looking 
 at my old face, you would n't believe such stories. Now, 
 would you ? 
 
 Enter SERGEANT BANGS. 
 
 Bangs. (Saluting.} Madam. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Same to you, Sir. 
 
 Bangs. Colonel Lacy's compliments. Will be pleased 
 to call on Miss Barr this morning, if agreeable. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Say, Sergeant, Miss Barr will be pleased 
 to see the Colonel. (Sergeant salutes and exits.) Amos, 
 that absurd creature is no better than a stick. But I must 
 inform Bessie. (Enters house.} 
 
 Amos. Bessie, I love the ground she walks on; the 
 flower she looks at ; the very air she breathes. There 's 
 music in the rustle of her dress and heaven in her voice, 
 and I dare not breathe to her a word of this. A poor 
 devil of a cripple; a mechanic, looking up to such an 
 angel. 
 
 Enter BESSIE from house. 
 
 Bessie. Why, Amos, I am so glad to see you ! I 
 hurried out to thank you for that beautiful little workstand. 
 But you must not do those things, Amos. It is not right. 
 I fear you can not afford it. 
 
 Amos. (Aside.} She little dreams that I lived on one 
 meal a day that I might make it. (Aloud.) Oh, that's 
 
 12 
 
138 Lost and Won. 
 
 nothing, Miss Bessie. Would to God I could do more 
 to show my gratitude to your father. 
 
 Bessie. You exaggerate that service, Amos, and I 
 can not permit you to be impoverishing yourself for our 
 benefit. I am so sorry, Amos (hesitating) 
 
 Amos. For what, Miss Bessie ? 
 
 Bessie. That you selected such a hard calling through 
 which to make a living. Why could n't you take a pro- 
 fession say a lawyer or doctor. You are a man of edu- 
 cation a gentleman, Amos. Why, we looked on you as 
 one of the family. 
 
 Amos. I had no choice. A profession means years of 
 study and years of waiting. I had to find immediate sup- 
 port not only for myself but one I loved. 
 
 Bessie. You love some one, Amos? Tell me all 
 about it. 
 
 Amos. There is not much to tell and I lack the words 
 to tell it. I worship one so far above me that it is profana- 
 tion to breathe her name in that connection. Oh, Bessie 
 I have no hope but in her heart ; no heaven but her love. 
 And, yet, I dare not tell her this. 
 
 Bessie. Why not, Amos ? There is no altar, however 
 lowly, that may not send its incense up and be grateful, 
 let the deity be ever so high. 
 
 Amos. That is all very well in poetry. But, when it 
 
Lost and Won. 139 
 
 comes to real life, the love of a crippled mechanic offered 
 to a lady is an insult. 
 
 Bessie. In old Virginia that was the condition. But 
 here, Amos, where it is claimed that all honest labor is 
 honorable, it must be different, and, to tell you the truth, 
 my foster brother, this adversity in which we are plunged 
 has taught me lessons. 
 
 Amos. (Eagerly.) And could you listen to a suit from 
 such a source a suit from a " greasy mechanic," a "mud- 
 sill," as we call them ? 
 
 Bessie. (After a pause.) I do n't know. I fear not. 
 You see training and early prejudices get to be a second 
 nature much would depend on the oleaginous individual 
 himself. Now, if he were like you, my brother 
 
 Amos. Like me. Oh, Bessie ! 
 
 Enter COLONEL LACY. 
 
 Lacy. A pleasant morning to you both. Miss Barr, 
 you add sunlight to the house and fragrance to the garden. 
 I am only happy when I bask in both. 
 
 Bessie. Colonel Lacy, you shame me with such 
 speeches. 
 
 Lacy. Because your modesty adds grace to your 
 loveliness. By the by, Amos, I was about to send for 
 you. I have some work in your line I wish to consult you 
 about. Can you not come to my house on your return to 
 the city? 
 
140 Lost and Won. 
 
 Amos. With pleasure. Now, I will see Mr. Barr. 
 
 Bessie. Do so, Amos, you will find him in our little 
 breakfast room. 
 
 Amos. (Aside.} She smiles upon my superior officer, 
 of course, and yet I came near telling her all. (Exit.} 
 
 Lacy. Now, my dear Bessie, have you thought on 
 what I proposed when last we met ? 
 
 Bessie. Thought and thought, until it seemed as if I 
 would go wild. I can not yet see my way clear. 
 
 Lacy. Were you to follow your loving little heart, 
 would it not lead you out ? 
 
 Bessie. That is precisely where I fail. My loving 
 little heart, as you call it, will not move. My poor head 
 has to work alone. 
 
 Lacy. You can not love me not the heart. 
 
 Bessie. (Shaking her head.} Colonel Lacy, I like 
 you, I respect you, but all the love my heart can give is 
 absorbed by my father my poor old father. 
 
 Lacy. Therein lies my hope. In marrying you, my 
 beautiful girl, I not only lift all care from his troubled 
 heart, but place him in the ease to which his age and 
 honors entitle him. 
 
 Bessie. It is very tempting, Colonel Lacy. We are 
 very, very poor, and while I, young and strong, can bear 
 this want, it is carrying his bent form and gray hairs in 
 
Lost and Won. 141 
 
 sorrow to the grave. Oh, I could say, take me, take me, 
 and help my father. But 
 
 Lacy. What, my love ? 
 
 Bessie. I fear you can not gain his consent, and I 
 can not wed without that. 
 
 Lacy. Have you spoken to him ? 
 
 Bessie. Dear me, no. But, observing your attentions, 
 he has dropped words from time to time that indicate any- 
 thing but favor. 
 
 Lacy. Of course, my darling. You are as sacred in 
 his eyes as you are in mine. He has been looking into 
 my life and finds it shocking. 
 
 Bessie. And have you been so bad ? 
 
 Lacy. Too bad for such an angel as you are. But a 
 chance should be given it is given for reformation. Do 
 you remember that beautiful passage in Holy Writ where 
 the blind cripple heard the Savior passing and cried out 
 to be taken to him ? To every man once in his life the 
 Savior passes. I see mine going by. Ah, my love, you 
 hold in the hollow of your little hand my better destiny. 
 Turn from me and I am lost. 
 
 Bessie. I do like you. I believe in you. I 
 
 Lacy. Your father comes. May I address him now ? 
 
 Bessie. Oh, no, not now. Wait. I am so confused. 
 
 Lacy. Walk this way and think of it. {Exeunt.} 
 
142 Lost and Won. 
 
 Enter HAMILTON BARR and AMOS. 
 Barr. I am glad to hear of some response to my offer 
 of twenty-five thousand dollars reward for a clue to that 
 lost money. I can not and will not give up the hope of 
 regaining at least some of it. A part of those securities 
 were numbered and recorded. They have never been 
 used, for they may be traced. 
 
 Amos. I got this note through the post. It hints at 
 some information. See. (Reads.) " If Mr. Amos Adze 
 will grant an interview with the undersigned, he will learn 
 something of the lost property for which Mr. Hamilton 
 Barr offers a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars. Beck- 
 with, detective No. 10, etc." I answered, asking him to 
 come here this morning. He ought to have reported ere this. 
 
 Enter SCHACK. 
 
 Schack. Dar is a genelman at de doar askin' foh Mr. 
 Amos Adze, sah. 
 
 Barr. Tell him to walk this way. 
 
 Schack. Yes, sah. 
 
 Barr. Bless, my soul, Amos, I am getting old and 
 dim-sighted, but that man approaching is 
 
 Amos. Your former overseer, Buckthorn. What can 
 he want ? 
 
 Barr. No good. I always detested him, and have 
 
Lost and Won. 143 
 
 had for some unknown reason suspicion that he had some- 
 thing to do with that theft. 
 
 Enter BUCKTHORN. 
 
 Buckthorn. Morning, gentlemen. You seem surprised 
 to see me and I am very glad to see you both at last. 
 
 Barr. (Stiffly.} Well, sir, and what can I do for 
 you? 
 
 Buckthorn. It is n't what you can do for me, but what 
 I can do for you, that brought me here. I am Beckwith, 
 detective. 
 
 Barr. We know you as Buckthorn, overseer. 
 
 Buckthorn. I took that name when I entered that 
 business. 
 
 Barr. Ashamed of the old one ? 
 
 Buckthorn. No, sir; on the contrary, too proud of it. 
 I am of a good English family, sir, fallen into decay, and 
 when I stooped to such a degradation as that of overseer, 
 I left the name behind. 
 
 Barr. The man who seeks to save a name while de- 
 grading himself, lets go the substance that he may cling to 
 a shadow. But what is your business with us? 
 
 Buckthorn. You lost a large sum of money on the 
 occupation of your place by the Union army. You offer 
 twenty-five thousand dollars reward for its recovery. 
 
 Barr, True. 
 
144 Lost and Won. 
 
 Buckthorn. I believe I have a clue. 
 
 Barr. What is it ? 
 
 Buckthorn. On that night I happened near the old 
 tomb where the money was concealed, and I saw a man 
 in the uniform of a Federal officer coming from it, and, 
 as the door was forced open, I naturally concluded that 
 he was the thief. 
 
 Barr. And in all these years you have not communi- 
 cated these facts to me ! 
 
 Buckthorn. I did not know of the loss, and, when I 
 did hear of it, I could not find you. 
 
 Barr. True, I came North to realize on a small prop- 
 erty left my child by a relative. And this man ? 
 
 Buckthorn. Was and is a stranger to me. I have 
 never seen him since. 
 
 Barr. Well, I must say Mr. Buckthorn, or Beckwith, 
 this is a very dim clue. Among the million of men mak- 
 ing up that army one man is the needle in a hay-stack. 
 The fellow may have been killed. 
 
 Buckthorn. He did not take all that money with him 
 to another world. But you may be sure he is alive. No 
 heirs would guard the plunder as he is doing. 
 
 Barr. That is a shrewd surmise, for some of the lost 
 valuables were in English securities, numbered and re- 
 corded. On that I base my hopes. What do you propose 
 doing ? 
 
Lost and Won. 145 
 
 Buckthorn. I thought if Mr. Adze here, who joined 
 the Federal forces that night, could give the number and 
 name of that regiment which first arrived, I could proba- 
 bly find my man. I would know him were I to meet him 
 again. 
 
 Barr. How about that, Amos ? 
 
 Amos. I fear it would be of small service. The first 
 brigade that made the crossing pushed on. I suppose, 
 however, we can find by earnest search what Beckwith 
 needs. You have a diary I kept of my life in the army 
 that I bound and presented Miss Bessie. There may be 
 some dates of use in it. 
 
 Barr. I know that book. It is on my table. Go 
 with him, Amos, and search for what we need. 
 
 AMOS and BECKWITH enter house ; enter LACY and BESSIE. 
 
 Bessie. (To LACY.) He looks angry and troubled. 
 Had you not better postpone ? 
 
 Lacy. No, now is my opportunity. (BESSIE enters 
 house.} Good morning, Mr. Barr, 
 
 Barr. (Coldly.) Good morning, sir. 
 
 Lacy. I am glad to find you alone. I have a delicate 
 matter to communicate of vital importance to me. 
 
 Barr. Well, sir? 
 
 Lacy. You have doubtlessly observed my attachment 
 for your lovely daughter. 
 
146 Lost and Won. 
 
 Barr. I have observed your attentions, sir. 
 
 Lacy. I am deeply attached and I have reason to be- 
 lieve that it is not unpleasant to her. 
 
 Barr. Colonel Lacy, have you dared to approach my 
 daughter as a suitor for her hand ? 
 
 Lacy. I have. 
 
 Barr. I am amazed ! I am indignant, sir, that you 
 dare commit such an outrage. 
 
 Lacy. I can not see wherein an honorable offer of 
 marriage is such an offense. 
 
 Barr. Colonel Lacy, your offer is not honorable. It 
 is not the act of a gentleman. 
 
 Lacy. Mr. Barr, is it necessary to couch your refusal 
 in an insult ? 
 
 Barr. The insult is in the offer, sir. 
 
 Lacy. I really can not comprehend 
 
 Barr. You are dull, sir, or very designing. I have 
 but one child, Colonel Lacy. My noble boy sleeps at An- 
 tietam in an unmarked grave. All I have to cling to in 
 life is this poor girl. I could not see you so obviously at- 
 tentive without inquiring as to your life, character and con- 
 duct. I have learned enough to shut my humble door in 
 your face. 
 
 Lacy. May I beg to know 
 
 Barr. This is intolerable. You have a wife living 
 a wife you are ashamed of 
 
Lost and Won. 147 
 
 Lacy. That is all wrong. I have no wife 
 Barr. So much the worse for you. Enough of this ! 
 I am an old man, hardly knowing from whence our next 
 meal is to come, but I would rather see my daughter in 
 some man's kitchen, or wearing her life out sewing in a 
 garret, than put her pure soul in the keeping of your pol- 
 luted hands. You have my answer, sir. 
 
 Enter AMOS and BUCKTHORN from house. 
 
 Amos. He got no clue. 
 
 Buckthorn. (Aside, seeing LACY.) By the Lord, here 
 is our man! (Aloud.) But I have. (LACY, turning sees 
 BUCKTHORN, and starts back.) How are you, Captain ? It 
 is sometime since we met. (To COLONEL LACY.) Keep 
 cool, Captain. I am silent as the tomb. 
 
 Barr. You know this man ? 
 
 Buckthorn. (Significantly.) I know him! Yes, and 
 what 's more important, he knows me. We know each 
 other. (Attempts to lay his hand on LACY'S shoulder in a 
 familiar manner?) 
 
 Lacy. Off, you scoundrel ! (Hurls BUCKTHORN to the 
 floor. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
148 Lost and Vl^on. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE: Lawn in front of Lacy's house. Across the stage 
 back runs a wall with door in it. Wall just high enough to 
 show the tops of horses' heads. House, with fancy entrance, to 
 the right. Rustic tables, chairs, settees, etc. 
 
 Enter SCHACK with sack coat on ; pushes a chicken in and 
 steals across. 
 
 Schack. Now, ef I kin git past dis house widout ob- 
 servation, I 'se all right. Got a truly good lay out dis 
 time. (Enter LACY and AMOS from house. ) Lor a mity, 
 heah de 'prietor hisself. 
 
 Lacy. Hello, uncle Schack, how are you ? 
 
 Schack. (Edging off.) I 'se purty well, tank 'ee, 
 sah. 
 
 Lacy. How are they at the cottage? Come nearer, 
 man. 
 
 Schack. Ya, ha, take care, sah. I'se got small-pox 
 in my clos', sah. Yah, yah. 
 
 Lacy. Yes, we heard that joke. Come, that laugh 
 was worth a dollar. There it is, Schack. 
 
 Shack. Oh, tank 'ee, sah, tank 'ee. You's mity good 
 to ole Schack, you is. 
 
 Lacy. Why, Uncle Schack, you seem to be loaded 
 down with live stock. How 's this? 
 
 Schack. Yes, sah; yes, sah; was down to de village, 
 
Lost and Won. 149 
 
 sah; seed some nice fowls and eggs, sah; jis buy 'em an' 
 put 'em in dese big pockets. 
 
 Lacy. Let me see what kind of a bargain you were 
 up to, Uncle Schack? (Puts his hand in SchacKs pocket.) 
 
 Schack. (Aside.) Oh, de Lawd ! I 'se a gone coon 
 now, shu nuff. 
 
 Lacy. (Pulling out chicken) Why, Schack, you cer- 
 tainly are not so extravagant as to buy fancy fowls for the 
 table. How many have you got of these, now? 
 
 Schack. Jis foh, sah ; jis foh, sah. 
 
 Lacy. Well, I can't have such lovely birds sacrificed 
 in this manner. Now, Uncle Schack, I will buy them of 
 you. Now, what do you value the fowls at? 
 
 Schack. Well, sah, if dey was de common sort, I 
 'spose dey was worf fifty cents a pair, but de fancy breed, 
 sah, as you say, is valuable. Say foh dollars for de lot. 
 
 Lacy. All right. There, I make it five. Drop them 
 in the stable yard as you go along. 
 
 Schack. All right, sah. I say, I forgot. Miss Bessie 
 say in answer to yer note she and her aunt Hester walk 
 ober dis arternoon. 
 
 Lacy. Thank you. There 's a gold piece for you, 
 Schack. 
 
 Schack. Thank 'ee, sah. (Aside.) I dun sole him 
 his own chickens. Fore de Lawd, but I did perspire. 
 (Exit) 
 
150 Lost and Won. 
 
 Lacy. That poor old man goes about at the risk of 
 his life appropriating poultry for this arrogant old Vir- 
 ginian's table. I wonder if he does not suspect. 
 
 Amos. He is too much lost in his own miseries. 
 
 Lacy. That is true, and too proud and stubborn to 
 permit any one to aid him. You understand, Amos, 
 what I want done within, and, to accomplish it, am will- 
 ing to expend liberally. 
 
 Amos. The house seems perfect to my eyes as it 
 stands, and it seems a pity to pull down and rebuild. 
 
 Lacy. It was constructed before the esthetic craze 
 took possession of our people. We had an order of 
 architecture, peculiarly American, we called the comfort- 
 able. Now, flat, Japanese barbarism is grafted on early 
 English crudity, and what with lilies, storks, sunflowers, 
 and peacock tails, spindle-shanked chairs and tables, we 
 are esthetic as monkeys in purple and fine linen, and 
 about as miserable. 
 
 Amos. Why give into it, Colonel ? 
 
 Lacy. You might as well expect a fish to live out of 
 water as for one to reside inside society and override its 
 whims. No, Amos, go at it. Employ men; knock down; 
 tear out, and build up. You can't go amiss, for the more 
 errors you make the more esthetic we shall appear. 
 
 Amos. All right, Colonel. Your orders shall be 
 obeyed. 
 
Lost and Won. 151 
 
 Enter BANG. 
 
 Bang. {Saluting.) Colonel. 
 
 Lacy. Sergeant Bang. 
 
 Bang. I have to report, a hard looking party outside 
 asks entrance. 
 
 Lacy. Who? 
 
 Bang. Name, sir. (Hands card.) 
 
 Lacy. (Reads.) " Beckwith, Detective." Show 
 the man in. (Bang salutes and exits.) Now, for a scene 
 with my confederate, a hard customer, with iniquity fairly 
 enameled on his ugly face; one of those fellows at war 
 with the world, possessed of enough courage and cunning 
 to keep him in trouble all the time. And I made this 
 scoundrel my equal and partner. (Enter BUCKTHORN.) 
 Well, Mr. Beckwith, have you come to apologize? 
 
 Buckthorn. For being knocked down ? 
 
 Lacy. No, for provoking that breach of good manners ? 
 
 Buckthorn. You do n't remember ; you do n't recog- 
 nize me. 
 
 Lacy. To the best of my knowledge and belief I 
 never saw your intellectual countenance before, and, Mr. 
 Beckwith, I can assure you that I have no wish ever to 
 see it again. 
 
 Buckthorn. Oh, very likely. (Seating himself on table) . 
 I have no question but you would feel more comfortable 
 if I were non est. 
 
152 Lost and Won. 
 
 Lacy. Now, listen to me, Mr. Beckwith, detective, 
 and pay attention to what I say, for it will not be repeated. 
 If you do n't drop that offensive, familiar manner, you 
 will not only be knocked down, but kicked off this place. 
 It is some distance from here to the road. Get off that 
 table and try to behave like a respectable man I won't 
 say gentleman. That is impossible. 
 
 Buckthorn. (Getting off table.} Oh, you 're a cool 
 one. 
 
 Lacy. There it is again. I am not solicitous to 
 know your opinion of me. 
 
 Buckthorn. Should think not. 
 
 Lacy. Once for all, will you drop that, or shall I 
 have you kicked off the place? 
 
 Buckthorn. As you will, Captain Lacy. I will not 
 quarrel with you, if I can help it, Captain Lacy. 
 
 Lacy. I am not Captain Lacy. I left the army a 
 Colonel and Brigadier-General by brevet. I care nothing 
 for my title ; but, since you put such stress on it, you may 
 as well have it correctly. 
 
 Buckthorn. You were a Captain once, when the 
 Union army forced a crossing at Barr's ferry. 
 
 Lacy. I could not well be promoted else. Why 
 Barr's ferry ? 
 
 Buckthorn. There was a strange affair occurred there. 
 I was overseer upon the place of the old gentleman, then 
 
Lost and Won. 153 
 
 very wealthy, now poor and your tenant. On the night 
 of the occupation this old man hid all that was his in the 
 world in the family vault and that night the vault was 
 opened and the money stolen. 
 
 Lacy. I have heard that story before. It is not in- 
 teresting through its novelty. 
 
 Buckthorn. Perhaps I can make it more so. There 
 There was a poor man, somewhat down in the world, 
 living in that locality, who saw the valuables hidden and 
 found a Union officer ready to dig them up, and who did 
 dig and walk off with same. 
 
 Lacy. Well, sir? 
 
 Buckthorn. I saw all this done. 
 
 Lacy. And you dare insinuate 
 
 Buckthorn. Oh, no, Colonel Lacy. I did that once 
 and got knocked down. No danger of my repeating the 
 experiment. Your resemblance to that officer was so 
 striking, that I for a moment forgot myself. 
 
 Lacy. Do n't repeat the offense, then. 
 
 Buckthorn. There is another strange resemblance. 
 
 Lacy. What is it? 
 
 Buckthorn. Not willing to let the Captain off, who 
 had so suddenly grown rich, I lingered round the tomb, 
 and saw my Captain joined by a woman right pretty 
 woman she was in the bright light of burning stores. 
 Her face impressed me. 
 
154 Lost and Won. 
 
 Lacy. Well, proceed. 
 
 Buckthorn. The other day, in my capacity of detec- 
 tive, I was employed by Shyster & Gripp, divorce lawyers, 
 to work up the case of Lacy against Lacy, for an 
 Indiana court. It was no easy job, for Mrs. Lacy knew 
 what she was about in her little pranks, and I had to find 
 good witnesses to swear to what we knew but could n't 
 prove. Do you know, Colonel, that a case against a good 
 woman who is a little imprudent is always easier than 
 against a guilty one ? You see, the guilty one covers her 
 track. 
 
 Lacy. Enough of this. Go on with your story. 
 
 Buckthorn. It makes a very material part of it. We 
 got the divorce. Shyster & Gripp requested me, as I was 
 coming this way, to give you a certified copy of the 
 decree freeing you from the late Mrs. Lacy. 
 
 Lacy. Thanks. But what has all this to do with the 
 lost money of Mr. Hamilton Barr? 
 
 Buckthorn. That is what I am trying to discover. 
 
 Lacy. Well, I can't aid you in that. 
 
 Buckthorn. Do n't believe you will. You see, Col- 
 onel, I did not know Mrs. Lacy when I was employed, 
 but it was necessary that I should know her, and, when I 
 came to see her, I was struck I assure you I was struck 
 I knew that face, and yet, I could not place it. 
 
 Lacv. Well. 
 
Lost and Won. 155 
 
 Buckthorn. Why, Colonel, fancy plays such odd tricks 
 with a man, he isn't safe. I thought you resembled my 
 Union officer, and now your late wife seems to be that 
 identical woman. 
 
 Lacy. And you return by another road to that in- 
 famous charge. You dare assert 
 
 Buckthorn. Oh, no, Colonel. I know I must be 
 mistaken. A gentleman of your high position could 
 never stoop to such a theft, and then keep the poor eld 
 man and his starving family hanging on the little end of 
 desperation. I ask your pardon. I must be crazy. I 
 will at once set myself free of the delusion by asking the 
 late Mrs. Lacy. She won't like you or me much after 
 what we have done to her, but I guess she '11 blurt out the 
 truth. 
 
 Lacy. Mr. What is the name? (Looking at card.) 
 Beckwith, detective, you have executed your business 
 here. Now, there is the avenue to the road and the road 
 to the station. The sooner you start and the more rapidly 
 you travel the better for all parties. 
 
 Buckthorn. Thank you, Colonel; thank you. If you 
 should ever want me, my address is on the card. 
 
 Lacy. I shall never need you; the police may. 
 (Buckthorn starts.) Now, go. (Exit BUCKTHORN). I 
 am running close upon a lee shore. The word of that 
 fellow is not worth heeding, but supplemented by Helen's 
 
156 Lost and Won. 
 
 would be ruin. Nothing can save me but an immediate- 
 elopement and marriage with Bessie, the little angel. 
 (Enter BANG, followed by BESSIE and AUNT HESTER.) 
 
 Bang. Colonel. 
 
 Lacy. Sergeant. 
 
 Bang. The ladies. 
 
 Lacy. Show Miss Hester the grounds and gather a 
 bouquet from the conservatory, Sergeant, while I enter- 
 tain Miss Barr. 
 
 Bang. All right, Colonel. Orders from headquarters, 
 Miss. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Which I am supposed to obey ? 
 Bang. Regulations, Miss. (Exit with Aunt Hester.} 
 
 Lacy. It was very good of you, my love,. to accord 
 me this interview. It may be our last. 
 
 Bessie. Our last? 
 
 Lacy. I made my humble appeal to your father this 
 morning, and had it met with a refusal couched in an 
 insult, so grave that I can not approach him again. 
 
 Bessie. My father? I can't comprehend. I can un- 
 derstand why he should skrink from parting with me, his 
 only child, but why he should insult you is strange. 
 
 Lacy. Not when you are possessed of the facts. 
 Your father was right in his refusal, and it does not lie in 
 my mouth to complain of the insult. 
 
Lost and Won. 157 
 
 Bessie. And why ? 
 
 Lacy. Because it was and is deserved. I am all un- 
 worthy of you, "my angel. The man who offers you a 
 home should be above reproach, and that home should be 
 as pure as heaven. 
 
 Bessie. Are you so wicked, Edmund. 
 
 Lacy. I never knew how wicked until I read it by 
 the light of your innocent love. I knew that part of the 
 dark story would be told you, and I could not bear to 
 have it come from hostile lips that would make it darker 
 than it is. I asked to see you that I might confess all, 
 plead forgiveness, and go my way to poverty and shame 
 with the one comfort of your forgiveness. 
 
 Bessie. Poverty and shame ? 
 
 Lacy. Yes, for I must make restitution, and that 
 leaves me poor indeed, for it robs me not only of wealth, 
 but a good name. 
 
 Bessie. You shall not do this. Surely repentance 
 need not be accompanied with such a penalty. 
 
 Lacy. It needs full restitution, and if in the confes- 
 sion I can save myself from your contempt, it is all I ask. 
 
 Bessie. I will not hear it. You have given me your 
 love, and, in so doing, prohibited my being your judge. 
 Let me deal frankly [with you as you seek to deal with me. 
 I do not love you. I do n't know how to express myself 
 I like you; I respect your every act. Your every 
 
158 Lost and Won. 
 
 word deepens that respect until I am willing to trust my all 
 to your keeping, and, I am ashamed to say it, I lift my poor 
 old father in doing so from the distress that is killing him. 
 
 Lacy. You force me, dear girl, to tell you all. 
 
 Bessie. Oh, no. Let the dead past rest in its grave. 
 I accept your present; I trust your future. 
 
 Lacy. You can not accept or trust until I tell you all, 
 for the dead past will not down. The gaunt apparition 
 will leave the altar at your side and come between when 
 too late for any exorcism of mine. 
 
 Bessie. As you will. (Seats herself; LACY walks to 
 and fro agitated.) 
 
 Lacy. The night of the occupation of your dear old 
 home in Virginia your father lost, through a vile theft, all 
 he possessed on earth. 
 
 Bessie. I know. 
 
 Lacy. I am that thief. 
 
 Bessie. (Starting ///.) Edmund Lacy ! 
 
 Lacy. Hear me. Your father's overseer led me to the 
 spot; dug up and gave me the money. Up to that mo- 
 ment my life had been honest and honorable. I could kill 
 for my country, I thought; I could not plunder for my- 
 self. The temptation was too great. I fell. (She sits 
 again, covering her face with her hands.) I see you shrink 
 in shame. It is my punishment. I am man enough yet 
 to bear it. It is my worst. 
 
Lost and Won. 159 
 
 Bessie. This is horrible ! 
 
 Lacy. Years after, when I found you and your father 
 stripped to want through my sin, I strove hard to com- 
 promise my iniquity by aiding him. Your father's stub- 
 born pride stood in the way. I could only get him to ac- 
 cept the little cottage on this place at a nominal rent. I 
 saw you ; I loved you. 
 
 Bessie. Why not, through that love, make restitution 
 without this horrible confession ? 
 
 Lacy. I had made that impossible. Hear me out. 
 The worst is yet to come. A girl, a camp follower, wit- 
 nessed my crime. To close her mouth, I made her my 
 wife. 
 
 Bessie. (Starting up.) And you dared add insult to 
 injury by offering me your hand 
 
 Lacy. Ah, no. This woman freed herself of the re- 
 straint that marriage imposed. It was not until I was free 
 of her that I ventured to approach you. The grave, 
 indignant face of your dear father awakened me to the 
 hopeless folly of such an attempt. 
 
 Bessie. And you are free ? 
 
 Lacy. There is the decree granting the divorce. I 
 am free of her, but I am not free to approach you. 
 
 Bessie. And now ? 
 
 Lacy. To-night I will confess to your dear father as I 
 have confessed to you ; return him all, to the last cent, 
 
160 Lost and Won. 
 
 with interest, his lost property, and to-morrow go forth a 
 ruined and disgraced man. (After a pause?) Miss Barr, 
 I will recall your companion and bid you good-bye. 
 
 Bessie. Not yet. Let me think. This revelation has 
 been so sudden, so terrible, I can not grasp it. Let me 
 consider for a moment. (After a pause.} I have resolved, 
 Edmund, you shall not do this thing. I can not consent 
 to such a sacrifice. That cruel war so confused all sense 
 of right and wrong, your act loses half its evil. You are 
 generous in your offer of self-sacrifice, and if my little 
 hand can save you, I stretch it out to you. 
 
 Lacy. Bessie, my darling, my savior ! But your 
 father will never consent to this. 
 
 Bessie. Yes, if we wait long enough to win his ap- 
 proval. 
 
 Lacy. There is too much peril in the waiting. 
 
 Bessie. You fear me ? 
 
 Lacy. Yes; a little reflection cooler thought, your 
 very self-respect will come between and drive us apart. 
 Ah, my darling, better never to have tendered the hope, 
 than to follow it with disappointment. I could have 
 given you up before. I can not now. 
 
 Bessie. What would you ? 
 
 Lacy. Have you wed and win approval after. I 
 would secure you past all doubt. 
 
 Bessie. Is not this selfish ? 
 
Lost and Won. 161 
 
 Lacy. Beyond question, selfish. You offer life to a 
 dying man; hope to the condemned; succor to one 
 drowning, and I grasp the little hand till it pains you. 
 Oh, my angel, trust me, believe in me; give me con- 
 trol ! 
 
 Bessie. I do; I will. 
 
 Lacy. To-night your father visits the city on business 
 that will detain him till late. I will come to the cottage; 
 take you to my carriage, and when he returns, it will be 
 to find us man and wife. 
 
 Bessie. Poor father; but it is for his good. I shall 
 expect you, and may heaven grant that I shall never 
 regret what I am doing. (Coach Jwrn heard without.} 
 What is that? 
 
 Lacy. Philip Fitzpoodle with his coach. He served 
 notice on me that this would be made a station to-day, 
 and I am to entertain the passengers. 
 
 (Coach drawn by four horses enters back of wall. The 
 heads of horses only are seen, with the top of coach, on which 
 are seated FITZPOODLE, driving, HELEN, LORD TOMNODDY, 
 and one, two, and three ladies; also, one, two, and three 
 gentlemen.} 
 
 Fitzpoodle. (From box of coach} Hillo, the house ! 
 
 Lacy. (Putting on apron and cap.} Hillo, the coach! 
 (Passengers descend as LACY goes out at gate as waiter, bowing 
 to them in old style} This way, ladies and gentlemen, this 
 
1 62 Lost and Won. 
 
 way; you are welcome to Lacy Lodge. (As they enter 
 BESSIE goes out, HELEN staring at her.) 
 
 Fitzpoodle. I say, Ned, you do it up in first rate style ; 
 eh, me lawd? 
 
 Tomnoddy. Remarkably correct, you know. Gad, 
 ye'd think him keeper of a beer house; you would, 
 indeed. 
 
 Lacy. Thanks; be seated, ladies and gentlemen; 
 what shall it be milk or champagne? Don't hesitate. 
 Cost about the same. 
 
 Fitzpoodle. I say iced milk, with plenty of grog and 
 no sugar, is good for a hot day. 
 
 First Gentleman. More milk and less grog, Fitz, if 
 you 're going to drive. Do n't want another excitement, 
 by Jove. 
 
 Lacy. What's that? 
 
 First Gentleman. Last Wednesday Fitz got too much 
 grog aboard, and, tooling through the park, he collided 
 on a family vehicle, and spilled infant Jacobs along for a 
 hundred yards. Then the police got after us, you know, 
 and such a racket ; just tumbled through, and got fined a 
 hundred a piece for damages and violation of ordinance. 
 Don't want any more of that, you know, in mine. 
 
 Fitzpoodle. Can tool the conveyince through all drunk 
 better than any party can sober. Hi '11 take grog; give 
 the ladies champagne. 
 
Lost and Won. 163 
 
 Helen. Bother your slops; give me a glass of beer. 
 
 First Lady. Me, too. 
 
 Second Lady. I ditto. 
 
 Third Lady. I likewise. 
 
 Helen. Unanimous. (BANG and servants serve refresh- 
 ments^) 
 
 Fitzpoodle. Now, let 's have a little turn at lawn tennis 
 while the stock is baiting; then on into town. Come, all 
 of you. (Exeunt all save LACY and HELEN.) 
 
 Helen. What a lot ! What do you think of that ? 
 
 Lacy. A good imitation of a bad original. The cad 
 of London is the swell of New York. We can not be 
 original even in our folly. Now, Nell, to what am I in- 
 debted for this unexpected pleasure of seeing you ? 
 
 Helen. To a judge out in Indiana. I received this 
 morning a solemn looking document that informed me 
 that the partnership heretofore existing between one Ed- 
 mund Lacy and a certain Helen Lacy was dissolved on 
 petition of plaintiff, said Edmund Lacy. Now, Hub, 
 that was mean. 
 
 Lacy. You asked a separation and I granted it. 
 
 Helen. Correct. 
 
 Lacy. And now you complain that I make all this 
 legal. 
 
 Helen. No, I don't. I complain of its being done 
 so hastily and without my knowledge. 
 
164 Lost and Won. 
 
 Lacy. And would your knowledge have made any 
 difference ? 
 
 Helen. Some little. You stole into an Indiana court 
 and stuffed the chaste ears of the learned judge with a 
 pack of lies respecting my virtuous character. 
 
 Lacy. Correct. 
 
 Helen. I was about to save you all that trouble and 
 expense, and you have spoiled my little scheme. 
 
 Lacy. Very sorry. 
 
 Helen. No, you are not. But, like all men, you have 
 muddled the business amazingly, and it was mean. 
 Lacy. How, for example. 
 
 Helen. Edmund, late husband, the only thing beside 
 my beauty that I inherited from poor, but respected 
 parents, whoever they were, was a faculty for keeping my 
 eyes open. With them open I have seen the little game 
 you are playing here. 
 
 Lacy. Indeed ! 
 
 Helen. Pshaw! This palatial residence on the Hud- 
 son, the little cottage attached, the pretty little Bessie 
 Barr in one, Edmund Lacy, late husband in the other. 
 I '11 bet two to one, and no takers, that the sly little 
 puss we met coming in was the inexpressive she going 
 out. 
 
 Lacy. Well? 
 
 Helen. It is far from well. You wish Mrs. Lacy No. 2, 
 
Lost and Won. 165 
 
 young, handsome, and another and a final look to the 
 door of that tomb upon the James. 
 
 Lacy. And why should I seek to make more secure 
 that which is so well sealed ? 
 
 Helen. Is it ? Oh, you near-sighted gentleman ! A 
 quantity of those securities were numbered and recorded. 
 You were foolish enough to hypothecate them in the 
 purchase of this place, A reward of twenty-five thousand 
 dollars is offered, and a description of the missing bonds 
 given. Secure stealing ? You make me smile. I could 
 have aided you, and yet you spoil my little game by 
 throwing me over through an Indiana court, getting a lot 
 of rascals to swear to a lot of lies. I was about to save 
 you that, too. 
 
 Lacy. Your little game ? I do not understand. 
 
 Helen. Of course you do n't. Like all men you 
 have your appreciative mind fixed on yourself, and are 
 oblivious to all others. Edmund, late husband, do you 
 know that I have one vice ? 
 
 Lacy. I beg pardon. I thought to have discerned 
 several. 
 
 Helen. And yet your divorce lawyers had to suborn 
 witnesses to prove one, and that not the real one. Ed- 
 mund, I am ambitious. Old Will says beware of ambition 
 I court it. 
 
 Lacy. Well? 
 
1 66 Lost and Won. 
 
 Helen. I would have my name in every one's mouth 
 on Murray Hill; I would have it in every newspaper in 
 the land. To this end I had arranged to elope with Lord 
 Tomnoddy this very night. 
 
 Lacy. Well, if this is not brutal frankness, I do n't 
 know the article. 
 
 Helen. It was delicious. All fashionable New York 
 is crazy over simple Tom. Mothers fling innocent daugh- 
 ters at his head ; wives run after him, and the men, old 
 and young, bump their empty heads upon the floor in his 
 presence. To-morrow the startled world was to read 
 astounding fashionable news: Lord Tomnoddy, the pet 
 of Murray Hill, has eloped with the beautiful, accom- 
 plished, and fascinating Mrs. Colonel Edmund Alfred 
 Lacy, Colonel Lacy, late of the United States Army. I 
 prepared the notices myself, and they are in the hands of 
 the reporters, and now, you stupid, you have spoiled it all. 
 
 Lacy. I can't see it. You are free to run away- 
 more free than before. 
 
 Helen. You would exasperate a saint ! What have I 
 left to run from. Ridiculous ! A divorced wife ! Why, 
 it would make simple Tom mad and us both ridiculous. 
 No, I must give it up and get in my reports. This is a 
 blunder, Hub, that amounts to a crime. You must be 
 punished. You shall not marry that innocent girl. You 
 must marry me again and give me another chance. 
 
Lost and Won. 167 
 
 Lacy. And if I refuse ? 
 
 Helen. I will run over to the old Virginian and tell 
 him the whole story. 
 
 Lacy. And lose your $5,000 a year. 
 
 Helen. Not a bit of it. In view of the uncertainties 
 of life incident to Wall street, I had that put in securities 
 no wise affected by this what-shall-I-cail-it forced loan 
 from Virginia. 
 
 Lacy. You '11 think better of this. 
 
 Helen. No, I won't. I '11 think worse. 
 
 Fitzpoodle. (Outside.} Hello, Lacy. We want you. 
 
 Lacy. I am called. Wait here a moment. (Exit.} 
 
 Helen. Poor old Ned ! What a muss he has made of 
 it. He must be taught to appreciate my assistance. 
 
 Enter BUCKTHORN. 
 
 Buckthorn. Madam, I have something to say to you. 
 
 Helen. I hope it is not complimentary, for I could 
 not reciprocate. I think you must excuse me you 
 have about the worst face I ever saw. What a get-up for 
 a heavy villian in a melodrama. 
 
 Buckthorn. We must not be seen together. 
 
 Helen. Oh, don't be uneasy. That countenance of 
 yours is any woman's protection. As the politicians say, 
 it might be called a prohibitory tariff. 
 
1 68 Lost and Won. 
 
 Buckthorn. We have no time for trifling. You are 
 a wronged woman most damnably wronged. 
 
 Helen. Oh, thank you for nothing. I have known 
 that for some time. Your information is quite gratuitous. 
 
 Buckthorn. You do n't know the extent of your 
 wrongs. I am Beckwith, the detective. I was employed 
 to blast your character in an Indiana court. 
 
 Helen. You are are you that same scoundrel? And 
 to what do I owe this sudden compunction ? 
 
 Buckthorn. The fact that we can punish the instigator 
 of the offense and divide a cool million between us. 
 
 Helen. Now, you deep-dyed villain, you heavy vil- 
 lain, will you please tell me how this is to be done ? 
 
 Buckthorn. I was the man that saw that treasure 
 buried. I was the man that dug it up and gave it to 
 Captain Lacy. You saw it also. Our joint testimony will 
 force him to disgorge. 
 
 Helen. What a revelation ! 
 
 Buckthorn. There is no time to lose. He has planned 
 an elopement with the old Virginian's only child to-night. 
 That once accomplished and our game is blocked. Where 
 can I meet you in the city. 
 
 Helen. Elope with her? Not much. He must re- 
 marry me. He headed off my elopement; I will spoil his. 
 
 Buckthorn. Quick, madam. They are breaking up. 
 Give me your address. 
 
Lost and Won. 169 
 
 Helen. (Handing card.} There it is. I shall be at 
 home at eight this evening. (BUCKTHORN seizes card and 
 hurries off.) 
 
 Coach comes on as before, winding horn. Enter LORD TOM- 
 NODDY. 
 
 Lord Tomnoddy. Got away from the beastly lot, me 
 gull, to remind you of your promise. Steamer sails to- 
 morrow. My adoration will not disappoint me? 
 
 Helen. I fear I must, me lawd. 
 
 Lord Tomnoddy. Ah, no, naw ! You caunt mean it, 
 and our passages taken and my kit packed ? 
 
 Helen. Caunt help it, me lawd. The elopement is 
 indefinitely postponed. 
 
 Lord Tomnoddy. Naw, look here. Isn't this rawther 
 hard times on a poor devil. I say it is the worst case of 
 jilt I ever knew. 
 
 Helen. Not my fault, me lawd. This beast of a hus- 
 band has gone, without my knowledge, and obtained an 
 Indiana divorce. 
 
 Lord Tomnoddy. What 's that ? 
 
 Helen. A short cut across lots to a legal severance of 
 the marriage knot; very mean, sneaking, and contempt- 
 ible, but effectual.' You can not elope with a divorced 
 woman. That 's ridiculous. You can marry me. 
 
 Lord Tomnoddy. That 's more damnably absurd than 
 15 
 
170 Lost and Won. 
 
 the other. Why, I never knew such a howling cad as 
 this husband, you knaw. I could kick him. (Enter 
 LACY, FITZPOODLE, and crowd. To LACY.) Ah, me deah 
 fellaw, we 've had a jolly good time. We have, indeed. 
 Would like to see you at Castle Barrows to reciprocate 
 your elegant hospitality, you knaw. 
 
 Fitzpoodle. Had a devil of a good time. 
 
 Lacy. Thanks. 
 
 Fitzpoodle. ^\\ aboard. 
 
 Helen. Ta, ta, hubby. (Exit all save LACY; mount 
 coach and drive off, horn sounding.) 
 
 Lacy. Gone at last, thank heaven. Now, for my 
 arrangements. (Enter BUCKTHORN.) Here again ? What 
 did I promise you if you appeared upon this place ? 
 
 Buckthorn. Captain I beg your pardon, Colonel 
 Lacy, you are too hasty. You are in great peril. I can 
 save you. 
 
 Lacy. When my salvation depends on your saving 
 grace may I be damned. 
 
 Buckthorn. But Captain Colonel, I mean. You 
 don't know all. That woman has gone back on you. 
 She is on her way to the city this minute to make com- 
 plaint. Now, give me fifty thousand and I will make it 
 secure. 
 
 Lacy. Not a cent. 
 
 Buckthorn. Say twenty-five. 
 
Lost and Won. 171 
 
 Lacey. Never. Now, go. 
 
 Buckthorn. Say ten. 
 
 Lacy. (Taking out his watch.) Listen, you scoundrel. 
 I give you one minute to get off this place. 
 
 Buckthorn. Oh, look here. Listen to reason. Make 
 it five thousand and a ticket to California. 
 
 Lacy. You have lost two seconds. (Rings bell.) 
 There goes another. 
 
 Buckthorn. (Going.) I'll make you suffer for this. 
 Let us see how you '11 keep it up. 
 
 Lacy. Twenty seconds left. (Exit BUCKTHORN as 
 BANG enters.) Bang, have my carriage at the turn of the 
 road nearest the cottage precisely at eight o'clock to-night. 
 You must drive. Tell John I wish him to remain at home 
 and nurse that sick colt. Do you understand ? 
 
 Bang. All right, Colonel. (Exit. Whistle of train 
 heard.) 
 
 Lacy. If he makes that train he will gain an hour. 
 The next, an express, passes this station without stopping. 
 There he runs across the field. There is a jump of twelve 
 feet. God-send, he breaks his neck ! No, he is over. The 
 devil is kind to his own. He makes the train. An hour 
 to town ; an hour to find Helen ; an hour for the police, 
 and an hour in which to return four hours. I can ac- 
 complish my purpose in that time, if at all. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
172 Lost and Won. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE: Interior of Barr cottage. Glass windows, giving 
 sunset on Hudson. After, moonlight. Room, doors right and 
 left. Bessie discovered sewing. Aunt Hester and Schack. 
 
 Aunt Hester. We want fish for breakfast. Brother 
 Hamilton's appetite is so delicate that it is almost impos- 
 sible to find any thing for him to eat. 
 
 Schack. Its a'most impossible to find any ting foh any 
 ob us to eat. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Oh, as for us, we can eat almost any 
 thing. 
 
 Schack. When we gets 'em. 
 
 Aunt Hester. And Schack, be very careful of that 
 wine Governor Medcalf sent out for your master. 
 
 Schack. Jis' as careful as if it was a suckin' chile. I 
 watches dat wine as a hawk watches a hen roost. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Now, mind ; fresh fish for breakfast. Do 
 them, Schack, in good old Virginia style rolled in corn 
 meal, and fried in fresh butter by a quick fire. 
 
 Schack. Fish an' fresh butter. 
 
 Aunt Hester. What do you repeat that for ? 
 
 Schack. Why, Missus, dar aint a speck of fresh buttah 
 in dis house, and wha' dem fish is to come from de Lawd 
 alone knows. 
 
Lost and Won. 173 
 
 Aunt Hester. That is your business. I told you fresh 
 fish this morning. What are you about, Schack ? 
 
 Schack. About a good many tings. I 'se cook an' 
 chamba'maid. I 'se de vally de shamble to de ole masta. 
 I runs errands an' answers de doah-bell, an' de meantime, 
 'tween 'em all, I mends my wearin' 'parel and cobble my 
 shoes. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Well, you have twenty-four hours a day 
 to do that in. Why grumble ? 
 
 Schack. I aint a grumblin', tho' I does have to stretch 
 dem twenty-foh hours sometimes. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Well, do n't forget the fish. 
 
 Schack. Foh de Lawd. I reads in de Scriptur ob de 
 good Savior feedin' de multitudes on five fish an' five 
 loaves. I 'd like to know how he did it I would. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Schack, this Northern life is fast ruining 
 you. You are actually getting profane. 
 
 Schack. Profane ? I'd like to see de man, white or 
 brack, 'ed carry dis family as I does an' not, at times at 
 times, I say, not allers, but at times let out wickedness. 
 Now, 'bout dem fish. Dar aint no market 'twixt now an' 
 breakfast time, an' I '11 jis' step ober to Colonel Lacy's wid 
 de compliments ob de masta, an' ask foh de loan of three 
 or foh fish out of his fish pon'. Foh de buttah I declar 
 foh de Lawd, I doan know what to do foh dat buttah. 
 Guess I ax foh de loan ob de buttah, also. (Exit, grumbling?) 
 
174 I^st and Won. 
 
 Aunt Hester. That old nigger is getting very trouble- 
 some. I do wish brother Hamilton would employ some 
 one to help him. 
 
 Bessie. Aunt, what Uncle Schack says dear old man 
 is the melancholy truth. He is carrying this family on 
 his old shoulders. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Well, I know he is faithful and indus- 
 trious, and all that, but he is getting so impudent in his im- 
 portance. Why, he talks as if we were dependent on him. 
 
 Bessie. I fear, dear aunt, there is too much truth in 
 what his manner asserts. 
 
 Aunt Hester. What do you mean ? 
 
 Bessie. That to his exertions we owe our daily bread. 
 Oh, aunt, it is too humiliating ! You do n't know. You 
 have n't seen what I am forced to see. This good old 
 man actually steals that we may live. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Bessie, I can't believe this. You are 
 in error, child. 
 
 Bessie. No, no ; I am not. I had proof of it to-day. 
 
 Aunt Hester. But he has means given him. 
 
 Bessie. To buy such food as we have, aunt, he has 
 little or nothing. It is horrible. 
 
 Aunt Hester. What ! a great Virginia family reduced 
 to such degradation ? What can we do ? 
 
 Bessie. (Heavily.} Oh, I don't know. Yes, I do! 
 Colonel Lacy offered father his hand to me in marriage 
 
Lost and Won. 175 
 
 this morning and father refused with insult. I can not 
 understand it. I will sacrifice myself that he may live. 
 I see him failing day by day, his dear head bowed in want 
 and misery. What is my life to his and yours ? I am 
 resolved. 
 
 Aunt Hester. On what, my child ? 
 
 Bessie. To marry him without my father's consent. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Oh, Bessie. 
 
 Bessie. What can we do ? I can not see him dying 
 by inches, his gray hairs going down in sorrow to the 
 grave. I am resolved to act, and act at once. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Do you love this Colonel Lacy ? 
 
 Bessie. I don't know. What matters it? It is my 
 duty to sacrifice myself. I know that he is a gentleman. 
 I can respect him. Indeed, aunt, there is real nobility in 
 his nature. I can see it, if my father can not. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Bessie, be careful. Remember you 
 are a Barr the only child of a noble family. Better 
 abide by your father's decision. 
 
 Bessie. A noble family in rags ! A noble family living 
 on the questionable efforts of an old slave. My father's 
 stubborn pride holds out even before death from want. 
 Oh, no; my way is plain before me. For his sake, for 
 yours, for myself, I go the way my duty points. (Bell 
 rings.} It is Colonel Lacy. Aunt, leave us, please. 
 
 Aunt Hester. Oh, my child, be careful. 
 
176 Lost and Won. 
 
 Bessie. I will; I will. (Kissing her?) Good-night, aunt 
 Aunt Hester. Good-night, my darling. (Exit.} 
 Bessie. I tremble like an aspen. I feel that I am 
 doing wrong. Heaven, help me. 
 
 Enter COLONEL LACY. 
 
 Lacy. I come, my little girl. I come to claim you, 
 my love. Are you yet resolved ? 
 
 Bessie. (After a pause.} Yes; I am a Barr. My 
 promise is as sacred as an oath. I am resolved against 
 my father's will. I disobey that I may save him. 
 
 Lacy. You are right, my darling. Trust me, and if 
 I fail or falter may heaven fail me ! My carriage waits us. 
 A short drive, a little ceremony, and you are mine. Put 
 on your hat and wraps. (Bell rings.} Who can that be? 
 
 Bessie. Surely not my father. He is in the city. 
 
 Enter AMOS ADZE. 
 
 Amos. Uncle Schack informed me that I would find 
 you in. He said nothing of you, Colonel, or I should 
 not have intruded. 
 
 Bessie. No intrusion, Amos. The Colonel and I 
 were about to take a stroll. Will you excuse me while I 
 see my aunt again, and put on my hat ? 
 
 Amos. Certainly. I want a few minutes with my 
 Colonel before I return to town. 
 
Lost and Won. 177 
 
 Bessie. (Aside to Lacy.} He will leave while I am 
 out. (Exit.) 
 
 Lacy. Sit down, Amos. I have a little time at your 
 disposal. 
 
 Amos. Thank you, Colonel. (Sitting.) 
 
 Lacy. What is it, my boy ? 
 
 Amos. I hardly know where or how to begin. 
 
 Lacy. I listen. 
 
 Amos. You know, Colonel, my poor mother, left a 
 widow when T was a boy, was lifted out of want by Mr. 
 Barr, and I was adopted in his family, reared and educated 
 as one of his own. 
 
 Lacy. You have told me as much. 
 
 Amos. We were Northern people, induced to emi- 
 grate South my father as a teacher. He sickened and 
 died, leaving us without bread or shelter. Not long after 
 my poor mother followed, and I lived on, the companion 
 of the two children of my benefactor. The son, my 
 foster-brother, fell fighting for the Southern cause; the 
 daughter is here. You know her, Colonel. 
 
 Lacy. I know her. I worship her. 
 
 Amos. I see, and it is this seeing that makes me 
 speak, Colonel. From the time that I joined your com- 
 pany till I lost my leg at Malvern Hill, you were very 
 kind to me. 
 
178 Lost and Won. 
 
 Lacy. You were too brave a lad too good a soldier 
 not to be loved. 
 
 Amos. I remember your tender nursing when I lay 
 so long lingering between life and death. Colonel Lacy, 
 there is but one being on earth I love better than you. 
 
 Lacy. Yes, Amos. 
 
 Amos. You wo n't laugh when I tell you. I, a poor 
 mechanic and cripple, love Bessie Barr. 
 
 Lacy. Amos ! 
 
 Amos. Love I worship her ! From my earliest boy- 
 hood till the present moment she has been, not my hope, 
 but my star my religion ! 
 
 Lacy. You have told her this ? 
 
 Amos. Never. I did not dream of telling. I dared 
 not. She is so far above that it seems a crime to love her. 
 
 Lacy. Poor boy. 
 
 Amos. But I have watched over I have cared for-- 
 I have guarded and helped her in my poor way. You 
 see, when I came from the hospital, maimed for life, I 
 found my good old benefactor reduced to the direst pov- 
 erty. I managed to turn over to him, under pretense that 
 it was an old Revolutionary claim being paid him, all my 
 pension. Then, by grinding an organ on the corners of 
 the streets and limping into cars to sell ballads, I managed 
 to live until I learned a trade. 
 
 Lacy. What a life j 
 
Lost and Won. 179 
 
 Amos. The thought of my dear old friend ; the love 
 of this sweet lady, kept me up. My trade once secured 
 I felt independent. But I went on. You see these things 
 about here, Colonel ? 
 
 Lacy. The furniture? 
 
 Amos. I made them all, working out of hours, far 
 into the night, that I might make them comfortable. 
 There is not a chair or table but has had worked into it 
 my love of her. The music of her sweet voice I seemed 
 to hear; the holy beauty of her lovely face I seemed to 
 see, cheered me on until I lost all sense of weariness, all 
 want of sleep. 
 
 Lacy. She never knew of this? 
 
 Amos. Oh, Colonel, how could she ? As well ask a 
 bird to stoop and be companion to a clod ; a star to leave 
 its place for a home in a swamp. Save yourself, the secret 
 goes down to be buried in my grave. I had to tell you 
 I knew you loved her. I know that she loves you; that 
 she is to be yours. God help me and I come now to 
 give her away as it were. You and I are not so wide 
 apart. We have been comrades in the face of death. 
 That makes us equal, if you were an officer and I only a 
 private. Take her, Colonel. (Rising.) Be kind to her; 
 I know you will. I go my poor way, now, without my 
 star. I never had hope, but I go without light. It is 
 dreary enough. But it must be. God bless you both! 
 
180^ Lost and Won. 
 
 BESSIE rushes in. 
 
 Bessie. Not so, Amos ! You shall not go ; or, if you 
 do, take me with you ! 
 
 Amos. Bessie, what do this mean ? 
 
 Bessie. It means I love you. I did not know it until 
 now. I heard you; I heard it all. Oh, Amos, take me! 
 
 Amos. (Clasping her in his arms .) Bessie, Colonel, is 
 this a dream ? 
 
 Lacy. Aye, my brave boy, and a dream to last 
 through life! Take him, Bessie; he is worthy of you. 
 Take her, Amos. You have won. (Noise of a carriage 
 heard without; loud knocking, and ringing of bell.) And I 
 have lost. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE: Lacy Lodge, same as in Act II. Schack discovered 
 with basket. Enter Amos and Lacy from house. 
 
 Lacy. Well, uncle Schack, how are you this morning, 
 and how is the family ? 
 
 Shack. Dey is well, sah; dat is, as fah as dey is up. 
 Foh myself, sah, I'se a touch of rheumatiz. 
 
 Lacy. Sorry, Schack. Have you tried St. Jacob's 
 Oil that I gave you ? 
 
Lost and Won. 181 
 
 Schack. Yes, sah. I tried dat spific ; rubbed de saint 
 in well, sah, an' wid prahers to the udder saints. 
 
 Lacy. Well, I hope with a good result. 
 
 Schack. Only temporary, sah ; only temporary. While 
 I' se arubbin' it is a mighty sight better, sah ; but arter, de 
 pains come back, bad as ever, sah. 
 
 Lacy. Why, that is too bad! Well, what can I do for 
 you, Schack? 
 
 Schack. Well, dat 's it, Colonel. I ; se so bad wid de 
 rheumatiz I raly aint able to walk to de village foh de 
 fresh fish for the ole massa and de missus. 
 
 Lacy. Certainly, Uncle Schack ; go to my cook and 
 tell him that you are to have the fish and any thing else 
 you may need. 
 
 Schack. Oh, tank you, sah. You's berry kind, an' 
 sometime to-day, when I kin hobble to the village, I '11 re- 
 place dem tings, sah ; shu', sah. Good mornin' gentlemen. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Lacy. Poor old Schack ; true to the last. Well, 
 Amos, we had rather an exciting scene last night. Have 
 you any idea what brought the old gentleman home in 
 such a hurry, and why he brought a police officer with 
 him? 
 
 Amos. It is all a mystery to me. The officer let out 
 something about an elopement, but Mr. Barr silenced him 
 before I could learn what it meant. 
 
182 Lost and Won. 
 
 Lacy. Ah, I understand. He came to prevent an 
 elopement. I see the fine Italian hand of Madam in that. 
 Well, well, she little knew that her precaution was useless. 
 
 Amos. What do you mean ? 
 
 Lacy. What dreams are made of, nothing. Did the 
 anxious father subside after I left? 
 
 Amos. Only to be aroused again when dear little 
 Bessie informed him of her choice. I was treated to an 
 iced shower bath, and did not resent it. It is hard, 
 Colonel, for a proud old Virginian to bestow his only child 
 on a mudsill, a greasy mechanic, as we are called down 
 South. 
 
 Lacy. Never mind, Amos. That will come all right. 
 Have you followed my directions? 
 
 Amos. To the letter. 
 
 Lacy. Written Mr. Barr that you have discovered the 
 thief and can put him in possession of his lost millions ? 
 
 Amos. I have. 
 
 Lacy. Asked him to meet you here ? 
 
 Amos. I have. 
 
 Lacy. Telegraphed to the police headquarters for an 
 officer ? 
 
 Amos. I have. Now, Colonel, I have obeyed your 
 orders as I was wont to obey them in camp and on the 
 field. But may I not know something more of this busi- 
 ness ? I do n't know why, but I feel strangely disquieted. 
 
Lost and Won. 183 
 
 Lacy. Possess your soul in peace, my boy. I am 
 putting you in a way to win your bride and a marriage 
 portion of twenty-five thousand dollars, that being the 
 amount offered for a recovery of the money. 
 
 Amos. But why not trust me with the details ? 
 . Lacy. It is not necessary, and I fear you will disar- 
 range my plans. When the officer arrives and Mr. Barr 
 is present, all you have to do is to order the arrest of the 
 man I shall designate. 
 
 Amos. All right, sir. 
 
 Enter BANG. 
 
 Bang. Colonel. (Saluting.} 
 Lacy. Sergeant. 
 
 Bang. Female at headquarters, wishes to see Colonel. 
 Lacy. Request her to walk here. 
 Bang. All right, sir. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter HELEN. 
 
 Lacy. Well, my dear, to what am I indebted for this 
 second visit. 
 
 Helen. Business, not pleasure, you may be sure. So 
 you did not elope last night? 
 
 Lacy. Not so much as I expected to. My intentions 
 were honorabl-e, but there was a slip twixt cup and lip. 
 
 Helen. In the shape of an indignant father and the 
 police ? 
 
184 Lost and Won. 
 
 Lacy. For which I am indebted to you. 
 
 Helen. Certainly, you defeated my elopement; I 
 intervened in yours. Turn about, hubby, is only fair play. 
 
 Lacy. Learn, then, that your interference was not only 
 uncalled for, but it came too late. At the last moment the 
 little girl discovered that she loved some one better than 
 your late husband, and so declined the match. 
 
 Helen. You lost the bride, and with the bride, the 
 million. 
 
 Lacy. I lost both. 
 
 Helen. Why, hubby, you are not as facinating as you 
 once were. 
 
 Lacy. I believe not. And, before the day is out, I 
 will be of so little value, that even you will not stoop to 
 pick me up. 
 
 Helen. I do n't know about that. But what is it you 
 mean that is so desperate? Clip your whiskers? Wear 
 your hair esthetically ? Turn politician and be returned to 
 Congress? Come, tell me. I am dying of anxiety to 
 know. 
 
 Lacy. It is very simple. It means only that I throw 
 up my hand. Abandon the contest in this attempt to hold 
 on to another man's money, let the consequences be what 
 they may. I have played and lost. I purpose paying like 
 a gentleman. 
 
 Helen. Ned, I am amazed. I may say I am disgusted. 
 
Lost and Won. 185 
 
 Why, what has come over you to bring about such a 
 change ? 
 
 Lacy. You won't understand me, Nell, but I may as 
 well tell you. I never was fitted by nature or education 
 for the role I have attempted. All this wealth; all my 
 success in business; all this luxury with which I am 
 surrounded, have failed to yield me a moment's enjoy- 
 ment. There is a suicide called the suicide of crime that 
 kills the soul and tortures the life left until life is hell. 
 You don't understand this, of course. 
 
 Helen. Oh, bother your high talk! Drop that and 
 drive on. I am interested. 
 
 Lacy. Well, life was bad enough ; but when I came 
 to know my victims, it became intolerable. 
 
 Helen. Because you loved this girl ! 
 
 Lacy. No, not that altogether, though I do love her. 
 But listen. If in my game for fortune, I had encountered 
 the average lot hard cheeked and harder hearted people 
 I could have nerved myself up to carry on my villainy. 
 But, when I came to know these innocent and inoffensive 
 people ; to know that I was tramping the life out of this 
 helpless old gentleman and his guileless daughter, I could 
 not bear it. And when to this is added the fact you had 
 coalesced with that scoundrel and I was to live by your 
 joint consent, I concluded that life was not worth the 
 living. 
 
 16 
 
1 86 Lost and Won. 
 
 Helen. See here, my penitent friend. There is a part 
 of your interesting confession that is not true. 
 
 Lacy. What part ? 
 
 Helen. Wherein you say I coalesced with that scoun- 
 drel. I am doing business on my own account no con- 
 nection whatever with the house over the way. 
 
 Lacy. I have his word for it. 
 
 Helen. And his word is not worth a North Pacific 
 bond. 
 
 Lacy. He expects to sustain his charges by appealing 
 to your testimony. 
 
 Helen. I think he will be kept busy taking care of 
 himself. 
 
 Enter BANG. 
 
 Bang. Colonel. (Saluting.) 
 
 Lacy. Sergeant. 
 
 Bang. Party answering to the name of Barr Miss 
 Hester and Miss Barr are at headquarters asking for the 
 Colonel. 
 
 Lacy. Say I will be in. 
 
 Bang. All right, Colonel. (Exit.) 
 
 Lacy. Excuse me, Nell. 
 
 Helen. Why, most cheerfully. Go to your fascination. 
 (LACY enters house. Enters BUCKTHORN cautiously.) Well, 
 my sweet-faced friend, are you here ? Where are the 
 officers ? 
 
Lost and Won. 187 
 
 Buckthorn. I came a train ahead that I might see you. 
 Will he come to terms ? 
 
 Helen. Not a term. He is busy this minute transfer- 
 ring all his property to the rightful owner that old Vir- 
 ginian. 
 
 Buckthorn. The devil, he is! We must stop that 
 somehow ! You know when once we show our hands 
 
 Helen. Very dirty hands ! 
 
 Buckthorn. Our power is at an end. We make 
 nothing. 
 
 Helen. I know a blackmailer is like a bee loses his 
 sting in stinging. 
 
 Buckthorn. I dare not be seen talking to you. Would 
 you mind stepping this way where we would not be ob- 
 served ? 
 
 Helen. Not the least; rather think my character 
 would be imperiled by being seen with you. Lead the 
 way. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Enter from house LACY and AMOS. 
 
 Lacy. (Aside.) And now I am as poor as I was five 
 years since, poorer, for then I stooped to crime. Now, 
 my dear fellow, for your part ? 
 
 Amos. " My part," what is that, Colonel? 
 
 Lacy. In a few minutes, the police you have sum- 
 
1 88 Lost and Won. 
 
 moned will be here, and it is your unpleasant duty to hand 
 me over as the criminal. 
 
 Amos. To . What do you mean for Heaven's sake ? 
 What does this mean ? 
 
 Lacy. It means a melancholy fact. The man you 
 loved, looked up to and so long obeyed is a common crimi- 
 nal. And it will be your duty to give me up. 
 
 Amos. My God. I I give you up. I \vill not do it. 
 
 Lacy. What ! not to gain an independence ? Not to 
 win the beautiful girl who loves you ? 
 
 Amos.. What ? Turn on my comrade the man who 
 faced death with me, who has slept under my blanket and 
 shared my food ! Did you nurse me to make a traitor of 
 me ! And then to mention her ! Damn it ! I could kill 
 you where you stand ! What do you mean ? You damned 
 scoundrel, do you mean to insult me ! Why do you do 
 this? 
 
 Lacy. I meant, I meant (after a pause), I thought I 
 was punished. You speak, my dear boy, as if I had a 
 choice. I have none. The fates are closing my doom 
 about me, and, even if I could, I would not escape. 
 
 Awos. And why ? Oh, Colonel, reflect. 
 
 Lacy. Why? When the time comes that a man is to 
 lose his self-respect and live by the consent of others, life 
 is worthless. But I have no chance. 
 
 Amos. None ? 
 
Lost and Won. 189 
 
 Lacy. Two bloodhounds are on my track one a male, 
 the other a woman. One may kill, frighten or even pay 
 off a male blackmailer. But a female blackmailer is as 
 frantic in her malice as a scotched snake. She will sting 
 herself to poison you. 
 
 AMOS. But why select me for this horrid task ? 
 
 Lacy. Amos, I did not mean to insult you, lad, I was 
 only trying to do justice. It is my whim to gild my evil 
 life with one good deed. You do me a favor, Amos. 
 Now, stand firm, and, when the officers demand the crim- 
 inal, point me out, and Bessie and the twenty-five thousand 
 are yours. I think they are here. 
 
 Enter from the house, ELDER BARR, BESSIE and AUNT 
 
 HESTER; from right; two police officers ; left, HELEN. 
 
 Elder Barr. This is satisfactory so far as we have pro- 
 gressed. Now, for the thief. 
 
 Bessie* Aunt, we are not needed here. 
 
 Elder Barr. Yes, my daughter, I wish you to see the 
 criminal who has wrought us such wrong. 
 
 First Officer. (To AMOS.) We are here on your sum- 
 mons. What are we to do ? 
 
 Lacy. (To AMOS.) Rouse up man! Do your duty. 
 
 Enter BUCKTHORN. 
 Helen. You want the rascal ? Well, here he is Mr. 
 
190 Lost and Won. 
 
 Wingait, alias Buckthorn, alias Beckwith. - Arrest him ! 
 {Officers lay hands on BUCKTHORN.) 
 
 Elder Barr. What, my overseer ! I suspected as much ! 
 
 Buckthorn. None of this now. None of this. I am a 
 witness. 
 
 Helen. Certainly you are; the best in the world. At 
 least you were in Indiana. I can testify I saw you dig up 
 the treasure and cart it off. 
 
 Buckthorn. This is an infernal conspiracy. You will see. 
 
 Helen. Certainly, we shall, when her gracious Maj- 
 esty, the Queen of England, gets done with you. 
 
 First Officer. Henry Wingait, alias Buckthorn, alias 
 Beckwith, I arrest you as an escaped convict from Australia. 
 
 Buckthorn. I throw up the sponge. You've got me. 
 Move on. {Exeunt officers with BUCKTHORN.) 
 
 Amos. Thank God, I have escaped! 
 
 {Lacy.') {To HELEN.) Why Nell, you amaze me! 
 
 Helen. Of course, I do. No great compliment. It 
 takes very little to maze your simple, sentimental soul. 
 
 Lacy. But how did you accomplish this ? 
 
 Helen. Quite easily. When I first saw that villianous 
 face, I knew I felt it in me that it had not been carried 
 to this time of life without some deed that justified God's 
 writing on his face. I hurried to police headquarters and 
 asked to inspect the Rogue's Gallery. I found hundreds of 
 weak faces and a few wicked ones of our native land. It 
 
Lost and Won. 191 
 
 was not until I reached the distinguished foreigners that I 
 found the photo of our friend. 
 
 Lacy. Well, you are as clever as you are good. I am 
 in love with you. We will marry again. 
 
 Helen. Not necessary. Your decree of divorce is a forgery. 
 
 Lacy. Is it possible ? (To ELDER BARR.) Mr. Barr, 
 you owe your return to fortune to this brave fellow. 
 Without him and your daughter I would have done 
 nothing. He is one to cherish and love. You see Miss 
 Bessie will second me in that. 
 
 Bessie. Yes, father, we are plighted. 
 
 Barr. What ? give my only child to a mechanic ? 
 
 Lacy. Never fear, Colonel. The shame of labor went 
 down with slavery. The paper caps are coming to the 
 front. They rule our country politically, now ; ere long 
 they will rule it socially. 
 
 Barr. Well, my children, you must determine, I sup- 
 pose, for yourselves. An old man's head gives way to 
 young folks' hearts. Be happy. 
 
 Lacy. And, Amos, avoid temptation and the Lord will 
 save you from evil. 
 
 Helen. And remember, if you fall, it is never too late 
 to mend. Be virtuous and you '11 be happy. If there are 
 any old saws from ancient copy-books you can think of, 
 here is the place to put them in. If not, we will to break" 
 fast, for I am as hungry as a wolf. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
A KING'S LOVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 EDWARD IV, King of England. 
 RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester. 
 LORD DE GREVILLE. 
 SIR MARMADUKE WOODVILLE. 
 CARDINAL ST. JOHN. 
 JOHN SHORE. 
 WHITHOLD, Court Jester. 
 MASTER MARTIN. 
 FRIAR BUNGAY, Court Astrologer. 
 JANE SHORE. 
 LADY ALICE. 
 
 MARGERY, Maid to Lady Alice. 
 Lords, Citizens, and Monks. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE: Hall of JANE SHORE'S house in London, quaintly but 
 plainly furnished. Glass doors back, opening on balcony, beyond 
 which can be seen housetops covered with snow, with leafless 
 branches of trees between. LADY ALICE and SIR MARMA- 
 DUKE WOODVILLE discovered; LADY ALICE with book in her 
 hand. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke. Upon my soul, fair dame, it seems 
 
 to me 
 A burning shame, that you should dim your eyes, 
 
A King s Love. 193 
 
 Such sweet eyes too, o'er musty books, when you 
 Should be at court, amid the courtly throng, 
 The fairest of them all. And now, confess, 
 Do not those little ears long, woman-like, 
 For lover's vows and courtier's flattery? 
 
 Lady Alice. I -have such loving vows within this book, 
 Far sweeter than the love of selfish men, 
 Who flatter to deceive, Sir Marmaduke. 
 
 Sir Mar. By the mass, I thought those solemn books 
 Held naught but prayers and meditations. 
 
 Lady Alice. You do mistake ; now listen while I read 
 One such. (Reads.) 
 
 When o'er the frosty plain and hill, 
 
 The feathery cloak of winter lies ; 
 When from the north the winds blow chill, 
 
 And rain falls freezing from the skies, 
 
 We all do know, that 'neath the snow, 
 
 The tender violets 'gin to grow, 
 To bloom by brooks and woods along, 
 When frost and sleet and snow are gone. 
 
 When maiden's brow is pure and white, 
 
 And marble-like her bosom lies, 
 When naught of love may her delight, 
 
 And suitors meet but cold surprise, 
 '7 
 
194 -A King's Love. 
 
 'Neath rounded bosoms, white as snow, 
 Love's tender passion 'gins to glow, 
 
 To bloom on lips to lover's kiss 
 
 When life is love, and love is bliss. 
 
 Sir Mar. And those be books, small wonder, dame, 
 Our holy men are found so fond of them. 
 
 Lady Alice. Should read, Sir Marmaduke, and learn 
 
 a world, 
 
 Now dead to you, of strange delight, close hid 
 Between these somber covers. 
 
 Sir Mar. Me read! by our blessed lady, but I can 't; 
 Nor cared I to till now. Gramercy, dame, 
 But I was trained to write my name in blows 
 On iron-potted heads, to stride a steed, 
 And hold a lance in rest. The books were left 
 To God's anointed younger brothers, dame, 
 Who, having scant inheritance below, 
 Seek, through their lore, for goodly things above. 
 
 Lady Alice. And more 's the pity, gallant Sir ; for see, 
 Some day a stronger arm in wrath will strike 
 Thine iron-potted head, and crack the skull 
 That can not read, beneath. Then thou wilt find 
 Thy younger brother taking precedence, 
 And something worse befall thee. 
 
 Sir Mar. Nay, nay, for I do pay the church her dues, 
 
A King's Love. 195 
 
 And never trust my skull in deadly fight 
 Till duly shrived. If Satan sieze me then, 
 Upon my heart I wear a relic, dame, 
 Blessed by His Holiness the Pope, you see, 
 That Satan feeling that will let me drop. 
 
 Lady Alice. Such course were wise in Satan. Strange 
 
 it is 
 
 That he who came to teach us peace on Earth, 
 Should have such following of fighting men. 
 
 Sir Mar. Yea, of a surety most strange it is ; 
 For I do note that all these bloody wars 
 Receive the sanction of the holy church; 
 But yet I note a thing more strange, fair dame. 
 
 Lady Alice. And what be that, Sir Knight ? 
 
 Sir Mar. I do observe that all these ladies fair, 
 Who shrink and shriek if they do see one drop 
 Of blood, will give their hands, and eke their hearts, 
 To wed the biggest butcher of us all. 
 
 Lady Alice. Most true, Sir Knight, for we, in truth, 
 
 are weak ; 
 
 So weak of body, and I fear, of head, 
 We seek protection from the strong and brave. 
 
 Sir Mar. Would you could think me, lady, strong 
 and brave ! 
 
 Lady Alice. That is your fair repute abroad, good 
 friend, 
 
196 A King's Love. 
 
 No man may question that and live at all. 
 What care you then for my poor thoughts ? 
 
 Sir Mar. Bluntly, then, I 'd make my heart and arm 
 Your strong protectors. Nay, hear me out, 
 As best I may, for I am rude of speech; 
 No courtier, lady, breathing silken words, 
 My voice was roughened to the roar of fights; 
 My hand made hard by brand and sword and lance, 
 Where man meets man to struggle unto death. 
 I love thee, Lady Alice there, it's out! 
 I think of thee by day, Pardi ! of nights; 
 I can not sleep for thinking of thee, dame. 
 
 Alice. It is not well, Sir Marmaduke, to speak 
 Me thus. Your words are insults in this house 
 Where I am ward of Mistress Shore. 
 
 Sir Mar. Be not so hasty, dame, but hear me out. 
 I offer thee my heart and hand and all I do possess. 
 Is it insult then to call thee wife 
 My Lady Woodville ? 
 
 Lady Alice. I do beseech, my friend, you pardon me, 
 That I mistook your wooing ; I thank you now 
 For compliment so courtly. But I am 
 Far too young for so much honor. 
 I 'm scarce fifteen, Sir Knight, and alas ! 
 There lies between us two a grief so wide 
 No love may bridge it over. 
 
A King's Love. 197 
 
 Sir Mar. But if I find that bridge, sweetheart, will you 
 Trust to my guidance and come over to me ? 
 What is this chasm that I can not see? 
 
 Lady Alice. They call me Lady Alice, and I 'm told 
 Am daughter of a knight who died in war 
 Against his king, and so lost life and all. 
 Before 1 can remember Mistress Shore 
 Did make provision for me, 
 And as a mother I have clung to her. 
 
 
 
 Sir Mar. Now, speak me fair and say you ill strive 
 to love. 
 
 Lady Alice. Give me space to think. 
 
 (Enter WHITHOLD unpercetved.) 
 
 Sir Mar. I ask no more ; now bid me, love, to do 
 Some desperate deed that I may prove my love. 
 
 Lady Alice. I have true proof in loving thee. 
 
 (SiR MARMADUKE is about to kiss ALICE, when WHITHOLD 
 drops his bauble between them.) 
 
 Sir Mar. Knave, I have a mind to crack thy skull ! 
 
 Whithold. A riddle a riddle why is that an empty 
 threat ? 
 
 Sir Mar. Go to. I have no mind for riddles ! 
 
 Whithold. Which means he hath a mind a mind to 
 crack my skull. Now, lady, solve my riddle. Why was 
 that an empty threat ? 
 
198 A King's Love. 
 
 Lady Alice. For that it had no meaning, good Whithold, 
 It was empty of intent. 
 
 Whithold. Fair, very fair, but not the thing try again. 
 
 Lady Alice. Alas, I can not. 
 
 Whithold. Then learn, the threat was empty, for that the 
 skull he would have cracked is empty. But give me 
 thanks, I stopped thy dalliance, for the handsome Duke of 
 Gloucester and the liberal Lord De Greville, but now dis- 
 mounted at the portal and would have been an audience 
 to your cooing. 
 
 Lady Alice. I take my leave, Sir Marmaduke. 
 
 Whithold. By my Lady, but you can not. 
 
 Lady Alice. And why not ? 
 
 Whithold. Take your leave ? Why all he has of mind 
 and heart you carry with you. T'will not fatigue you 
 much. 
 
 Lady Alice. Saucy knave, it were ill manners to say 
 you lie. 
 
 (Exit LADY ALICE.) 
 
 Whithold. Since when hath it been ill mannered to lie 
 with a lady ? 
 
 Sir Mar. Look you, good jester, you may jibe these 
 
 courtiers 
 
 As you will, but give me space, for I am quick at 
 Blows, and brook no insult. Take my measure, knave. 
 
 Whithold. I did, Sir Knight, when the French count in 
 
A King's Love. 199 
 
 tournament last spring did hurl thee to the dust. Thou 
 measurest five feet ten. 
 
 Sir Mar. Fool, the fault was in my steed. 
 Why comest here between me and my Lady Alice ? 
 
 Whithold. Thy wit is halting as thy horse, brave knight. 
 Where find you lovers that folly comes not between ? 
 
 Sir Mar. But you did lie. The Duke of Gloucester 
 Comes never to the house of Mistress Shore. 
 (Enter DUKE and DE GREVILLE.) 
 
 Whithold) Then thy eyes must fail thee as did thy 
 
 horse, 
 For see him here. 
 
 Duke. (To pages.) Say to Mistress Shore the Duke 
 
 of Gloucester 
 And the Lord de Greville are in waiting. 
 
 (Exit PAGE. Exit SIR MARMADUKE.) 
 
 De Greville. This is not to my liking, Duke. 
 
 Duke. There are few things, my lord, upon this earth 
 Fashioned to our liking', else we 'd be 
 Content below, nor long for heaven. 
 
 De Greville. It shames me, duke, that I, a baron, 
 A peer of England, should come here to bow 
 Before a harlot, pleading for my rights. 
 
 Duke. Hush, hush, my lord, these walls have ears ; 
 The trees about here bear the strangest fruit, 
 And many a tall fellow lies shorter 
 
200 A King's Love. 
 
 By a head for words less sharp than these. 
 The king, my brother, hedges in his rose 
 With ugliest sort of thorns. 
 
 De Greville. Time was when England's king was 
 
 hedged about 
 By noble hearts of barons brave 
 
 (WHITHOLD blows his penny whistle; DE GREVILLE 
 
 starts?) 
 What's that? 
 
 Duke. (Laughing?) Naught, De Greville, but our 
 
 jester here, 
 Piping like a shepherd to a startled ram. 
 
 De Greville. He should be hanged. 
 
 Duke. Most likely. 
 
 De Greville. She lets us wait, that we may feel her 
 
 power. 
 
 S'cat, it angers me to see this beggar ride 
 Above her betters with such insolence. 
 I could cuff her now. (WHITHOLD whistles again; 
 GREVILLE starts. 
 
 Duke. Nay, do the devil justice, good my lord, 
 There is no ostentation in the dame ; 
 She might have titles, palaces, and lands 
 Our majesty is liberal to his loves ; 
 But she declined them all, and wisely so. 
 Unpainted power she prefers to shams 
 
A King's Love. 201 
 
 O'er guilded. Power is safe, and to the wise 
 As sweet, when least offensive. She remains 
 Plain Mistress Shore. And lo, these many years 
 Has governed England in her cunning way. 
 (Aside.) If I can strike her down I will, 
 For mine own better purpose. 
 
 De Greville. What can his majesty discover in 
 A thing so low and common as this woman 
 To fascinate and hold him ? (WHITHOLD whistles^) 
 
 Duke. I cry you, mercy ; but you do mistake, 
 As do the common herd who call her witch. 
 She 's most uncommon, rest assured, my lord. 
 When first the king beheld her was when she 
 Stole to his presence in the hour of night, 
 To tell of Warwick's treason, and he saw 
 The fairest being God e'er set on end 
 To win the hearts of men. She saved his life, 
 And then his kingdom; for her graceful head, 
 Woman's as it is, and wondrous fair, 
 Holds well the brain of rnan. Hark, she comes. 
 Now press your suit. (Aside.) And get your knuckles 
 
 skinned, 
 You venerable ass. 
 
 (Doors back are thrown open, and JANE SHORE appears 
 surrounded by suitors presenting petitions.') 
 
 Jane Shore. I cry you, mercy, good my friends, 
 
2O2 A King's Love. 
 
 I can not hear you now ; for see you not 
 His grace the Duke of Gloucester and with him 
 The Lord De Greville ? Welcome to my house, 
 Your grace, and you, my lord. My poor place 
 Is honored by your presence. 
 
 Duke. I salute you, dame, and well it glads my heart 
 To see that Time, like all your friends, awaits 
 Tenderly upon you. 
 
 Jane Shore. A compliment, most courtly duke, and 
 
 now 
 What may I do to woo you here again ? 
 
 Duke. The Lord De Greville seeks your favor to 
 His present suit, fair dame. He asks that you 
 Do use your influence with the king to grant 
 Him certain rights which he '11 explain. 
 
 De Greville A very simple matter, dame. The courts 
 Do now deny me, and I "ask the king 
 To grant me power to enforce the tax 
 For fish caught in the Thames and on the coast 
 Within my own domain. 
 
 Jane Shore. Master Martin, you but now did speak 
 
 me 
 Concerning this same right. 
 
 Martin. An' may it please your ladyship, I did. 
 These fishermen are poor I speak for them ; 
 If to the king's levy be added now the Greville tax, 
 
A King's Love. 203 
 
 As claimed, it will reduce them all to beggary, 
 And so destroy the trade. 
 
 Jane Shore. What say you, Lord De Greville ? 
 
 De Greville. I claim my right, these knaves dare not 
 
 deny. 
 
 What is 7 t to me their starving ? Let them starve. 
 I claim my right. 
 
 Jane Shore. But if they starve their fishing comes to 
 
 naught. 
 Where then your right ? 
 
 De Greville. It is a lame excuse the dogs set up 
 To 'scape the payment of my honest dues. 
 
 Jane Shore. I fear not, my lord; I know the class 
 
 perhaps 
 Better than you, for I was of them once 
 
 De Greville. And what are they to us this rabble 
 That once wore iron rings about their necks 
 In token of their servitude ? 
 
 Let them starve, I say. As we progress, God's wot, 
 They will dispute our titles next and seize 
 Upon our castles. We must tramp them down. 
 
 Jane Shore. God gave them stomachs, good, my 
 
 lord; 
 
 Same as a noble's stomach, strange to say. He gave 
 Them brain to think and beating hearts to love. 
 The cold does smite them as it does a lord ; 
 
204 A King's Love. 
 
 The hot sun makes them sweat as sweats a lord. 
 And were they trampled down to death, my faith, 
 The lord would starve, for from their weary toil 
 Comes his white bread and all he does enjoy. 
 
 De Grevilk. Why this is monstrous, Mistress Shore ; 
 You do forget yourself. 
 
 Jane Shore. Nay, I remember but too well, my lord. 
 I beg your pardon, but you pray to one 
 Of those you do oppress. It is my shame 
 I 'm not more worthy of their confidence. 
 
 De Greville. The shame 's on our side 
 That England's nobles should be forced to sue. 
 Who doth confess herself unfit 
 Begs pardon of the rabble. 
 
 Jane Shore. Now have a care; I may be all you say, 
 And yet your peer, my lord. 
 You can not seek my house with insult, sir, 
 E'en under cover of his grace the duke, 
 And 'scape the punishment due the man 
 Who offer^ insult to a woman anywhere. 
 
 (Cries of "the king," "the king." The door thrown open. 
 Enter EDWARD and suite.) 
 
 King. How now, my brother, Gloucester and De 
 
 Greville here, 
 
 Paying their court to Mistress Shore? 
 Why, Mistress Shore, your comely face is flushed ? 
 
A King's Love. 205 
 
 Your eyes flash fire. What disturbs my friend ? 
 
 Jane Shore. Your friendship, good my liege ; that is 
 
 enough 
 
 To" justify the insult that this lord 
 Seeks mine own house to offer me. 
 
 King. Now, by St. George ! and have I sunk so low 
 My crown gives no protection to my friends ? 
 Down, sir, down ! and crave your pardon 
 Of Mistress Shore. Dost hear me, man? 
 But falter now an instant and thy neck 
 And lands shall answer. 
 
 (De Grevilk kneels and kisses the hand O/"JANE SHORE.)' 
 Now, Mistress Shore, a few moments 
 Of thy cheer and company. 
 
 {Exeunt KING, MISTRESS SHORE, and all save DUKE OF 
 GLOUCESTER, DE GREVILLE, and WHITHOLD. DE GRE- 
 VILLE remains kneeling, as if stunned.) 
 
 Whithold. Let folly help thee up as folly threw thee 
 down. 
 
 De Grevilk. (Rising.} Out, fool. 
 
 Whithold. Nay, be not so hard upon thyself. 
 
 Duke. A sorry mess you 've made of suing, man. 
 By St. Paul but the dame is sharp. 
 I never heard a tongue so like a knife ; 
 She cut thee deep, De Greville. 
 
 De Greville. And I will be avenged. 
 
206 A King^s Love. 
 
 What ! a De Greville, and thus put upon 
 By a harlot, a beggarly shrew, a 
 
 Duke. Hush, man hush ; you 'd be hanged. 
 
 De Greville. Was it well, your grace, to lead me on 
 To such indignity ? But I '11 be avenged. 
 
 Duke. Peace, man; 
 
 'T was your ill temper that you stumbled o'er, 
 Not my advice. You should have spoke her fair. 
 Gad, smiting a tigress in her very den 
 Is no child's play. 
 
 De Greville. But I '11 wring her neck. Vengeance ! 
 
 Duke. I prithee, bark less, 
 That you may have a chance to bite. 
 You want revenge. 
 Ah ! softly now, see where it comes 
 In your very hand, like to some simple bird, 
 That settles gently in a woodman's trap. 
 
 (LADY ALICE crosses the stage in cloak and hood, prayer- 
 book in hand.) 
 Go you to mass, fair maid ? 
 
 Lady Alice. Ay, to mass, your grace. 
 
 Duke. When angels pray they pray not for themselves, 
 For they are perfect ; therefore, in thy prayers, 
 Fair angel, think of me, alack ! 
 Ask pardon for my many sins. 
 
A King's Love. 207 
 
 Lady Alice. And were your life as happy as your 
 
 speech 
 There were no need of prayers, my lord. (xit.') 
 
 Duke. See you that damozelle ? 
 
 De Greville. My eyes are not so dim but I can see 
 So plain a thing as that. 
 
 Duke. So plain ! Go to. The fairest maid 
 In all the kingdom, and as shy as fair. 
 
 De Greville. It is the Lady Alice. What of her ? 
 
 Duke. You look upon the heart of Mistress Shore, 
 Put your rough grasp ofTthat and note 
 How Shore will writhe. 
 
 De Greville. Her pet, her plaything, her adopted maid ! 
 Bah ! There is no good in that. 
 
 Duke. Do not deceive yourself; she is no pet, 
 No child adopted. I have seen 
 Motherless women waste their affections 
 On dogs, on cats, on monkeys, or on birds, 
 But never yet upon a human being. 
 I have watched with care this Mistress Shore, 
 And read her inmost soul. The tigress softens 
 When that cub is near. Be that girl glad, 
 And Mistress Shore lights up like to a lantern ; 
 But be she sad, and bright eyes darken then, 
 Till all the world can read the mother there. 
 
 De Greville. A daughter by the king ? 
 
208 A King's Love. 
 
 Duke. Oh, no; some older love, I doubt. 
 But there 's your coin of vantage, man 
 Seize her as hostage hold her in your den 
 Till Shore capitulates, which soon she '11 do. 
 
 De Greville. It shall be done, if in the doing, duke, 
 I die. I will have vengeance, duke I will 
 And swiftly, too. I kneel before the world 
 To such a thing as that ! God's wounds ! 
 I '11 be avenged, though forty kings 
 Stood in my way ! (Exit.} 
 
 Duke. Of all the fearful beasts that range the fields 
 The ass is one most dangerous to himself. 
 He serves my purpose well, for I did woo 
 This dainty bit of maidenhood, and got 
 My wooing sent me back in scorn. Alack, 
 Next to my love I most enjoy my hate. 
 How England sickens of King Edward's reign ; 
 A reign of slothful pleasures, that denies 
 Life to the nobles, while the commons wax 
 Most insolently fat. A spark may set 
 The realm aflame, and I why I may find 
 Some fitter work than making silly love 
 To silly maids, who see no line of grace 
 In a crooked back, e'en when 't is carried by 
 His graceless grace the duke. (Exit.} 
 Enter JANE SHORE, SIR MARMADUKE, and WHITHOLD. 
 
A King's Love. 209 
 
 Jane Shore. What sayest thou, good Whithold ? 
 
 Whithoid. I come to offer thee my cap and bells ; like- 
 wise my staff and all I do possess, as the biggest fool in 
 all the land. 
 
 Jane Shore. And why, you jester ? 
 
 Whithold. For thy folly that o'er shadowed mine 
 the purest folly, with no alloy of wit. Oh, take my place. 
 You need the license of a fool for better protection to thy 
 head. 
 
 Jane Shore. Surely thou hast resigned thy place, 
 For all this tirade hath no spice of wit. 
 
 Whithold. I had wit enough not to offend, as thou 
 hast done, the ugliest noble of the realm. Guard well 
 thy path, good Mistress Shore. 
 
 Sir Mar. When the fool ends, good dame, I fain 
 would speak with thee concerning Lady Alice. 
 
 Jane Shore. And what of her ? 
 
 (A cry heard without, then dash of arms, an alarm bell, and 
 attendants rush on the stage.'} 
 
 Jane Shore. What is the meaning of this tumult ? 
 Whithold. (Looking from window.} De Greville's 
 men-at-arms do carry off the Lady Alice from your very 
 door. 
 
 Jane Shore. To her rescue ! Hurry to the king ! 
 Aid me, Sir Marmaduke. My poor pet ; 
 My Alice 
 18 
 
2io A King's Love 
 
 Sir Mar. Leave the task to me ; it is my right. 
 Look to your mistress. 
 
 (JANE SHORE staggers back, as if to fall ^} 
 
 Jane Shore. Pay no heed to me ; I need no aid ; 
 Help my pet, my poor little pet. 
 
 {Falls back in chair, as if fainting, as SIR MARMADUKE 
 exit hurriedly.) CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE: Same as in ist act. WHITHOLD and MARGERY 
 discovered. 
 
 Whithold. Upon my bauble, Margery, but thou pleas- 
 est the eye ! Thou art fair to look upon. By the mass, 
 but I believe thou art pleasant to handle and sweet to taste. 
 
 Margery. Go to, Master Whithold. You do make 
 game of me. 
 
 Whithold. Would I could make game of thee; then 
 would I capture thee, and eat thee. Better so, for the 
 lover that eateth not his mistress, lives to repent. Margery 
 
 Margery. Master Whithold. 
 
 Whithold. Knowest thou why the giants eat their 
 virgins ? 
 
 Margery. Marry, I know not. 
 
 Whithold. Marry! Thou answereth without wit. Thou 
 dost stumble on thy meaning marry. 
 
A King's Love. 211 
 
 Margery. But why Master Whithold ? 
 
 Whithold. She sayeth marry, and yet asks me why ! 
 Simple maid, sweet maid ! Would I were a giant. 
 
 Margery. But make answer; I have much curiosity 
 to know. 
 
 Whithold. The simple maiden, the sweet maiden hath 
 curiosity. Yet is curiosity an evil. Curiosity did tempt 
 Mother Eve to taste the forbidden fruit. Margery, would'st 
 taste the forbidden fruit? 
 
 Margery. Go to. I ask thee why do giants eat their 
 virgins ? 
 
 Whithold. Then learn, oh simple maiden. The giants 
 eat the virgins, fearing that if the virgins live to be shrewish 
 wives they will eat the giants. 
 
 Margery. And yet thou wishest to be a giant. 
 
 Whithold. It was a silly wish; I fain would eat thee, 
 for thou art sweet. But I have no fear. Giants are large 
 of body and weak of mind. Prefer I to be small of body 
 and large of mind. Margery, I would marry thee make 
 thee my shepherdess, and under the hawthorne tree, in the 
 sweet summer time would we 
 
 Margery. What, Master Whithold ? 
 
 Whithold. Pipe to our silly sheep. Thus (plows his 
 penny whistle) 
 
 Margery. Pipest thou no better than that, Master 
 Whithold, and the sheep would run from thee. Heigh, ho ! 
 
212 A King^s Love. 
 
 Whithold. Why sighest thou, simple maiden ? It is no 
 compliment to my powers of entertainment. 
 
 Margery. Alas, my good Mistress Alice was, thou 
 knowest, seized upon and carried away but now by armed 
 men. 
 
 Whithold. And, by the mass, the armed men will be 
 only too glad to fetch her home again. Mistress Shore 
 is angered, and the King is vexed. Rather would I find 
 a pot of gold than be in the leather soles of these same 
 men-at-arms, or their old miserly lord. Here comes Mis- 
 tress Shore and our Lord Cardinal. Seek we the lord, 
 the lawyer, or the doctor, when down and troubled and 
 at no other time. Come, sweet Margery. Beauty and 
 Folly will retire together. (Exeunt.} 
 
 (Enter JANE SHORE and CARDINAL ST. JOHN.) 
 
 Jane Shore. 'T was good of you, Lord Cardinal to come 
 So quickly to me in my dire distress. 
 
 St. John. 'T were yet more strange for me to hesitate. 
 You would expect the priest whom first you knew 
 A poor servant of the Church, upon the Thames, 
 Toiling where squalid poverty held reign, 
 Himself one scarce remove in wretchedness 
 From those he sought to teach 
 You would expect, my friend, to have that priest 
 Come quickly to you when you called for him. 
 
A King's Love. 213 
 
 Why not the Cardinal, for to your aid 
 I owe my most unworthy elevation ? 
 
 Jane Shore. That 's rank hypocrisy, my friend, 
 And all unworthy of you, for my aid 
 Were then of smallest value, e'en at court, 
 But for your learning, zeal, and eloquence ; 
 And well you have repaid my little help. 
 You won my soul from error. Ah ! you know 
 I was a Lorrilard, and oh, my friend, 
 This life were madness now, but for the hope 
 You hold before me of God's forgiveness. 
 Much as I love the King, and much this power, 
 Through which I do some charity, my days 
 Are days of sorrow, and my nights run through 
 In darkening horror and remorse. 
 
 St. John-. You do not overestimate your sin. 
 God forbid that it I should condone. 
 Why suffer you at night, my child, 
 More than by day ? 
 
 Jane Shore. I do not know, but when the night comes 
 
 down, 
 
 And darkness woos to rest, I can not rest. 
 Sleeping or wide awake, my mind goes back 
 To that once happy home. I see, I hear 
 My noble husband brave, kind-hearted John; 
 I see the sunlight on the humble floor, 
 
214 A King's Love. 
 
 I hear the bird without, I feel the peace 
 
 That lives, be e 'er the lot so hard, where life 
 
 Is innocence for lo ! within its cot 
 
 In roseate dreaming sleeps my little babe ! 
 
 I took the sunlight from that happy home, 
 
 I took the warmth from out the pleasant hearth, 
 
 I left the door wide to desolation. 
 
 The house the wife should guard is home no more. 
 
 St. John. Your morbid fancy does exaggerate, 
 For, with your husband dead, the home is dead. 
 
 Jam Shore. I can not make him dead, though true it is 
 When banished from these shores, for that he was 
 A Lorrilard, for that same cause 
 He took up arms in France, and soon we heard 
 He died in battle ; but I can not make him dead ; 
 His living presence haunts me still the same. 
 In every breath I draw I feel him near; 
 I must give up this sort of life, or die. 
 I pray you, then, to use your influence with 
 His Majesty, the King ; get his consent 
 To my withdrawing with my Alice now 
 To some far-distant convent, where to hide 
 Under another name, and so to pass 
 From memory of man, and sin and shame. 
 
 St. John. Your wish shall be my law, poor friend, 
 How fares your Alice ? I do learn but now 
 
A King's Love. 215 
 
 The sinful old De Greville tore her away ; 
 And from your very portal, as she came 
 From mass. 
 
 Jane Shore. Too true, but the brave Woodville res- 
 cues her 
 Within the hour. 
 
 (Cries of "The King" Doors thrown open. Enter 
 
 EDWARD.) 
 He is here ! Oh ! press him now. 
 
 King. You sent a hasty summons, Jane. 
 Our Cardinal here ! well met, your grace. 
 The news we get from Rome, but now, 
 Is far from pleasant, for it says 
 His Holiness the Pope favors 
 Our enemies of France. 
 
 St. John. I feared as much. 
 
 King. You feared as much ! Now, by God's wounds, 
 We thought to have a Cardinal 
 Whose power at Rome would serve us well, 
 In matters such as these. 
 
 St. John. Your majesty would have me speak 
 Frankly in presence of your minister, 
 Mistress Shore? 
 
 King. Since when has this outspoken grace 
 Grown so modest ? Out with it man, 
 Let insult have full sway. Our minister, 
 
216 A King's Love. 
 
 Good Mistress Shore forsooth ! 'T is rather bold 
 To gather up the scandal of the court 
 And hurl it in our teeth. 'T is well, your grace, 
 Your priestly petticoats protect you. 
 
 St. John. And is it well for one so great, 
 So wise and brave as Edward King, 
 The first unquestioned King of England, 
 And that through his own prowess, thus to shrink from 
 And grow offended at the truth, 
 When uttered by a friend ? 
 For he alone is brave, who dares to face 
 And face it calmly an unpleasant truth. 
 
 King. I beg your pardon I was vexed ; 
 Then tell me plainly as you will, 
 What is the ill that shadows us at Rome ? 
 
 St. John. 'T is feared you 've lost your zeal, iny liege, 
 For holy church. You have, of late, 
 Pardoned those wicked heretics, 
 The Lorrilards, and it is known at Rome 
 A truth I may not contradict 
 The influence that brought this ill about, 
 Is sinful in itself, a scandal too, 
 His Holiness may not favor. 
 
 King. Now, by my crown, I swear 
 Jane Shore. My liege Edward My King hear 
 me! 
 
A King's Love. 217 
 
 This good man speaks the truth ; 
 I pray you patiently to weigh his words, 
 For there is wisdom in them nay, my King, 
 Behind them lie grave dangers to your state ; 
 I see them gathering, dark and ominous. 
 
 King. I am Edward Plantagenet and have no fear ; 
 For that I have no fear am I a king 
 The first unquestioned King of England, 
 As thou sayest truly. You seek to come 
 Between me and my love. She saved my life 
 And risked her own, when friends were few, your grace, 
 And slow to act. To her wise head I owe 
 Since then, the quiet of my reign. Go now, 
 And tell his holiness, the Pope, that she 
 Is Queen my Queen and here I do defy 
 France, Spain, and Burgundy combined, 
 And I will see this England wet with blood 
 Before I brook such insult as this act 
 Of insolent interference. 
 
 (CARDINAL moves as if to leave.) 
 
 Jane Shore. Stay, your grace. 
 Is this the recompense, my King, 
 For my poor love and service ? Think 
 You do not put yourself, but me, in front 
 To meet the scorn, the biting scorn, the wrath 
 Of all the world, and I am but a woman ; 
 19 
 
218 A King's Love. 
 
 No king for men to fear, but weak and helpless. 
 
 Ah ! good, my King, let me go hence 
 
 To some obscure retreat, where I may pray 
 
 Forgiveness for my sins, and heaven's aid 
 
 For you. 'T is for your good, and oh, my King, 
 
 For mine, for I am sick at heart 
 
 And weary of this strife ; I can not, dare not 
 
 Bear it more. 
 
 St. John. My liege, I take my leave. You have, oh, 
 
 King, 
 
 In this fair friend, the wisest counsellor, 
 And in this last request the crown 
 Of all her good advice. (Exit.) 
 
 King. You weary of me, Jane ? 
 
 Jane Shore. Ah ! No, my King, I weary of the load 
 That I have carried, lo these many years. 
 
 King. A load What load ? 
 
 Jane Shore. Of sin and shame. 
 
 King. Is it not brightened by my love ? For thine 
 Would I commit much sin, my Jane. 
 Nay, do I not carry much the larger part ? 
 My spouse, Elizabeth, and her pious friends 
 Leave me scant peace of mind, or rest 
 Of body either. You have no husband 
 To snarl and carp, and so to make the home 
 More dismal than it was. 
 
A King's Love. 219 
 
 Jane Shore. So long as I could serve you by my love, 
 My love was at your service. Now 't is changed. 
 I am a burden. Your enemies 
 Wax strong and insolent, and all 
 Because of our relation. Ah ! let me go, 
 My King. 
 
 King. Yes, for a little while, we will deceive 
 The knaves, and have it widely blown about, 
 That you have taken refuge in a convent, Jane. 
 Ah ! as I rode hither, my good brother, 
 The Duke of Gloucester, in De Greville's half, 
 Asked me the hand of Alice, for it seems 
 The miser is infatuated with the maid, 
 That he, like to another Pluto, carried off. 
 
 Jane Shore. Edward, my master, you will give denial 
 To this montrous thing. 
 
 King. And why should I refuse ? The girl 's in luck ; 
 My Lord De Greville is old and miserly. 
 Avarice has made him rich, old age, i' faith, 
 Leaves him scant time to hoard his gains, and then 
 He '11 leave the wench a widow handsome, young, 
 And merry too for some gallant to love. 
 
 Jane Shore. Edward, my King, have I asked much of 
 
 you, 
 In all these years of loving servitude ? 
 
 King. Asked naught, my Jane. You might have had 
 
220 A King's Love. 
 
 For asking, titles, wealth, and station ; 
 But you put these away, remaining here 
 Plain Mistress Shore. 
 
 Jane Shore. And then, at last, I ask a little thing 
 Give me my Alice. 
 
 King. Against the girl's own good ? Now, sweetheart, 
 
 pause ! 
 
 There is not a daughter of the noblest house 
 In all the land, but would accept 
 And think herself most fortunate. 
 He's rich and noble short of life 
 A few years and the wife 's a widow, puss. 
 
 Jane Shore. Each year an age of torture ; 
 Each year an age of degradation and abuse. 
 We sell to servitude her bloom of youth ; 
 We bargain off her innocence, 
 Her loving trust in human life, 
 And think to recompense in gold 
 The loss of all that makes our life so precious. 
 
 King. God's wot, but this is troublesome ! Why, Jane, 
 1 did offend this baron grievously, 
 When I made him to kneel before the grinning court 
 And humbly sue for pardon at your feet. 
 There 's discontent throughout the land, 
 It simmers to a boil. One flash the more 
 May set the cauldron boiling, 
 
A King's Love. 221 
 
 When Warwick fell, the brain went out, 
 But left the life, and fangs, and poison. 
 These Barons are not wise, but well they know 
 That instigated by the Church at Rome, 
 All Europe gathers to a bloody war with us. 
 I must be prudent, and my little minister 
 Will not throw troubles in my way. 
 I must appease De Greville. 
 
 Jane Shore. Ah, Edward, my loved King, you do not 
 
 know 
 
 The sacrifice you ask ? I '11 go my ways, 
 Give all that 's left of life to solitude 
 And prayers but leave me Alice; 
 Good my King 
 
 (Noise without Enter SIR MARMADUKE and ALICE.) 
 
 Sir Mar. Mistress Shore, I here restore your ward, 
 All safe and well a little ruffled, dame, 
 As a poor bird would be that but escapes 
 An ugly beak and claw. Your majesty. 
 
 King. Now man, who made-thee sheriff, and gave 
 
 thee 
 The right to interfere in this ? 
 
 Sir Mar. Your Majesty, when on the field 
 Of Gladsmoor, sire, you dubbed me knight, 
 And made it my duty to protect the weak, 
 And, wherever found, attack the wrong. 
 
222 A King's Love. 
 
 Pardon, your majesty, when we possessed 
 With little trouble Lord De Greville's house, 
 I caught the man escaping with these papers. 
 I choked them from him, for he seemed to care 
 More for the papers than the maid. 
 My fair betrothed tells me, for she reads, 
 These be of grave importance to your majesty. (Gives 
 papers.) * 
 
 Jane Shore (embracing Alice) . 
 My little one my precious and cruel men 
 Would take thee from me. 
 
 Lady Alice. Right glad was I, dear mistress, to escape. 
 I feared no one would dare to rescue me. 
 But there is treason in that gloomy house ; 
 The Duke of Gloucester 
 
 Jane Shore. Hush ! my child. 
 
 King. (To Marmaduke and Alice.) Give me leave, I 
 
 have a word 
 
 With Mistress Shore. (Sir Marmaduke and Alice exeunt.) 
 This treason is more forward than I thought. 
 Here is a letter from our enemy of France, 
 And here 's a list of traitors covering all the land, 
 And here a compact duly signed. 
 De Greville knows I have these. While I speak 
 Doubtless the horde is rising. Well for us 
 We got such timely warning. 
 
A King's Love. 223 
 
 Jane Shore. De Greville should not know you are 
 
 advised. 
 
 Send Hastings to him quickly to consider his request 
 As if no papers ever reached your hand. 
 Then to the Tower speedily consign the men 
 This compact names. 
 
 King. Wise little head, you counsel well. 
 If we are not too late 
 
 (Enter from balcony JOHN SHORE.) 
 What means this bold intrusion ? 
 
 John Shore. That is a question, King, I well might ask, 
 If, in the fiction of the law, a wife 
 Remains a husband's property, his home 
 A castle. 
 
 King. Who are you, man, that like a thief 
 You steal over the wall into our presence? 
 
 John Shore. Your guard denied me entrance at the 
 
 door, 
 
 So I made bold to climb the wall, my liege. 
 And for my rough intrusion here, I beg 
 Pardon of your majesty. 
 
 King. Who are you, man ? What is your will ? 
 
 John Shore. Ask that woman. 
 
 Jane Shore. I do not know him, sire. 
 
 John Shore. And have my whitened locks and sunken 
 eyes, 
 
224 A King's Love. 
 
 My cheeks so channeled by my bitter tears, 
 
 My form so bent by load of misery, 
 
 Have these so altered me you know me not ? 
 
 My liege, I am a hated Lorrilard 
 
 But lately pardoned, and to the scorn of men 
 
 I 'm known as Shore John Shore 
 
 The husband of a wife used by the King. 
 
 Xing. And do you seek that wife, old man ? 
 
 John Shore. Nay, my liege. That wife to me is dead. 
 She has been dead to me these many years. 
 I want no rotting corpse to call my wife, 
 For God dissolves the marriage tie in death. 
 Death enters with corruption. My wife is dead. 
 
 King. What do you seek here then ? 
 
 John Shore. I come to claim my child, my Alice. 
 Her I would take from out this charnel house 
 To my poor home. A dreary place, O King, 
 And desolate, but pure. 
 
 King. Why, mistress, how is this? His child your 
 child? 
 
 Jane Shore. He speaks but truth, my liege. I could 
 
 not bear 
 
 My child should know her mother as she is, 
 I brought her up in ignorance of my right 
 But not my love. The father hath the better claim. 
 
A King's Love. 225 
 
 I pray you leave to us this woeful scene 
 Of settlement. 
 
 King. That as you will, for on my soul 
 I have work enough on hand. Adieu. {Exit.) 
 
 Jane Shore. I beg you, sir, to stand apart 
 But for a little space, that I may say some words 
 To this dear child, who needs persuasion, sir, 
 To make her leave me. 
 
 John Shore. Be brief. Your words are poison to her. 
 Your very presence is a taint. 
 
 Jane Shore. I know 't is so and humbly crave consent. 
 
 (She goes up the stage she calls Alice enter Alice.) 
 My child, here J s one who comes to us as from the dead, 
 Who has the right to take you from me. 
 Lady Alice. Sir Marmaduke ? 
 Jane Shore. No, my poor girl more potent than a 
 
 lover. 
 
 One heaven made your guardian in your birth ; 
 Your parent, child. 
 
 Lady Alice. Never have I known but one to love, 
 Who, loving me with tender, patient care, 
 Has made me all her own. 
 
 {Seeks to embrace her. JANE SHORE restrains her.) 
 Jane Shore. You make my test too hard. Be patient 
 
 child, 
 And hear me out. It is my wish nay, more, 
 
226 A King's Love. 
 
 'Tis my command that you should go 
 
 With this good gentleman, who has a claim 
 
 Far better, higher than mine own. (Aside.) For when 
 
 I ceased 
 To be a wife, I ceased to be a mother. 
 
 Lady Alice. Madam, I do not comprehend. 
 
 Jane Shore. Ah ! may you never know the anguish of 
 
 the knowing. 
 
 I must be brief or fail. When you were but a babe 
 It was decreed that children of the heretics 
 Should be taken from their parents and reared 
 Within the bosom of the mother Church. 
 To save you from that fate, your mother, child, 
 Did give you to a friend, a Catholic friend. 
 In all the cruel ills that followed them, 
 Robbed, banished, and abused, the scorn of men, 
 The wrath of government, and the cruel persecutions 
 Of an outraged church, the parents knew 
 That you were safe, and took comfort in the knowledge. 
 It was long after when I found you, child, 
 And took you to my home and heart, 
 To see you grow to womanhood, 
 Pure amid impurity. I took you up an angel, 
 And an angel now I give you to your father. 
 
 Lady Alice. Ah! do not send me from you. I do 
 
 know 
 
A King's Love. 227 
 
 But one to love. You are to me a mother 
 My mother. (Embraces her.) 
 
 Jane Shore. My child ! my child ! Ah me ! but this is hard. 
 In parting with you I do part with life, 
 And all is dark before me. Go, my child, 
 And put your cloak about you, for 'tis cold 
 Ah ! bitter cold without. 
 
 (Exit LADY ALICE. During this scene JOHN SHORE 
 gradually draws near.) 
 
 John Shore. I never thought to call you by that name 
 Made sacred by the Lord. But he forgives, 
 Why should I not forgive ? Jane, come to me. 
 We will forget the past. My home is poor 
 And humble, yet it is a home. There you 
 In penance, and we both in prayer, may find 
 Forgiveness for the guilty past. 
 
 Jane Shore. Ah ! no, my friend, it may not be. 
 For I have lived in peace with her 
 For that she did not know me. Now 
 To stand by my mine own hearth, and feel 
 The horrors of a tainted mother, feel 
 The pitying anguish of her loving heart, 
 To have you suffer all the scorn of men 
 Because like Christ you could forgive 
 An erring wife ah ! no. The torture were too great. 
 I can not I can not. 
 
228 A King's Love. 
 
 John Shore. You bear the cross, yet shrink in mean- 
 est fear 
 
 From the great sacrifice through which to win 
 Forgiveness of your loathsome guilt. Live on, 
 Live on in guilded rottenness. 
 
 Jane Shore. Do not curse me, John. 
 
 John Shore. Christ said, let him without sin cast 
 The first stone. I without sin do cast 
 These stones at thee, 
 
 Thou tainted mother and adulterous wife, 
 Thou whited sepulcher, thou living lie ! 
 
 Jane Shore. Oh ! mercy, John. Have mercy. 
 
 John Shore. The mercy that thou gavest me 
 I do return with interest. 
 
 By the blighted hearthstone and the ruined home, 
 I lift my voice to God and pray for vengeance. 
 When thine awful hour comes, as come it must, 
 May all my blasted years of bitterness and shame, 
 May the long, slow agony of a broken heart, 
 Be crowded into seconds of thy dying life. 
 By God forgotten, may thy hell-haunted soul 
 Sink hopeless in thy agony. 
 
 Jane Shore (who has sunk to the floor during this curse 
 rises wearily.} 'T were better you had left me 
 dead. 
 Your words are blows that stun, and that is all. 
 
A King's Love. 229 
 
 You have no curse more awful than my conscience, 
 No doom more dreadful than to be myself. 
 When your life was spared, my fate was sealed. 
 My sin has found me ere I did confess my sin 
 And got forgiveness in repentance. Now 
 Shall I hear ringing in my hollow ears, 
 Too late, too late, forever. 
 
 John Shore. Amen, amen, amen. 
 Jane Shore. You should have spared your impreca- 
 tions, 
 
 For they will settle on your own unhappy head. 
 Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, 
 The blows you strike reach to your heart, 
 For we are one whatever fate betide, 
 And from this out, the pale affrighted face 
 Of her you love will haunt you till you die. 
 She will walk with you in your walks, 
 Sit at your board, sleep in your bed, 
 And the poor face in pitiful appeal 
 Will cause your heart more anguish 
 Than your wrath. 
 
 (Enter LADY ALICE in cloak and hood.) 
 Ah ! this is bitter, my child. 
 
 Lady Alice. My mother;! (They embrace. JOHN SHORE 
 madly tears LADY ALICE away and drags her to the door.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
23 ^ King's Love. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE: Banqueting hall in house of JANE SHORE; a table 
 spread as for a feast. On the right a smaller table with silver 
 pitcher and two goblets. Deep recesses or arched ways on both 
 sides. WHITHOLD and MARGERY discovered. 
 
 Margery. What say you, Master Whithold ? 
 
 Whithold. That the government sups here to-night. 
 
 Margery. By my troth, but it is a small supper for so 
 large a body. 
 
 Whithold. The government, Margery, stands six feet 
 two in its stockings, and is well proportioned. 
 
 Margery. You mean His Majesty the King? 
 
 Whithold. His Majesty the King, since the death of 
 Warwick, King Maker, is the government of England. 
 
 Margery. I do see thy meaning. 
 
 Whithold. Much praise to thy feminine sagacity; and 
 yet, if thou seest my meaning, it is more than I see. For 
 if the truth could be told, without getting the truth in the 
 stocks, the government of England is not his most sacred 
 Majesty, but her most pleasing grace, Mistress Shore. 
 
 Margery. So it is said ; and yet she has not power to 
 retain sweet Lady Alice, who is gone from us this day. 
 
 Whithold. And, is it true, fair Margery, the supposed 
 dead heretic, John Shore, took her home ? 
 
A King's Love. 231 
 
 Margery. Aye, good Master Whithold, and with much 
 weeping. And Sir Marmaduke was much angered; while 
 Mistress Shore is as pale as my smock. 
 
 Whithold. Pale as thy smock, good Margery, is well 
 said. Faith now, can I see Mistress Shore's very paleness. 
 And the King, Margery, sups here to-night, and Lord De 
 Greville to conclude differences, doth furnish the enter- 
 tainment, Margery. 
 
 Margery. Master Whithold. 
 
 Whithold. Were I Mistress Shore, I should not care 
 to eat Lord De Greville's viands, nor drink of his wine. 
 Beware of the enemy bearing gifts. Thus did the Greeks 
 give to the Trojans a wooden horse, and the wooden horse 
 gave birth to armed men, that did burn and kill. 
 
 Margery. A most scurvy trick. 
 
 Whithold. A joke on the Trojans. Give Mistress 
 Shore a hint to neither eat nor drink. If the Lord De 
 Greville, who holdeth so fast to a coin that the coin doth 
 cry out, cares to poison the government of England, good 
 Margery, let him have his will ; but I would fain see your 
 mistress escape acquaintance with that dame, we all know 
 too well, called Misfortune. 
 
 Margery. That I will; for let the world say what it 
 may, she is a good, kind mistress. 
 
 Whithold. Misfortune ? 
 
232 A King's Love. 
 
 Margery. No, indeed; Mistress Shore. But you are 
 sad to-day, good Master Whithold. 
 
 Whithold. Yea, verily; I am down as a chicken-cock 
 on a damp day, as full of spleen as a sick dog, and as 
 suspicious and irritable as a jealous wife. Now could I 
 prophesy evils to the land, of sudden deaths, civil dis- 
 orders, and great wars. Now harken 
 When friars fat rich food deny ; 
 
 When lordly bishops drink no wine ; 
 When merchant's wives alone do lie; 
 And Hebrews eat forbidden swine; 
 When misers give the poor their gold; 
 When honest men are put in place; 
 And when to maidens truths are told ; 
 
 When lovers lie not to the face ; 
 When bakers give to bread its weight ; 
 
 When tapsters water not good drink; 
 When honor serves the king and state; 
 When women tell us all they think ; 
 When thieves no longer purses steal ; 
 
 When robber turns to saintly priest; 
 When honest traders honest deal; 
 
 When modest worth is not the least; 
 When mothers truly see their young ; 
 When widows plan not to deceive ; 
 
A King 's Love. 233 
 
 When scandal holds its busy tongue; 
 
 Then will good people cease to grieve. 
 And let the final prayer be said; 
 For, on my soul, the devil's dead. Amen. 
 (Enter FRIAR BUNGAY.) 
 
 (To Margery aside.) Here is one, good Margery, who 
 will make us sport Friar Bungay, the court astrologer. 
 Good even to you, Father Bungay an' thou readest the 
 stars. 
 
 Bungay. Yes, lively Master Whithold. It is given to 
 me to read the stars, and in them the destiny of men. 
 
 Whithold. And many a wise astrologer, who reads the 
 stars, falleth most scurvily in a ditch. 
 
 Bungay. He who reads the stars falls not, merry Master 
 Whithold. 
 
 Whithold. Seeth he the ditch in the stars ? 
 
 Bungay. Of a verity, my son. 
 
 Whithold. Then are the heavens ditched ? Most vile 
 heaven that hath bogs in it. 
 
 Bungay. You take not my meaning. 
 
 Whithold. I will take any thing of thee, friar, but thy 
 blessing and thy drugs. 
 
 Bungay. Yet have I cured many sick. 
 
 IVhithold. Of a truth ; for the dead are cured of their 
 disorders. 
 
 Bungay. Go to, go to. I would have thee grave. 
 20 
 
234 A King's Love. 
 
 Whithold. Go to my grave ? Thanks, friar ; it serves 
 my purpose best to remain alive. Friar, art thou versed 
 in palmistry ? Canst thou read in the lines of the hand 
 the future, good father ? 
 
 Bungay. Yea, verily. That is not so deep an art as 
 the language of the stars. 
 
 Whithold. Look, then, upon my hand, good Friar 
 Bungay, and see if thou findest a rope or a rich widow. 
 
 Bungay. Give me your hand, merry master, and I 
 will make effort to find short shrift or fair widow. (WRIT- 
 HOLD passes MARGERY'S arm under his right, and presents her 
 hand to the friar?) Nay, good Whithold, court jester to 
 the king; but thy hand is soft and fair as that of a woman, 
 and it hath strange lines. The line of love is much 
 broken : as if thou hast been deceiving and deceived, 
 good jester; jilted and jilting, my jester. (MARGERY strug- 
 gles, but WHITHOLD holds her}; and I see a child, but never 
 a father. I find no rope, nor yet a widow; but, my soul 
 to heaven, Master Whithold, that is strange thou wilt die 
 in childbed. 
 
 (MARGERY breaks away and assaults FRIAR BUNGAY." 
 She knocks off his tall hat, glasses, and wig, showing him to 
 be far younger than he appeared.} 
 
 Whithold. A miracle, a miracle ! Father Bungay, 
 thou art restored to thy youth by the quick hand of the 
 little witch. 
 
A King's Love. 235 
 
 Bungay. A pest on thy pranks. I '11 have thee 
 hanged, Master Whithold ; and, as for you, mistress, 
 there be stocks in the pillory for thy heels. 
 
 Whithold. Come, Margery come, fair Margery ; thou 
 art a greater witch than he a wizard. He did father thy 
 child, but thou didst restore his youth. 
 
 (Exit WHITHOLD, with MARGERY. FRIAR BUNGAY re- 
 arranges his dress.) 
 
 Bungay. If a man hath trouble come to him, let him 
 be assured a woman fetches it, or a woman sends it. 
 Since the day the first woman listened to the serpent, and 
 set Adam to robbing an orchard, she hath been possessed 
 of the devil, and brings naught to innocent man, such 
 as I, but mischief. 
 
 (Enter DE GREVILLE.) 
 
 De Greville. Art here! Tis well. Now, listen, 
 
 man: 
 
 This strumpet, Shore, hath all our secrets, 
 And thou, who read'st the stars, must learn of me. 
 She holds a halter for thy neck, an ax for mine, 
 And death to nearly all that's left 
 Of England's barons. 
 
 Bungay. Then, my lord, we better get out of this. 
 
 De Greville. Tush, man. She hath not yet revealed 
 the plot; 
 
236 A King^s 'Love. 
 
 But holds our papers, like a cunning witch, 
 Suspended o'er our heads. 
 
 Bungay. What, then, my lord ? 
 
 DC Greville. Death, friar; death. The dead reveal 
 
 no plots. 
 
 Hearken ! The king sups here to-night, 
 lie hath invited us, which proves 
 He knows not yet of our intent. 
 It is his wont, at parting with the witch, 
 To pledge her health in wine. Her cup 
 Must hold that poison you have brewed, 
 That works so deadly sudden and 
 Leaves no trace behind. See, friar, 
 To thy hand there are the goblets and 
 The wine. See that thou failest not ; 
 Or, if you do, your neck's not worth the hemp. 
 
 Bungay. Never fear, my lord. I live to do your 
 bidding. 
 
 De Greville. And die if you but fail. Now go 
 (Exit BUNGAY. Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, disguised.} 
 Whom have we here ? 
 
 Queen. You may well ask, De Greville. (Showing 
 her face.) 
 
 De Greville. The Queen, and in this house and guise ? 
 
 Queen. Yes ; and from this house I do not go, 
 'Til I have seen this witch, De Greville, 
 
A King^s Love. 237 
 
 I fain would look upon the power 
 
 That lives so strangely twixt my lord, and me, 
 
 His lawful wife. 
 
 De Greville. But the King comes here anon. 
 Queen. Aye ! aye! anon, and none too seldom, man. 
 I will find the secret of this witchery 
 That shames our court. What is the power 
 That wins a king such as our Edward was ? 
 
 Enter JANE SHORE. 
 Jane Shore. Good even, Lord De Greville. You are 
 
 kind 
 
 To pass so soon our ugly differences. 
 Whom have we here ? 
 
 De Greville. A city dame, good mistress, who would 
 
 speak, 
 
 She tells me, with you alone. 
 For that I take my leave a little space. (Exit.) 
 
 Jane Shore. I 'm at your service, dame what may I do 
 To aid you ? 
 
 Queen. Madam J t is said of you among 
 Our humble city folk you do possess 
 Strange and mysterious power over the hearts 
 Of men. That by some subtle charm or drug 
 You win all minds to do your will, 
 And be most happy in the doing. 
 
 Jane Shore. In other words, I am a witch? 
 
238 A King's Love. 
 
 Queen, Even so. And as I am unfortunate, 
 Most unfortunate, I make so bold 
 To ask your aid, if you may give it me. 
 
 Jane Shore. I fear you overestimate my power. 
 What is the ill you suffer, dame ? 
 
 Queen. I have a husband who did love me once, 
 Loved me so well he brought great trouble 
 To himself for I was low of birth, 
 And, lifting me to share his high estate, 
 He periled all he had. And now 
 He cares naught for me nay, 't is worse, 
 He gives that to another I should have, 
 And leaves me to mourn alone. 
 
 fane Shore. Alas ! poor dame, the ill you grieve 
 Is common to our race. When we may find 
 Means to prevent the fever, stop the plague, 
 Control e'en death itself, we may escape 
 This sickness with the rest. 
 
 Queen. You speak as one who never suffered who 
 Never outwatched the stars, with hungry heart, 
 Listening for steps that never came, 
 Or coming, brought more sorrow in their tread 
 Than tears of solitude and shame. 
 You can not know the anguish of the heart 
 That longs for love once had, yet has no more. 
 
 Jane Shore. The ill each suffers from is life's great ill, 
 
A King's Love. 239 
 
 One's grief is measured by no other grief, 
 Selfish, unreasoning sorrow can not see 
 The agony of others. Doubtless, now, 
 Good dame, you 'd punish sorely 
 The object of your faithless husband's love. 
 
 Queen: Marry would I. 
 
 Jane Shore. And yet she did not seek his love, 
 Nor track him down, nor lie in wait, 
 Nor beg, nor plead, nor threaten worst of all 
 She never sought to win him by the words 
 Made dangerous in their sympathy. 
 And yet what punishment is hers : 
 She knows the day must come when she 
 Will suffer like desertion, and the while 
 A sense of guilty degradation weighs her down. 
 The love man gives his wife looks up, 
 Half love, half adoration, while 
 His guilty love looks down, and like 
 The sun's bright rays when intercepted, 
 They turn to shadows e'er they touch the earth. 
 
 Queen. Faith, Mistress Shore, to hear you plead 
 One would suspect some truth were told 
 In stories from the court. 
 
 Jane Shore. It is not well, good dame, to seek my aid 
 And stab me with your scorn and yet I know 
 Grief makes us all unjust, I pardon you, 
 
240 A King's Love. 
 
 And heaven knows if there be one 
 Whom I have wronged, upon my knees 
 I 'd beg forgiveness. 
 
 Queen. What of the Queen ? 
 
 Jane Shore. Not of the Queen, but of the wife, 
 Men make their Queens, but God alone 
 Doth crown the wife she sits a sovereign in 
 The peaceful home her throne the heart of him 
 She calls her lord, her subjects her sweet babes, 
 Her scepter the humility of love, 
 That sways by softest yielding. 
 
 Queen. And such a home was mine until this wretch 
 Did come between my lord and me. And now 
 I promise you, if e'er she falls 
 Within my grasp, I '11 be as hard 
 And cold and pitiless as the axe itself. 
 
 Jane Shore. And suffer retribution for the wrong you 
 
 do; 
 
 Leave vengeance to the Lord, who cares for all, 
 And brooks no interference. 
 
 Queen. And have you then no charm no subtle drug 
 That I may use to win him back again ? 
 
 Jane Shore. You strangely move me, dame, I fain 
 
 would try 
 
 To aid you if I could. Hold, here 's a charm 
 To me most precious, for it was a mother's gift, 
 
A King's Love. 241 
 
 (Taking amulet from her bosom.) 
 And I have worn it ever next my heart. 
 Do you so wear it, and when your lord 
 After long absence doth return again 
 Then press it to your breast, 't will give you strength 
 To greet him kindly. This, good dame, 
 Gives potent force to this most subtle charm 
 That is destroyed by sullen looks 
 And ugly words. 
 
 And, now, good e'en to you ; 
 When next we meet I trust your ill 
 Will all have passed. 
 
 Queen. (Going and aside.} When next we meet, when 
 
 next we meet, 
 
 The witch hath put spell on me, 
 I 'm in a daze, and not myself. 
 
 (The KING enters, and the QUEEN hastily muffling her 
 face makes hurried exit.) 
 
 King. Who was it, Jane, that hurried hence 
 In such unseemly way. As she did pass 
 I caught a gleam fierce as a tigress, 
 And shot like lightning at me from her eyes. 
 
 Jane Shore. Naught but a city dame, poor thing. 
 She came to me for spell or drug 
 To win her truant husband back again. 
 
 King. These women nurse their little sorrows till 
 
 21 
 
242 A King*s Love. 
 
 They swell to mountains in their own esteem. 
 A city wife, forsooth, and she hath griefs 
 Like to a Queen. Well, wisest little friend, 
 We have invited the conspirators, 
 At least all those that we could reach, 
 With pleasant invitation, here to sup 
 With us to night. They little dream 
 The entertainment that awaits them. 
 
 Jane Shore. Is it not strange, my liege, that one at 
 
 least 
 
 That one De Greville does not e'en suspect 
 The storm that's brewing. He must surely know 
 You have his tell-tale papers. 
 
 King. Not so, my Jane, for from a spy I learn 
 He thinks you hold this damning proof 
 In terror o'er their heads. 
 
 (Enter DE GREVILLE and sundry other lords.) 
 Welcome, good friends, most welcome here. 
 Why, De Greville, this is kind indeed, 
 You are a Christian man to thus forgive 
 And put my faith to blush the smitten cheek 
 Is turned, that on the other side 
 Good Mistress Shore may kiss, not smite, 
 And no Judas kiss, my lord. 
 
 De Greville. Your jest my liege, hath in it 
 Something of a sting. 
 
A King's Love. 243 
 
 King. Tush, man 't is but a jest, a sorry jest. 
 Come, good my lords, now gather round the board; 
 You are most welcome. 
 
 ( They seat themselves, and as they do so, a monk, in gown and 
 cowl, coming from the arched ways on each side, places himself 
 behind each guest, while the tramp of troops' is heard without^ 
 
 King. Before you, gentlemen, is the feast 
 Prepared by our De Greville ; behind, 
 Is service of our own. (They rise.) 
 Nay, keep your seats, it will be long 
 Ere you may sup again. The ancients, lords, 
 Were wont to have at banquets such as this 
 A grinning, eyeless skull, which said 
 Laugh and be merry, for to-morrow death. 
 You start ; this is not well, for you, my lords, 
 Do hold in trust the honor of old England. 
 To your wise heads and patriotic hearts 
 We look for aid and comfort at all times. 
 And it were ill for us for you to fail, 
 Now that our enemies combine to do us ill. 
 Lord Anthony of Scales, our kinsman too, 
 In whose behalf we periled once our crown, 
 May we not trust in you ? Lord Dorset, too, 
 Another kinsman we have favored much. 
 Lord Willoughby, we spared your wide domain, 
 When, through your father's treason, it was lost. 
 
244 A King's Love. 
 
 John Ratcliffe, you did us service once, 
 
 And by that token should be true as steel. 
 
 And the wise and rich De Greville here. 
 
 Why these are friends we have to sup with us; 
 
 You should be joyous, yet you look disturbed. 
 
 And can it be we are in error, lords ; 
 
 Are your strange looks but mirrors of your hearts? 
 
 Are we surrounded here to-night by foes, 
 
 Not friends ? We heard as much. A little bird 
 
 Did whisper in our ears broad discontent 
 
 Was on the land, for that we favors cast 
 
 On a poor lady, who, unlike you all, 
 
 Had served with zeal the crown, nor asked reward 
 
 For her rare service. Yet to-night you see 
 
 We treat such whispers as vile slanders. 
 
 You xio not eat nor drink. Why is it, friends, 
 
 You treat with such discourtesy our feast? 
 
 De Greville. We hope, my liege, after this mask is o'er 
 To eat with better appetites. (Murmurs about the table.} 
 
 King. After this mask is o'er we fear, good friends, 
 You '11 have small need of appetites. 
 
 De Greville. Now come we to the point. Good my liege, 
 We all are gentlemen. Whether we live or die, 
 We have a right to treatment fitting such. (Murmurs.) 
 
 King. Gramercy man, but you are hard to please ! 
 Who talks of dying at a feast like this? 
 
A King's Love. 245 
 
 You all are honorable, sirs, of course, 
 
 And this a feast in which to harmonize. 
 
 Then fill your glasses, bumpers all, we drink 
 
 To our fair hostess. Fetch here our wine. 
 
 {During this speech FRIAR BUNG AY steals in, poisons one 
 of the goblets, that WHITHOLD, watching hint, changes.} 
 
 Knaves, why do ye loiter ? Our wine y at once. 
 
 (BUNGAY seizes the goblet and gives it to the KING.) 
 
 What, our astrologer turned a Ganymede ? 
 
 This is a jest indeed ! Why gentlemen, 
 
 You will not pledge ; then, Mistress Shore, drink we 
 
 Safe journey to the tower, and the block 
 
 And comfort to them in the land beyond. (Drinks.) 
 
 Tush, loving subjects, in our hands we hold 
 
 Proof enough of treason to behead 
 
 A thousand such as you. (After a pause.) 
 
 Say to my brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, 
 
 His prisoners are ready. (Staggers, and clutches at the near- 
 est monk.) 
 
 I am not well ; I pray you bear me hence. 
 
 What pain is this that clutches at my heart 
 
 And blinds my sight? Gently, gently,, friends. (They bear 
 
 him out.) 
 
 Bungay. (Aside to DE GREVILLE.) The jester, Whit- 
 hold changed the cups 
 
 The king hath not an hour to live. 
 
246 A King^s Love. 
 
 De Greville. 'T 's just as well. In Gloucester's hands 
 Our heads are more secure. 
 
 (To the company?) His Majesty is sick nigh unto death, 
 And in the name of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, 
 I do arrest Jane Shore. I call on you, 
 My lords, to aid me in my duty. 
 
 (They gather hurriedly about JANE SHORE.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE: Westminster. JANE SHORE, SIR MARMADUKE 
 WOODVILLE, her advocate and guard, discovered. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke. The papers that I seized and gave 
 
 the King 
 
 Held damning proof, you say, of plots against 
 His Majesty, now dead? 
 
 Jane Shore. So the king did say to me, 
 And after charged it on the lords 
 Assembled at the supper in my house. 
 
 Sir Mar. And what became of them ? 
 
 Jane Shore. Alas ! I do not know. My liege 
 Did take them with him ; when, that night, 
 He went from our last supper to his death, 
 The papers strangely disappeared. 
 I do believe, Sir Marmaduke, 
 
A King's Love. 247 
 
 De Greville's party, like ourselves, 
 Are lost in wonder at their sudden loss, 
 For since my short imprisonment 
 They 've offered help to me, if I, at once, 
 Would give them up those fatal proofs. 
 They should apply to Gloucester. 
 For some dark reason, 't is my belief 
 He holds those proofs as bonds 
 Against the ruthless barons. 
 
 Sir Mar. But why charge you with witchcraft, 
 And force you to this trial ? 
 
 fane Shore. The dead alone, my friend, are safe 
 With this man, whose malignjnfluence 
 Has made him feared by stronger men than he ; 
 His gentle manner gloves an iron hand, 
 His quiet covers dark and deep designs, 
 His smile is winter's sunlight cast on ice, 
 Or lightning gleam of teeth the tiger shows 
 When its lip it lifts in anger ere its springs. 
 He has the subtle beauty of the snake, 
 That terrifies while yet it charms to kill. 
 The Duke has done no open wrong to me, 
 But I am in his way, and I have felt, 
 As nature gives each one to feel 
 The presence of its enemy, when he is near. 
 
 {Enter CARDINAL ST. JOHN and Church dignitaries, the 
 
248 A King's Love. 
 
 DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, DE GREVILLE, and lords. The Lord 
 Cardinal takes the chair, and lords spiritual and lords tempo- 
 ral range themselves on either side. Enter WHITHOLD, FRIAR 
 BUNGAY, and attendants?) 
 
 Jane Shore. His grace, the Cardinal, who knows me 
 
 well, 
 
 Will surely see that I have justice here. 
 There is De Faulk, whose large domain 
 I saved to him through favor with the king. 
 Trouville, too, hath favors at my hand. 
 They all, save Gloucester, owe me much. 
 
 Sir Mar. The hungry hound forgets the food 
 Given him but yesterday. Mistress Shore 
 These men are all ashamed of gifts 
 From any one, but most of all from you. 
 
 Cardinal. Jane Shore. 
 
 Jane Shore. Your grace. 
 
 Cardinal. You '11 hear the charges now preferred 
 By counsel of the state, wherein 
 You stand accused of sin and crime, 
 'Gainst God and man. For this are we 
 Assembled here, to give you trial 
 On our most sacred oaths. Hear, then, and plead. 
 
 King's Counsel. {Reads?) Jane Shore, of London, 
 we present, as guilty of divers crimes and misdemeanors 
 against the law of God, and against the peace and dignity 
 
A King's Love. 249 
 
 of the realm, to wit : that for the year last past, and many 
 years previous thereto, moved by a heart prone to evil, 
 and instigated by Satan, she did practice the unholy arts 
 of witchcraft, to the confusion and wrong of many honest 
 people ; that, thus dealing in a deadly art, she wrought 
 strangely and wrongfully upon his late Sacred Majesty, the 
 King Edward Plantagenet, known as Edward IV., and so 
 practicing, his Sacred Majesty living did languish, and 
 languishing did die. 
 
 Cardinal. You hear plead you guilty or not guilty ? 
 
 Jane Shore. Good my lords spiritual and temporal, 
 To all these several charges I here plead 
 Not guilty, and pray you give me patient hearing. 
 
 King's Counsel. Francis Bungay, friar, stand forth 
 and be sworn. (FRIAR BUNGAY steps forward.} 
 
 Jane Shore. My lords, and Lord Cardinal, 
 If this man be witness 'gainst me, I pray 
 That he be heard without the mockery of an oath. 
 His hand that he would hold to God 
 Is stained with human blood. Nay, more, 
 His soul is seared by wickedness too foul 
 For such appeal. 
 
 Cardinal. Mistress Shore, we must admonish you 
 To be more guarded in your speech. (Confers with King's 
 Counsel^) 
 
250 A King's Love. 
 
 It is her right the oath is her protection. 
 Proceed without it if she so demands. 
 
 King's Counsel. What do you know of defendant's 
 
 practice, 
 As set forth in these charges ? 
 
 Bungay. I know that they are true. 
 Cardinal. Well, proceed. 
 
 Bungay. For weeks I was an inmate of her house, 
 Through favor of His Majesty the King. 
 And I do know she had a waxen image 
 Of his grace, the Duke of Gloucester. 
 
 Jane Shore. Alack ! what monstrous lie is this ? 
 
 Bungay. In the right arm of this foul thing, 
 Did she with desperate curses and deep spells 
 Fix many pins to wither and destroy 
 His grace's sacred limb. 
 
 Duke. And, by St. Paul, with some success, my lords, 
 For see my arm is robbed of its fair shape. (Shows his arm.} 
 
 Jane Shore. Your grace, if this be proof against me, 
 Then did I cast the spell that made you lame, 
 While in your mother's womb. For well 'tis known 
 You came forth thence thus sadly marred, for which 
 We all lament. Alas ! I was not born 
 When that occurred. 
 
 Duke. Are we assembled here to wag our tongues 
 In disputations with a noisy witch ? 
 
A King's Love. 251 
 
 Cardinal. Again, Jane Shore, I do admonish you 
 That these unseemly interruptions 
 Offend the court and give no aid to you. 
 
 Jane Shore. I am a helpless woman, pleading for my 
 
 life, 
 
 If I mistake, for I am ignorant, 
 I pray you pardon me my error. 
 My counsel, learned in the law, 
 Tells me that I may put all falsehood 
 To the question let its source be what it may- 
 For that we English people have no fear 
 To calmly face the truth, though truth be death, 
 Stand I on English ground, my lords, 
 In whose pure soil oppression can not thrive. 
 Nay, is it not our boast, well known abroad, 
 That in this air of England injustice dies, 
 And that we all have equal standing here 
 Before the law ? I pray you, then, give space 
 To my poor efforts. 
 
 Cardinal. You may proceed. 
 
 Jane Shore. Thanks, my lord. (To the friar.') 
 Witness, is not your name, your real name, 
 Francis Capello ? 
 
 Bungay. My name is Francis Bungay. 
 
 Jane Shore. Were you not driven in disgrace 
 From your good order near to Florence ; 
 
252 A King's Love. 
 
 After, condemned for murder of your mistress, 
 And only saved from ignominious death 
 By pleading of your privilege ? 
 
 Cardinal. Nay, Mistress Shore, the law which now 
 
 you quote 
 
 Tells us the witness shall not criminate himself. 
 Have you no other proof of what you charge ? 
 
 Jane Shore. He carries that, Lord Cardinal, 
 Upon his shameless body. 
 Bid him but show the court his shoulder. 
 
 (FRIAR BUNGAY falls upon his knees) 
 
 Bungay. I cry for mercy, lords, for I was innocent 
 And most unjustly dealt with. 
 
 Jane Shore. (Suddenly pulling the gown from BUNGAY'S 
 shoulder and revealing the letter "A") 
 See, my lords, his crime and punishment 
 Are burned into his flesh. 
 
 Duke. God's wounds, gentlemen, it seems 
 We 're all on trial save the witch. 
 This man is my retainer, and, as such, 
 I give him my protection 
 Until he hath fair trial. 
 
 Cardinal. Your grace, this is a matter that concerns 
 The church. We can not lend its sacred robes 
 To cover the hangman's brand. Now, take this knave 
 And let him be well guarded. (Exit BUNGAY under guard.} 
 
A King's Love. 253 
 
 Jane Shore. And now, my lords, I pray you let me go 
 In peace. You see I am no witch, 
 But a poor woman, whose fate it was 
 To do a service to her king 
 Wherein there was much peril. If to wake 
 His gratitude for that was witchcraft, 
 Then am I guilty of a grave offense; 
 But all of you do know that he was kind 
 And soft to those he loved, as he was stern 
 To those who waked his wrath. His confidence in me 
 Is much exaggerated, for you see me here 
 A poor woman without so much withal 
 To give me daily bread and gowns enough 
 To shield me from the cold. And I have striven, 
 In my poor way, to aid the more unfortunate 
 Who did incur his anger. If to plead for such, 
 And, pleading, gain their cause, was witchcraft, then 
 Was I a witch. Since when, my lords, 
 Have witches turned peacemakers, to smooth the way 
 Of rough contention and of bitter strife ? 
 I, wicked as I am, boast not of alms ; 
 But none went hungry from my open door, 
 Who sought for food or shelter. E'er was this 
 The work of witches ? My lords, my lords, 
 I pray you let me go in peace ! 
 
 Cardinal. In verity, it seems to me, 
 
254 A King's Love. 
 
 There is no reason, lords, to hold Jane Shore 
 Longer on trial. Naught has been proved here, 
 And I say, let her depart. 
 
 Voices. And I and I and I. 
 
 Duke. Hold not so fast, your grace. 
 There is a witness here we may not doubt. 
 
 Jane Shore. (To MARMADUKE.) Alas ! what does he 
 mean? 
 
 Sir Mar. Some devilish mischief, judging by the grin 
 That curls about his mouth. 
 
 Duke. Her Majesty, the Queen, the hope, my lords, 
 Of mourning England, awaits without. 
 Will you, Lord Cardinal, inform her we attend 
 Her gracious bidding ? 
 
 Cardinal. Most readily, your grace. (xtf.} 
 
 Jane Shore. What can this mean ? What darker cloud 
 Hangs threatening o'er us? 
 
 Sir Mar. I can not tell. We had the court full sure 
 But for this further proof. 
 
 {Re-enter CARDINAL, escorting QUEEN ELIZABETH in deep 
 mourning?) 
 
 Cardinal. We '11 hear, your Majesty, all you may say 
 Concerning crimes with which Jane Shore, 
 Defendant here, stands charged. Is it your wish 
 The Queen be sworn? 
 
A King's Love. 255 
 
 Jane Shore. Nay, nay, my lords, an oath would add 
 
 no weight 
 To what the Queen may say. 
 
 Cardinal. Know you this woman ? 
 
 Queen. Much to my sorrow, I did know her long 
 As one who had strange power o'er my lord, 
 And on that very day he sought my arms to die, 
 I visited her home in such disguise 
 She did not know me, and in such Hisguise 
 She did confess to me her crime. 
 
 Jane Shore. Your Majesty ! 
 
 Queen. I told her my trouble, still disguised, 
 And asked her by what power, charm, or drug 
 She won the hearts of men and crazed their brain, 
 So that they knew not right from wrong, nor knew 
 Their duty to their homes nor their poor wives. 
 The witch seemed moved by this. 
 
 Jane Shore. Alas ! my better feelings blinded me 
 To the cruel snare right at my wretched feet. 
 
 Queen. Thus moved she gave to me a subtle charm 
 Of rarest power, so she said, which I was urged 
 To wear upon my heart, and here it is. (Gives charm.) 
 
 Cardinal* Unhappy woman, have you aught to say 
 In answer to such fearful proof as this ? 
 
 Jane Shore. Naught, my lord. Her Majesty, the 
 Queen, 
 
256 ; A King's Love. 
 
 Hath told the truth naught but the truth and yet 
 Not all the truth. 
 
 Cardinal. How dare you intimate a doubt 
 On what you do confess ? 
 
 Jane Shore. I question not, my lord, the fatal proofs 
 Now given by Her Majesty. 
 I only say, she did not tell you all, 
 For all she could not know. Moved by her tale, 
 And thinking her some city dame 
 Troubled to tears by household misery, 
 And while denying still I was a witch, 
 To ease her mind, I gave that amulet, 
 Which I had worn near all my life, 
 Close next my heart, the dearest gift on earth, 
 For it was given me, all wet with tears, 
 By my poor mother on her dying bed. 
 I pray you open it, my lord, and see 
 The sort of wicked charm I gave to her. 
 
 Cardinal. (Opens and reads.) "May he, who bade 
 the children come to him, be father to the orphan." 
 children come to him, be father to the orphan"} 
 
 Duke. This is the devil's own; for well we know 
 The prayers thus used, are prayers read backward, 
 To serve the witch's purpose. 
 
 Jane Shore. I know, I know, my lords I make 
 No further plea. My doom is sealed, 
 My days are numbered, and I here accept 
 
A King's Love. 257 
 
 My shameful death, for deeds I did not do, 
 In expiation of the sins I did commit. 
 One word, your gracious majesty, 
 You have here sworn away my life ; 
 I do forgive, for I have done you wrong. 
 Moved by your piteous tale, I all forgot 
 My proper caution, and I gave to you 
 My dying mother's gift, a blessing then, 
 That in your cruel hand now turns a curse 
 To blight my wretched life. Queen mother- 
 Look to your babes ; see that a mother's prayer, 
 Wrung out in anguish, may not be in vain. 
 When evil comes to you and them 
 For come it will from God, in God's good time, 
 To all who substitute their human wrath 
 For his diviner judgment 
 Look to your babes, oh ! Queen. 
 
 Queen. This woman frightens me 
 
 Duke. Tush, good sister. Am I not here ? 
 May God forget me when I forget 
 You or your precious babes. (Exit with QUEEN.) 
 
 Cardinal. You will make up the judgment, lords, 
 And give the proper form to sentence. (They confer.) 
 
 Jane Shore. (To SIR MARMADUKE.) Be not so grieved, 
 
 my only friend, 
 They do but give to me the common doom. 
 
 22 
 
258 A King's Love. 
 
 We all must die. What recks it now 
 To me that a few wretched days are lost- 
 Wiped from the common score ? 
 
 King's Counsel. Jane Shore, hear the sentence of the 
 court. It is decreed that you, clad in a sheet; in token of 
 your sin, and holding a taper, that all men may see your 
 punishment, shall walk with bare feet the streets of Lon- 
 don till you die. And no man nor woman nor child shall 
 give you to eat or drink, or open shelter to you, on pen- 
 alty of death. May God have mercy on your sinful soul. 
 (Exeunt CARDINAL and court. ) 
 
 Jane Shore. Ah me ! what cruelty is this ? 
 To walk a public scorn until I die. 
 To die in shame upon the cruel streets, 
 As if I were a brute. Nay, worse ; 
 The brute excites some pity in its death, 
 While I have none. Have mercy on me, Jesus \ 
 Oh ! grant me strength to die. Why pray for strength ? 
 Oh ! take my strength, that I may die full soon ! 
 My heart sinks in me, and I shake from fear, 
 It is so terrible. 
 
 Sir Mar. These lords be devils in human form, 
 And Gloucester is the devil of them all. 
 
 Jane Shore. I did think to die without a moan 
 For well I merit death; but, oh ! my friend, 
 This torture is so frightful. 
 
A King's Love. 259 
 
 Sir Mar. (Aside.) Yet must she see her daughter 
 
 ere she die. 
 
 Mistress Shore, fair Alice waits without, 
 Longing to clasp you in her arms. 
 
 Jane Shore. Alice, my own take her away. 
 Take her away. Let her not see me. 
 Ah! never let her know my sort of death. 
 Man, if you care for God, take her away ! 
 
 Sir Mar. Too late. She 's here. (Enter ALICE.) 
 
 Alice. My mother! {Embraces her.) 
 
 Jane Shore. My child ! Why did they fetch you here ! 
 
 Alice. What have they done to you ? Speak ! speak ! 
 My heart is breaking. Oh ! tell me now, 
 What have they done to you, my mother ? 
 
 Jane Shore. You 're not ashamed, my child, to call me 
 
 that, 
 I who have wronged you so ? 
 
 Alice. Ashamed! Why should I be ashamed? 
 You did me wrong in that you did conceal 
 The mother from me. What have they done ? 
 I stood without, and stern old men strode by. 
 I saw the queen her face was troubled ; 
 While the cruel duke of Gloucester smiled. 
 What have they done ? 
 
 Jane Shore. Naught, my child that's worse than ban- 
 ishment 
 From you. 
 
260 A King's Love. 
 
 Alice. But I '11 accompany you, my mother, 
 And soothe your cares, and be your patient nurse. 
 
 Jane Shore. (To SIR MARMADUKE.) For God's sake 
 
 man, come to my aid, 
 Or I shall die. There, there, my child ! 
 Go with him now. I '11 see you, sweet, anon. 
 
 Sir Mar. Come, my Alice, we must hence. 
 We'll soon return. Now, come. 
 
 Alice. I can not. Oh! I can not. (Faints in SIR 
 MARMADUKE'S arms.} 
 
 Jane Shore. One kiss, my little pet, poor little pet ! 
 I '11 never see you more. Farewell ! 
 Now hasten from me ere she can revive. 
 (Exeunt SIR MARMADUKE and ALICE. Enter CARDINAL 
 
 ST. JOHN; JANE SHORE throws herself at his feet.} 
 Oh ! holy father, save me ! Save me ! 
 See the Queen straightway. Plead with her 
 To grant me speedy death. Tell the Duke 
 To give me the rope or block, aught but this 
 Most horrible torture. 
 
 Cardinal. My child, 
 
 A woman's heart when plead to by a woman 
 Is pitiless as death. The Lord Protector, 
 His grace, the Duke of Gloucester, hath in his heart 
 That much of woman and no more. 
 You plead, I 'm pained to say, in vain, 
 For I have prayed them both and prayed in vain. 
 
A King's Love. 261 
 
 Jane Shore. Alas ! what may I do, for I am weak 
 And full of fears? 
 
 Cardinal. Put all your trust in Him, who once like you 
 Carried his cross amid the mocking crowd, 
 So weak, so heavy, and so sick at heart, 
 To die as thou must die. But trust in Him, 
 And he will give you strength to bear your cross. 
 With every feeble step some sin will fall, 
 With every pain your soul will rise more pure, 
 And death will not be death to you, 
 Who thus redeemed will rise to God, 
 And with His angels find eternal rest. 
 
 (During the lattei part of this scene the stage has darkened 
 into twilight, and as the CARDINAL delivers his last speech, the 
 moonlight streams through large window back of colored glass, 
 bringing into view the cross painted upon it.) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE: Charing Cross, London. Night. A snow storm. 
 Enter JANE SHORE, in -white gown, bare-footed, and carrying a 
 light, followed by a crowd hooting at her. She seems nearly ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 fane Shore. Good people, do not crowd upon me so. 
 You frighten me. The stones do wound my feet and I 
 
262 A King's Love. 
 
 am hungered and faint and so athirst I scarce can speak. 
 If you will go aside and let me die in peace, I will bless 
 you all. 
 
 First Voice. We want no blessings from a witch. 
 
 Second Voice. A witch's blessing is the devil's curse. 
 
 Jane Shore. \ am no witch. The holy cardinal, good 
 St. John, will tell you this. I am but a woman, most un- 
 fortunate 
 
 First Voice. Hearken not to her, she will cast a spell ; 
 she did bewitch the King. 
 
 (Cries, "Stone her! stone her!" A rush.} 
 
 Jane Shore. (Cries out} Oh! God, have mercy on 
 me! Oh, please don't! (They hesitate.} Good folk, give 
 me a little space and I will die as it is decreed. I am 
 nearly dead. You do so frighten me. Alas ! I see not 
 well ! I am quite blind and my head swims but it does 
 seem to me that I see faces of those who once asked alms 
 of me, when I was rich and powerful. Will they not pity 
 me ? Oh ! they will pity me surely, and let me die in 
 peace. If I did bewitch the late King, God rest his 
 soul, it is for your good. 
 
 Crowd. She does confess stone her, stone her ! (A 
 rush. Enter WHITHOLD.) 
 
 Whithold. Stand back, my masters. What have you 
 here? 
 
 First Voice. The witch, Jane Shore. 
 
A King's Love. 263 
 
 Second Voice. And we will kill her lest she cast a spell 
 upon us all. 
 
 Whithold. 'In that, most worthy folk, you do your 
 bounden duty. But let me teach you how to treat a 
 witch. 
 
 First Voice. The King's fool will make sport for us. 
 Do it, fool, do it. 
 
 Whithold. {Approaches JANE. Aside to her.} Fear 
 not, good mistress, I will protect you. (Aloud.} You see 
 this flask, my master. It hath in it holy water from the 
 river Jordan, blessed by the Pope. I do but make her 
 swallow ever so small a drop (puts his arms around her) 
 and then she turneth black, and in a little space will the 
 devil come in thunder and carry her away. 
 
 Crowd. Good! good! make her drink, that we may 
 see the devil get his own. 
 
 Whithold. But when the devil comes, good masters, 
 have a care. He comes in lightning, look you (aside.) 
 Lean on me, mistress (aloud) and death-dealing thunder, 
 and all who have lied about their neighbors are in danger 
 (some of the crowd start back, the others laugh), and all who 
 have kissed their neighbors' wives will suffer (others start 
 back laughter), and all that steal will die (several start back, 
 and the entire crowd gets further from JANE. SHORE and 
 WHITHOLD). Now will I make her drink. Look ye all 
 to the east and see the devil come. (They turn, and many 
 
264 A King's Love. 
 
 steal off. To JANE SHORE.) Now, mistress, drink; it is 
 a cordial that will help thee much. (He puts the flask to 
 her mouth and she drinks eagerly.'} 
 
 Jane Shore. Alas ! poor fool, poor fool, this act will 
 cost thee dear. 
 
 Whithold. Fear not for me. A fool may do, and 
 prosper, what a wise man may not look at and live. 
 Now wait. Ho, ho, he comes ! See the devil comes ! 
 (The crowd runs off.} Ha, ha, ha, the cowards, how they 
 run! Now, mistress, eat of this cake. (She eats raven- 
 ously.'} If I can but hide thee for a time. 
 
 Jane Shore. Ah, me ! Of all my many friends of all 
 who followed, flattered, kissed by hands for favors, this 
 poor fool alone is true. 
 
 Whithold. Because he is a fool. No wise man is 
 true but to himself, and no woman is true to any thing, for 
 the Lord made her a fool that she might bear children. 
 
 Jane Shore. I do feel comforted. But, alas, I must 
 die; 'tis so decreed. 
 
 Whithold. Yea, verily, you must die when your time 
 comes, as we all die by the decree of heaven. 
 
 Jane Shore. And do you give me hope ? ah, Whit- 
 hold, it is a dismal thing to die as the cruel council or- 
 dered me to die, like any helpless brute upon the streets. 
 You give me hope ? 
 
 Whithold. Else, had I not given you to eat and 
 
A King's Love. 265 
 
 drink. Be not cast down, my mistress, your daughter, 
 Lady Woodville, weeps the hours away, bidding fair to 
 die with you. 
 
 Jane Shore. What sayest thou, good fool my daugh- 
 ter, Lady Woodville ? 
 
 Whithold. I marrily. They have wed in haste, lest 
 the old miser, Greville, and the great Duke of Gloucester 
 now our Lord Protector, might wish the pretty maiden 
 harm. 
 
 Jane Shore. I am amazed your news is comfort to 
 my heart, as your food and drink were comfort to my 
 stomach ; now can I die in peace ? 
 
 Whithold. Talk not of dying, mistress ; leave that to 
 wiser heads who make to-day sad with troubles of to-mor- 
 row. Let me put out your light to save your life, that we 
 may steal away unseen. (Noise heard without.} May 
 Satan seize me, but they come again. (Solemn march 
 heard approaching.} Nay, 'tis the midnight burial of the 
 King. Stand we aside, mistress. The dead King will be 
 a means to aid escape. 
 
 {They withdraw. Enter procession ; pallbearers carrying 
 the body of the king, followed by guards and preceded by 
 CARDINAL ST. JOHN and church dignitaries, with lighted 
 candles and music. They halt, placing the body before the 
 cross.} 
 
 Cardinal. Set down your sacred load, 't is meet that we 
 
266 A King's Love. 
 
 Pause in our solemn duty here beneath 
 The shadow of the holy cross, of Christ, 
 Portal of death to Him and life to us, 
 Emblem of power, for by the blood of Christ 
 Are Kings anointed who do govern men, 
 And we who bury Edward may commune 
 Upon his many virtues ere the tomb 
 Closes on all that 's mortal of him. Now, 
 The sins that lie between his God and him 
 Appear before that bar where each must stand, 
 All naked and alone, the King uncrowned, 
 No better than the poorest subject there, 
 To be adjudged. Indeed, more peril comes 
 To one who has high trusts ; for it is said 
 To such shall strict account be rendered. 
 His tomb about to close upon him leaves 
 His deeds to chroniclers for coming time ; 
 Remembering these, we may well pray to God 
 For mercy to his soul. 
 
 He was a man made in a larger mold, 
 A King of kingly form and generous mind, 
 Slow to resent, but quick to act his will 
 And quicker to forgive. Wisdom he had 
 With soldierly resolution. In the council, 
 Calm and far-seeing in the field of strife, 
 Sudden, deadly, and most conclusive. 
 
A King's Love. 267 
 
 For we have seen how in his steady reign 
 This realm which was a chaos wrought from war 
 Ambitious barons making endless strife 
 He brought to Christain order and a peace 
 That spreads its snow-white pinions o'er the land. 
 He gave us laws that do protect the weak 
 While they restrain the strong. Judges he gave 
 To adjudicate by law and justice, 
 Twixt man and man. To the holy church 
 He large endowments made, while to the poor 
 His royal hand and heart were ever open. 
 While thus the King we bury in this storm, 
 How many, many thousands shivering pray 
 For rest unto the soul of him who gave 
 Them, living, the means to live. 
 Take up the corpse. 
 
 (As they are about to do so, a shriek is heard, and 
 JANE SHORE rushes on the stage, WHITHOLD vainly striv- 
 ing to hold her, and throws herself upon the body.} 
 
 Jane Shore. Edward, oh my King ! my King ! Oh ! 
 take me with thee. My cross is more than I can bear. 
 They doom me to a cruel death, and yet I can not die. 
 
 (The guards suddenly start forward.") 
 
 Cardinal. Stay ! this is the woman Shore, doomed to 
 a cruel death by highest council. She hath taken sanctu- 
 ary on the body of God's anointed. About her wretched 
 
268 A King's Love. 
 
 form the holy Church throws now its sacred guard. Let 
 no man harm her more. Move on. 
 
 (The crowd follows the procession, leaving JANE SHORE 
 lying upon the ground, WHITHOLD near her. Enter JOHN 
 SHORE, SIR and LADY WOODVILLE.) 
 
 John Shore. Jane, my wife, I do forgive you now. 
 Look up poor heart, your husband comes. 
 His arms are round you. Speak, my wife ! 
 Forgive, as I forgive. Oh ! say that you forgive, 
 For I and all the world have done you wrong. 
 Jane ! wife ! speak to me ! 
 
 Lady Woodville. Mother mother! 
 
 Jane Shore. {Pushing feebly away.} Do not crowd on 
 
 me so, 
 
 Good people, I will die as soon as I can. 
 But, oh ! let me die in peace. 
 
 John Shore. Alas! she knows us not. Her mind's 
 
 distraught, 
 
 She 's dying with the cold. Quick with the cloak. (Folds 
 it around her.) 
 
 Jane Shore. They bring my winding sheet. Then am 
 
 I dead? 
 
 And yet I suffer. Does not death fetch quick relief? 
 Oh ! holy mother, here I humbly pray. (Sinks on her knees.) 
 Forgive my deadly sins ; 
 Ease me of pain. 
 
A King's Love. 269 
 
 John Shore. Jane ! Jane ! my wife ! I am your hus- 
 band, John 
 John Shore come back to you. 
 
 Jane Shore. (Staggering tip.) John, good husband, 
 Take me hence. (Looking wildly around as she clutches him.) 
 Wicked people hunt me down with stones. 
 
 John Shore. Fear not, poor wife. I will protect you, 
 
 pet. 
 
 Look not so fearful. You are pardoned, love. 
 They dare not harm you now. 
 
 Lady Woodville. Mother ! see, we are near. 
 I have my arms about you. 
 
 Jane Shore. And you will take me hence from all this 
 
 coil; 
 
 These cruel men who carry stones, 
 And crowd upon me with mocking jeers? 
 They call me witch, my husband, and they seek 
 My death. Quick ! take me hence, 
 For they will come again. Oh ! take me hence, 
 To our sweet home hard by the babbling brook, 
 Where sunny fields are full of flowers, John, 
 And woods with birds. There will we live and love. 
 (Starting back} Ha ! what form is this that comes between 
 
 us, John? 
 
 It is the King ! Alas ! I can not go ; 
 It is decreed that I with him shall lie 
 
270 A King^s Love. 
 
 In stony death, 
 
 For that I was his leman when he lived, 
 I must be his in death; 
 Else there were no pardon for my sin. 
 I come, Oh! King, I come! (Falls and dies.'} 
 CURTAIN. 
 
EMOTIONAL INSANITY. 
 
 A COMEDY IN ONE ACT. 
 
 SCENE i. A handsome apartment, half drawing-room half 
 library. To right, library table with books, writing material, etc. 
 Landscape seen through glass door, back. JAMES discovered 
 seated lazily in an arm-chair; SUSAN engaged dusting furniture. 
 
 James. Susan, you look as fresh and delicious this 
 June morning as a mutton head dressed in oyster sauce. 
 
 Susan. Is that your best in the way of a compliment ? 
 
 James. Ah! you hollyhock you artichoke you 
 cauliflower 
 
 Susan. See here, Mister Jirn, when you go into the 
 garden for fine speeches, I 'd thank you to keep clear of 
 the vegetable beds. 
 
 James. I must say, you plump partridge of the 
 prairies, I ain't much on the botanies ; what would you, 
 me love? 
 
 Susan. Well, call me a tuberose ? 
 
 James. You tuberose! 
 
 Susan. A moss bud. 
 
 James. You moss bud ! 
 
 (271) 
 
272 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 Susan. A lovely tulip. 
 
 James. You are a two lips, by George ! I like that 
 better than any. They 're good to taste. The two lips 
 they round up like loving rosebuds are colored like coral, 
 and as soft as Lucca's notes. (Aside.) Got that from 
 Colonel Bangs' note-book ; he lets that off on every pretty 
 girl he meets. 
 
 Susan. That 's beautiful. 
 
 James. But after all, Susan, a kiss is only a surface 
 indication 
 
 Susan. What do you mean by that? 
 
 James. Picked it up in California. It 's what the 
 miners say while prospecting. When they find a few 
 shiners on top they say it 's a surface indication. 
 
 Susan. You 've been all over the world, and I some- 
 times, wonder, I do, how you can be willing to stay in 
 such a dull place as this, with such a cross man as our 
 old Mr. Brown. 
 
 James. It is a little hard on a fellow a fellow de- 
 signed, you see, to adorn society. We have traveled, 
 Susan, we have flirted, we have gambled, and we have 
 been most elegantly bored in all parts of the world. But 
 for a dense, steady article of bore just give me this vil- 
 lage. By Jove, you can't cut it. I wish I could! 
 
 Susan. I am very sorry for you, Mr. Jim. 
 
Emotional Insanity . 273 
 
 James. But for you, my rosebud, they might have put 
 me in my little bed under the daisies long since. 
 
 Susan. And that is why you stay here ? 
 
 James. Well, yes. 
 
 Susan. But why did you come ? Why did you leave 
 society you adorn for this place ? 
 
 James. Susan, that is a secret. 
 
 Susan. A secret ! 
 
 James. No, it is more it is a conspiracy. 
 
 Susan. You do n't mean it ? 
 
 James. A plot a deep, dark, mysterious plot. 
 
 Susan. Gracious ! Mr. Jim, you frighten me. 
 
 James. I want to. No conspiracy is perfect, Susan, 
 without women in it. We '11 have two. You swear never 
 to betray us. 
 
 Susan. What is it ? 
 
 James. Hold. {Seizes the duster and holds it before her 
 in a theatrical manner. ) 
 
 Upon the jeweled hilt of this my trusty sword, 
 My trusty sword, you swear ? 
 Now you say, "I swear." 
 
 Susan. I swear ! 
 
 James. Pretty well done, that. Did you observe my 
 pose, Susan? 
 
 Susan No, where do you keep it ? 
 
 James. Bother ! I mean my posish thus. Got that 
 
274 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 from Booth when he affidavies his companions touching 
 the spiritual manifestation. 
 
 Susan. But what 's it all about ? 
 
 James. Susan, I came to rob this house. 
 
 Susan. Gracious ! are you a highwayman ? 
 
 James. Not much. But keep it up, Susan, it 's good 
 practice. When I say "I come to rob," you must throw 
 yourself back on your right limb and pose thus : I come 
 to rob. Now you say "Ah!" "Ah" is better than "gra- 
 cious," Susan. Now : I come to rob. 
 
 Susan. (Posing.) Ah ! 
 
 James. I come to rob this mansion of its priceless 
 jewel the fair Merelda. 
 
 Susan. (As before. ) Ah ! " 
 
 James. To larceny the maid. 
 
 Susan. (As before.} Ah! , 
 
 James. To 
 
 Susan. Hold on, Mr. Jim, this is a little tiresome 
 
 James. Right up, Susan, we 've had tragedy enough. 
 You see I 've been Colonel Bangs' man since the war, and 
 we 've knocked about and got on pretty well so long as we 
 flirted, but when we fell in love, Susan, trouble began. 
 
 Susan. Why, did you fall in love ? 
 
 James. Certainly not till I saw you; but I use the 
 "we" there in illustration of our confidential relation to 
 
Emotional Insanity. 275 
 
 each other. It 's editorial. Well, you see when Colonel 
 Bangs spooned on Miss Merelda 
 
 Susan. What on earth do you mean by spooned ? 
 
 James. Why, Daisy, when a fellow goes for his senti- 
 ment in dead earnest, we say he spoons. I do n't know 
 why, only it seems simple and sloppy sort of spoon 
 fashion. * When my Colonel spooned on Miss Merelda 
 
 Susan. Our Miss 
 
 James. Your Miss why I looked into the business, 
 and finding "our Miss" had a little fortune in her own 
 right from her maternal grandmother peace to her ashes 
 and great expectations from her father, old Brown 
 peace to his ashes when he gets 'em I saw that the spoon 
 was gold, and I encouraged it. 
 
 Susan. Very kind of you. 
 
 James. Oh ! I'm prudent. Now the amount of work 
 I had to do in the way of notes, bouquets, messages, and 
 serenades, nearly put me into a decline. I struck on the 
 serenades. I told my Colonel that if he wanted to go 
 caterwauling under windows after night, and getting an 
 assortment of coughs, colds, catarrhs, and consumption, 
 he could go in but he must count me out. 
 
 Susan. But, Mr. Jim, don't you believe in real love? 
 
 James. Certainly, for flirtation, but out of date in 
 matrimony. A gul do n't marry a fellow now. She mar- 
 ries a stone front and a carriage. And so a fellow looks 
 
276 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 out for a bank account and bonds. He marries a rich 
 father and posish. 
 
 Susan. I do n't like that. 
 
 James. Oh ! don't you ? Nor I either. It 's all very 
 well for the upper two dozen, but hard on the lower strata, 
 so says my Colonel. Now, Susan, you 've seen one of 
 these belles a real highflyer and what can a fellow find 
 to love ? Eh ! She 's one third pannier, one third cotton, 
 and one third dyspepsia. 
 
 Susan. Why, Mr. Jim, where did you pick up such 
 stuff? 
 
 James. At the Club, Susan. I am a member of the 
 Gentlemen's Gentlemen Reunion. But I don't get on 
 with my story. My Colonel fell in love with old Brown's 
 bank account, and proposed to his daughter your Miss 
 Merelda. Old Brown is peculiar. He called my Colonel 
 a fashionable sham heard something about a little blonde 
 forbade us his house and then, to cut off all spooning, 
 suddenly moved to this country place. 
 
 Susan. Well, what then, Mr. Jim? 
 
 James. As old Brown did n't know me I hired to him 
 as coachman, and man-of-all-work, and here I am in the 
 house of the enemy, while my Colonel is incog, at the vil- 
 lage hotel. Now, how to git the old man's consent, or 
 coax the lady love to elope, is the question that agitates 
 the country. 
 
Emotional Insanity. 277 
 
 Enter MERELDA. 
 
 Merelda. James, is my father stirring yet? 
 
 James. Upon the best of my knowledge and belief, 
 Miss, your excellent paternal does not stir. When he stirs, 
 Miss, the stirring is apt to be heard. 
 
 Merelda. Don't be impertinent, James. Have you 
 seen the Colonel this morning ? 
 
 James. The Colonel has been hid away under a bower 
 of roses in the garden these two hours, where he fights 
 mosquitoes, bugs, ants, gnats, and other agricultural pro- 
 ducts while waiting for your paternal to take his morning 
 vibration. 
 
 COL. BANGS puts his head in at the door. 
 
 Col. B. I say, is the coast clear ? 
 
 Merelda. No, no! go away stay away you must 
 not be seen. 
 
 Col. B. (Coming forward.} Must see you, if I die for 
 it. My angel you have no idea of the aching void within 
 my heart and the pain in my back I have suffered from 
 while living under that damned I beg pardon damp old 
 arbor in the garden. I see you, arid like the sun you ease 
 my heart and dry up the dampness. 
 
 James. Come Susan, let 's go on the picket line and 
 watch for the approach of the enemy. (JAMES and SUSAN 
 exeunt} 
 
 Merelda. But were my father to find you here 
 
278 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 CoL B. Bother your father! I don't ask to marry 
 your father I want you. Let us elope, my darling 
 
 Merelda. And offend the author of my being ? 
 Come now, what would we live on ? 
 
 CoL B. Mercenary girl, have I not my pay as a re- 
 tired officer? lieutenant in the line; retired as brigadier 
 and five thousand a year. 
 
 Merelda. You innocent gander! that wouldn't keep 
 me in hats. No, some means must be found to win his 
 consent, or I die an old maid or worse, throw myself 
 away on a brownstone front in the city a cottage at New- 
 port all incumbered by the aged banker, Bullion. 
 
 CoL B. Heartless girl ! I see you do not love me. 
 
 Merelda. My dear James, do n't be absurd. Ot course 
 I love you. When I found myself the envy of all Saratoga 
 because I had your adoration the handsomest fellow at 
 the springs I returned your affection with my whole 
 heart. When we went whirling through the waltz and all 
 eyes were on us ready to scratch mine out, I felt that \ 
 held in my arms the happiness of a lifetime. And did I 
 not tell eighteen girls in the strictest confidence of our en. 
 gagement? Did I not cut Fitzpoodle and offend old Bul- 
 lion jilt Hamilton Snooks, and give all the time I could 
 spare from dressing to you 
 
 Col. B. Only to throw me off because of your father. 
 
Emotional Insanity. 279 
 
 I see I served your purpose at Saratoga, to be thrown over 
 in the rural districts where I am not an ornament. 
 
 Merelda. These are bitter words, my Colonel ; but I 
 pardon you they prove your love. But listen. Do you 
 suppose me capable of abandoning my brilliant position 
 when by a little patience we can win all ? 
 
 Col. B. I love you so entirely that a home in the 
 lowliest hut 
 
 Meielda. With the gardener's son; and then you'll 
 leave me to return in the fifth act in a padded uniform, 
 with a grapevine worked up the back and no end of 
 rooster tails in your military chapeau, to relieve the bank- 
 rupt father and the heart-broken maiden. 
 
 Col. B. Do n't laugh at me. 
 
 Merelda. I can't help it you are so ridiculous. 
 And, my Colonel James, / do n't want to he laughed at. 
 I am not willing to have Merelda Brown's brilliant match 
 made a farce of. I will have a superb wedding, with my 
 father to give me away; a tour of Europe, a house in 
 town, and our " cottage by the sea." 
 
 Col. B. And if we fail 
 
 Merelda. As Mrs. Macbeth remarks to her Colonel on 
 a like occasion we fail. But screw your courage to the 
 sticking point, and we '11 not fail. 
 
 Col. B. You drive me to desperation. I'll murder 
 
280 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 that father of yoursI '11 send him the " Daily Globe" 
 until he dies in great agony. 
 
 Enter JAMES and SUSAN. 
 
 James. The enemy approaches in force. 
 
 Old B. (Within.) Jim Susan where the devil is 
 the house ? (All scatter and hide save SUSAN.) 
 Enter BROWN with bell-rope in hand. 
 
 . Damme if I am not in a white heat ! I 've been pulling at 
 this cussed bell-rope to find it a sham no bell to it like 
 every thing else all shams bah ! Susan ! 
 
 Susan. Yes, sir. 
 
 Old B. Do you know that you are confoundedly 
 good-looking ? 
 
 Susan. Law, sir, you flatter me! 
 
 Old B. No, I do n't I do n't flatter any body. I tell 
 the truth. A man who flatters is a sneak, coward, and liar 
 bah ! Susan ! 
 
 Susan. Sir ? 
 
 Old B. Come here. (She approaches and he attempts 
 to put his arms around her; as he does, SUSAN slips out and 
 JAMES takes her place. 
 
 James. Did you ring, sir ? 
 
 Old B. I '11 wring your neck, you impertinent what 
 do you mean, sticking your impudent face in mine that 
 way eh ? 
 
 James. Beg pardon, sir thought you rung, sir. 
 
Emotional Insanity. 281 
 
 Old B. No, you did n't ; you can lie like an obituary. 
 James. Thank you, sir rather flatter myself on my 
 accomplishments, sir. 
 
 Old B. And you call lying an accomplishment, do 
 you ? I like that. You 're all of the same sort ; I can't 
 get any one about me but rogues and liars bah ! the same 
 with all the world, bah ! By the eternal, but I wish I 
 could find one honest man I 'd salary him just to stand 
 by and refresh me with the truth. Did you hear any 
 thing of that pocketbook I lost last night? 
 
 James. Can't hear any thing of it, sir advertised far 
 and near offered twenty-five cents reward. 
 
 Old B. Who authorized you to offer a reward? 
 twenty-five cents for three hundred and fifty dollars! 
 Where 's my daughter ? 
 
 Merelda. (From behind the sofa.) Here, pa. 
 
 Old B. What are you doing there ? 
 
 Merelda. Well, pa, I was so shocked at your naughty 
 conduct I hid myself. 
 
 OldB. No you did n't, you hussy. There 's some other 
 reason. There is something up here you can deceive 
 readily as any. Here, give me my stick. I '11 take you along 
 for a walk, and disappoint you. And you, Susan, have my 
 coffee ready by the time I return. (Exit with MERELDA. 
 
 Col. B. (Coming from closet.) I say, Jim, she 's here. 
 
 James. Who, sir? 
 24 
 
282 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 Col. B. The little blonde Saratoga Common. 
 
 James. You do n't say so ! 
 
 Col. B. Yes, I do. I 've been writing her for weeks 
 past offering all sorts of compromises, and the other day 
 I had a hurried note saying that her husband had posses- 
 sion of my letters. 
 
 James. The devil ! 
 
 Col. B. And she had fled from home to come to me. 
 
 James. More devils five thousand devils ! You cer- 
 tainly did n't sign your name to the letters ? 
 
 Col. B. No, only "Your devoted James;" "Your 
 loving Jim; " " Your ever devoted James" 
 
 James. And she 's here ? 
 
 Col. B. Saw her get out of the stage from the last 
 train no mistaking that wig. She 's searching this town 
 over for me this minute I must cut and run. Could n't 
 face little Saratoga Common now and if she were to run 
 against old paternal B., he may as well make an early as- 
 signment. 
 Enter SUSAN with coffee ', which she places on table, and exit. 
 
 James. It 's rather ticklish staying about here, sir 
 the paternal B. may return any moment. 
 
 Col. B. I won't go back to the hotel; and curse me 
 if I like a damp arbor in a dewy morning, but I suppose 
 I must go into ambush again. 
 
 James. Hurry up, sir here he comes. This way 
 
Emotional Insanity. 283 
 
 get out here. (Jumps through the window, banging it after 
 him.} 
 
 Enter OLD BROWN and MERELDA. 
 
 OldB. What's that? 
 
 James. Dog Bowser, sir took a mutton chop off 
 your table, and just tumbled through the window, sir. 
 
 OldB. Merelda. 
 
 Merelda. Sir ? 
 
 Old B. Did you ever hear a fellow .that could fabricate 
 the way this coachman of mine can ? 
 
 Merelda. Really I can't say, sir. 
 
 Old B. He says Bowser went out at that window with 
 a mutton chop. Now I did n't order chops this morning, 
 but muffins, and Bowser was with us in our walk. 
 
 James. Well, sir, it was a large Newfoundland, un- 
 commonly like Bowser, and come to look, it was a buttered 
 muffin. 
 
 OldB. James? 
 James. Sir ? 
 
 Old B. Get out ! Susan. 
 
 Susan. Sir ? 
 
 Old B. Get out ! Now, Merelda, sit down there 
 while I take my coffee. I want to talk to you about that 
 fellow. (She takes her work and sits.} That Colonel Bangs 
 is an adventurer. He is after my money. He shan't 
 have it. He wants you. He shan't have you. You ran 
 
284 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 against him at Saratoga, where all the rogues, gamblers, 
 sharpers, thieves, and liars congregate bah ! He is one 
 I do n't know but what he is all of them bah ! Because 
 he waltzed well, talked well, and dressed well the puppy 
 you accepted him. Bah ! this coffee is all grounds. 
 
 Merelda. Dear pa, you are so unreasonable and so 
 violent. 
 
 Old B. What, about the coffee ? 
 
 Merelda. No, about my Colonel. 
 
 Old B. No, I 'm not. Do you know what I discov- 
 ered ? 
 
 Merelda. I 'm sure I do n't know something very 
 absurd, I expect. 
 
 Old B. No; it was criminal. While he was courting 
 you he was intriguing with a married woman, a vile blonde ; 
 and he called her the jackanapes Saratoga Common, 
 and you Saratoga Preferred. 
 
 Merelda. Oh! pa, how could you listen to such an 
 absurd scandal ? I 'm ashamed of you. , 
 
 Old B. See here, Merelda, I 'm a plain man. I am 
 the son of Johnson, Brown & Co., pork. What I have 
 I 've made by honest toil. I 'm not going to throw it 
 away on an idle, worthless vagabond who '11 spend my 
 money and break your heart. You coaxed me this last 
 summer to Saratoga. I got laughed at and you fooled. 
 It is the resort of shams bah ! women without bodies and 
 
Emotional Insanity. 285 
 
 men without shame. I won't look there for a son no, 
 not I. Bah! I never met with a man yet who was brave 
 enough and honest enough to tell the truth. When I do 
 I '11 recommend him to you as a husband. If you take 
 him, good. If you do n't take him go farther and fare 
 worse. 
 
 Enter OLD RAGENBAG. 
 And who are you ? 
 
 Rag. It do n't make any manner of odds who I am. 
 What is wanted to be known is, who lost a pocketbook ? 
 
 Old B. To be sure ! Why, I did. 
 
 Rag. What sort, boss? 
 
 Old B. Russia leather, a good deal worn. 
 
 Rag. And the pile 
 
 Old B. Three hundred and fifty-one in fifties, 
 twenties, and fives, with some change. 
 
 Rag. Korrect, boss. 
 
 Old B. And did you find it ? 
 
 Rag. It don't make any odds concerning that. 
 There's the pocketbook count the money. 
 
 Old B. (Counting.') Three fifty-one and eighty-two 
 cents. 
 
 Rag. Korrect ? 
 
 Old B. Perfectly correct, and there 's twenty dollars 
 for your trouble. 
 
 Rag. Keep your greenbacks, gov'n'r. I did n't find 
 
286 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 it no manner of trouble to pick up that pocket-book, and I 
 do n't want any of your money ; but if you 'd just let me 
 bring my firearm to bear on that dog on your'n, that went 
 for the seat of my trowsers, I'd be obleeged to you. 
 (Fetches old horse-pistol out of his bag.") Dogs are dirty 
 arastocruts and hate rag men. 
 
 Old B. Why, who are you ? 
 
 Rag. I 'm Old Ragenbag, the ragman. I was brought 
 up on tombstones till eight years of age, when my father, 
 the sexton, died, and then I got to be chief engineer to a 
 blind hand-organ, when I carried the charitable cup in a 
 solemn manner through the crowds. The blind hand- 
 organ was a vicious old cuss, and I was kicked and cuffed 
 through creation many years, till I up and run'd away. 
 Then I j'ined the church ag'in and became deputy grave- 
 digger ; then I was promoted to sexton, and lost my place 
 through a bad habit I had uv tellin' uv the truth. 
 
 Old B. Why, how was that ? 
 
 Rag. Well, you see we had a revival, and it was my 
 duty to keep an eye on the wicked young men and boys 
 who'd put brimstone in the stove, and make us smell hell 
 when we was a sarchin' for heaven; an' I was watchin' 
 round a dark corner for them wicked young men when I 
 come on Deacon Snailor and Sister Maria Potts, and the 
 Deacon began to holler he see 'd the Prophet a goin' up 
 and then he called on me in meetin' to say ef I had n't 
 
Emotional Insanity. 287 
 
 seen that miracle, and I said no, but I'd seen Deacon 
 Snailor a kissin' Sister Maria Potts in a promiscuous man- 
 ner, an' they asked ef I 'd swear to that, and I said yes, 
 I J d be damned ef I would 'nt. I was charged with lyin', 
 but was excommunicated for profane language. Then I 
 went into the antique wearin' apparel business, an' the 
 country all around knows me as "Truthful Rag," " Little 
 Hatchet," and " Old George," because I never was known 
 to prevaricate. Rags! Rags! 
 
 Old B. You 're the man I 've been looking for. Give 
 me your honest hand ; I engage you from this minute. 
 
 Rag. What for? 
 
 Old B. To stand by me and tell the truth. 
 
 Rag. Look at here don't you poke fun at me. I 
 do n't allow no man that privilege. 
 
 Old B. I am in earnest ; I engage you this minute ; 
 I '11 give you liberal wages. 
 
 Rag. To tell the truth at your elbow? 
 
 Old B. Exactly. 
 
 Rag. Well, boss, while I 'm engaged in that pursuit 
 what '11 you do ? 
 
 Old B. I '11 enter into bonds to stand by you and forfeit 
 fifty dollars for every lie I tell. 
 
 Rag. Just put that in writing, boss. 
 
 Old B. ( Writes]. There we are. 
 
 Rag. Korrect. 
 
288 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 Old B. My daughter, you see before you one of 
 nature's noblemen your true aristocrat. 
 
 Merelda. Glad to make your acquaintance, Hon. Mr. 
 Ragman. 
 
 Rag. Same to you, Miss. Hope you '11 have an hon- 
 est husband, and children as will be 
 
 Enter servant with MRS. WILLOWS. 
 
 Ser. Mrs. Widow Willows, sir. 
 
 Widow. I am sorry to intrude upon you, Mr. Brown, 
 but I'm forced to make an appeal in behalf of fourteen 
 fatherless children. 
 
 Old B. Really, my good woman, I pay so much for 
 the poor that I havn't a cent. 
 
 Rag. Hello ! hello ! Boss, that wo n't do. Here 's 
 your pocket-book, fat as a seal. Now, if you do n't want 
 to give, say so. 
 
 Old B. Tut, tut, man, I can't spare the money. 
 
 Rag. Then out with it don't lie about it. 
 
 Old B. Bless my soul! Well, here, take it. Now, 
 go, good woman. 
 
 Widow. May the blessings of the fatherless fall on your 
 aged head. 
 
 Rag. (Taking off his hat.} Amen. Now go, widder. 
 (Exit Widow.} 
 
 Merelda. (Laughing.} I fear pa, nature's aristocrat, 
 like the other aristocrats, will be found rather extravagant. 
 
Emotional Insanity. 289 
 
 Old B. Oh ! bother he do n't understand, you see. 
 
 Merelda. No, I fear not. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Delegation of citizens making an appeal for the 
 home for indignant females. 
 
 Old B. Indigent females, you fool ! Show 'em in 
 I 've been bored to death reading their appeals in behalf 
 of that swindle bah ! and now they come in person. 
 Enter Delegation. 
 
 Chairman. Mr. Brown, we come to you as a wealthy 
 and influential citizen, in behalf of a home for indigent 
 females. 
 
 Old B. Yes, gentlemen, but I really have not had 
 time to read your memorial. 
 
 Rag. There you go, boss lie number two 
 
 Old B. But 
 
 Rag. Not a but. You said you 've been bored with 
 that swindle ; but will it be a little harder now to tell the 
 truth, or forfeit ? 
 
 Old B. You misunderstood me. 
 
 Rag. Not a bit uv it. 
 
 Merelda. No, pa the Hon. Mr. Rag-bag is right. 
 
 Old B. Here, give me your paper. I subscribe one 
 share. 
 
 Chairman. Thank you, sir; your influence is more to 
 us than the money. Good morning, sir. (Exuent.) 
 2 5 
 
290 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 Merelda. This is delicious. 
 
 Old B. Miss, you go to your room ! 
 
 Merelda. Certainly. Good morning, Hon. Rag-bag. 
 
 Rag. Mornin', Miss. (Exit MERELDA.) 
 
 Old B. Now look here, old man. 
 
 Rag. I 'm looking. 
 
 Old B. There are certain reasons 
 
 Rag. For lyin' ? 
 
 Old B. Why no, not exactly lying ; but I '11 explain 
 after while. That will do for the present. Here, James ! 
 {Rings. Enter JAMES.) Here, you; this is my friend 
 Ragenbag. I have employed him as an antidote to your 
 rascality. H$, is an honest man and tells the truth. See 
 that he is well cared for. {Exit.) 
 
 James. Truthful man, permit me to vibrate ! 
 
 Rag. What 's that ? 
 
 James. Old Probity, that is a proposition to shake 
 your honest hand. 
 
 Rag. Oh! certainly. (Gives him awring.) 
 
 James. Gewhilicans ! Did you labor under the delu- 
 sion that you was a patent double-cog clothes-wringer ? 
 
 Rag. That 's what I call a shake of an honest hand, 
 
 James. Well, I don't care to belong to that lodge 
 the grip is too much for me. What did the old bumble B. 
 say you were engaged to do ? 
 
 Rag. Tell the truth. 
 
Emotional Insanity. 291 
 
 James. No, now honest Injun ? 
 
 Rag. Young feller, when I say a thing I mean it. 
 
 James. He is to go around and tell the truth. I say, 
 you ought to have good wages, old man. 
 
 Rag. Why so ? 
 
 James. When a man goes into the business of butting 
 stone walls he ought to have plenty of shinplasters to cover 
 his bruises. Have you got a padded cap for a helmet and 
 a stuffed shield for down, then? 
 
 Rag. What do I want with them things ? 
 
 James. For protection. If you do n't get more kicks 
 and cuffs than coppers I'm a heathen. 
 
 Rag. What 's your occupation ? 
 
 James. Mine? Why, lying, principally. 
 
 Rag. Young feller, ain't you ashamed ? 
 
 James. Ashamed ! old Honesty ! I am covered with 
 blushes. But it J s the way of this wicked world. Truth 
 is a luxury can I have luxuries? Look at my dependent 
 family of fourteen children and an aged father crying like 
 little ravens for food ! 
 
 Rag. Poor young man ! 
 
 James. Now this venerable mother 
 
 Rag. You said father just now. 
 
 James. Suppose I did; would you deprive me of a 
 mother ? 
 
 Rag. Oh ! no. 
 
292 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 James. Well, then, do n't cut 'em off. 
 
 Ra%. And can't you take care of 'em in honesty and 
 truth ? 
 
 James. Certainly not. There is no demand for them 
 articles. Nobody tries it on. Look at the merchant 
 is n't his profits lies ? Look at the doctor ar n't his 
 doses falsehoods ? What 's a lawyer but a lie 
 
 Rag. Young man, would you mind giving me a little 
 bread and cheese ? 
 
 James. Do I look like a man who would refuse you 
 bread and cheese ? 
 
 Rag. Would you mind adding a drop of ale ? 
 
 James. Do I look like a man who 'd deny you ale ? 
 (Rings. Enter servant.} Here, Thomas, give this aged 
 citizen large quantities of bread and cheese and the small- 
 est quantity of ale. (To RAGENBAG.) Follow him, Old 
 Honesty. (Exeunt RAGENBAG and THOMAS.) My Col- 
 onel pitched this in at my window, tied to a stone. Let 
 me see what it is. (Reads.} "Jim, look out. I heard 
 two detectives near my ambush talking to each other. 
 They are watching the house look sharp. J. B." A 
 detective! That's a fellow, too stupid for a thief, who 
 turns thief-catcher so as to divide all around. I have it, 
 by Jove ! Old Honesty is one of them. Ah-ha! Caught 
 you there ! Let me see I '11 smoke him. Here 's his 
 bag. Now if this bag is filled with shavings and I '11 bet 
 
Emotional Insanity. 293 
 
 it is I 've got him sure ; and I '11 have him kicked out for 
 a burglar. (Is about to open bag when SUSAN enters. JAMES 
 hearing her, whistles in an unconcerned manner, dropping the 
 bag.} Oh! is that you, Susan? 
 
 Susan. Certainly, Mr. James came for the cups. 
 But what are -you doing with that nasty bag? 
 
 James. I 'm a committee of seventy selected to smell 
 out fraud, and show the difference between Tweedle-do 
 and Tweedle-done. 
 
 Susan. I do n't understand. 
 
 James. Few do. Now I have wagered an immense 
 sum with myself that this bag is stuffed with shavings. 
 Now hold it. 
 
 Susan. Ah, the dirty thing ! 
 
 James. (Pulling out a pair of ragged pants.) Lost, by 
 Jove ! See, Susan, these are what the females are fighting 
 for. We '11 s-end them with our compliments to Miss Susan 
 Anthony and Cady Stanton. {Pulls out pannier.) And, 
 here, Susan, the vanities. And now, me love, tell me 
 why this is like a tale in the Ledger. Give it up? 
 
 Susan. Of course. 
 
 James. It is a tail of pleasing fiction based on a stern 
 reality. 
 
 Susan. Ain't you ashamed ! 
 
 James. So ashamed I blush. {Pulls out petticoat.} 
 And this, Susan is what moves the world a petticoat. 
 
294 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 ''Flag of the free heart's hope and home, by angel's hands 
 to valor given." 
 
 Susan. I won't stay and hear such stuff. 
 
 James. Hold, me tuberose here's papers. Let me 
 see : delicate sheets fine, scratchy female writing. (Reads.) 
 " Dearest Harry You swear never to desert your loving 
 Maria." See, Susan, love and letter thrown away tram- 
 pled under foot, and then to the rag-bag. ' ' To what base 
 uses do we come at last ! " Oh ! bother this old fellow 
 is no detective. If he was smart enough to get up this 
 thing to deceive, he 'd be an alderman ; we 'd find him in 
 the Credit Lobelia. Hello! there comes the old Bumble 
 B. Hurry, Susan. ( Tumbles articles into the bag, throws it 
 behind sofa, and exit. Susan takes tray and goes out as OLD 
 BROWN and RAGENBAG enter.) 
 
 Old B. I hope you find yourself comfortable here, 
 my truthful friend. 
 
 Rag. Well, can't complain. Grub's good, I must 
 say. But there 's a feller here in brass buttons an' a good 
 deal of brass in his face, that for cool, downright lyin' 
 beats bobtail. 
 
 Old B. James oh, I know him ; he 's the poison 
 you're the antidote. (Seats himself at table.) Now I 
 want you 
 
 Enter SERVANT. 
 
 Servant. There's a lady here, sir, says she must see you. 
 
Emotional Insanity. 295 
 
 Old B. Well, let her see me. Another beggar, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Enter MRS. RAVEN WILD. 
 
 Mrs. W. I wish to see you a few moments, Mr. 
 Brown, in private. 
 
 Old B. This is a confidential friend of mine, Madam ; 
 you can speak freely before him. Take a seat. 
 
 Mrs. W. I am in deep trouble. I come to you I 
 need advice. I want your sympathy. 
 
 Rag. He '11 give lots of that, Madam so will I. 
 
 Old B. Mr. Ragenbag, do n't interrupt the lady. 
 
 Mrs. W. You see before you, sir, an oppressed wife 
 a miserable woman. Married at an age when I could not 
 use maturer wisdom, I united myself to a man who could 
 not appreciate the refined delicacy of my sentiments, the 
 tender organization of my feelings. I longed for sym- 
 pathy, love and companionship ; he wanted a slave he 
 called it wife. A poet by nature I soared from earth 
 into the heaven of imagination. I sought for the inspira- 
 tion of the poets ; he, of the earth, earthy, would bind 
 me to a wash-tub. 
 
 Old B. Ragenbag ! 
 
 Rag. Sir? 
 
 Old B. This female is crazy. 
 
 Rag. Korrect. 
 
 Mrs. W. Do you heed me, sir ? Life became unen. 
 
296 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 durable. At last, at a fashionable summer resort, I met 
 my affinity a sympathetic soul. Ah! the long summer 
 rides and walks the heaven on earth ! We separated 
 we corresponded. As I saw one I could love, and one 
 who could appreciate, I seemed to draw near and nearer 
 my misery. I looked my horrible fate in the face I 
 could not bear it. ( Weeps.) 
 
 Rag. ( Weeping.) Boss, she could not bear it. 
 
 Old B. It is very touching. Ragenbag. (Aside.) 
 And she 's very good-looking, especially in tears. Go on, 
 Madam. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh ! sir, imagine if you can the desolate 
 soul doomed to everlasting servitude no hope, no heaven, 
 no relief! 
 
 Rag. (Sadly.) No relief, boss. 
 
 Old B. None whatever, Ragenbag, save in a Chicago 
 divorce. 
 
 Mrs. W. A divorce ! And were I to seek justice in 
 a court, what would be the response from heartless men, 
 our masters ? 
 
 Old B. Blessed if I know do you, Ragenbag ? 
 
 Rag. None whatsomever. 
 
 Mrs. W. I took my fate in my own hand I fled. 
 My affinity wrote me from this place. I came, but oh 
 heavens ! not to find him. Thinking you might know 
 some way out of this fearful labyrinth of lost hope, I 
 
Emotional Insanity. 297 
 
 throw myself upon your mercy. I ask, I beg, I plead your 
 gentle protection. (To RAGENBAG.) Are you a father? 
 
 Rag. Not much. 
 
 Mrs. W. (To OLD BROWN.) Are you a father ? 
 
 Old B. I am. 
 
 Mrs. W. Then as a father I appeal to you. You will 
 shield and protect rue. 
 
 Old B. I will. Ragenbag, we will shield and pro- 
 tect 
 
 Rag. We will, gov'nor 
 
 Old B. Die defending injured innocence. 
 
 Rag. ' Die in our tracks. 
 
 Servant. (Outside.} You can't come in, sir. 
 
 Mr. W. I will go in. Get out of my way, you 
 fellow. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, heavens ! My husband ! Where 
 shall I fly? Hide me protect me he is mad with 
 jealousy! (Rushes into room.} 
 
 Enter WILD pushing servant?) 
 
 Mr. W. Can't come in ? I '11 see if I can't. 
 
 Old B. And who are you, sir ? 
 
 Mr. W. Me, sir me, sir ? I 'm an injured hus- 
 band, sir ; I am threatened with emotional insanity. 
 Beware ! 
 
 Old B. And do you know who I am, sir ? 
 
 Mr. W. No, I do n't. 
 
298 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 Old B. I am James Brown, Esq., proprietor of these 
 premises, and I 'd like to know 
 
 Mr. W. Ah, ha! You're J. B., are you? You're 
 " my sweet James," " adoring James " you hoary-headed 
 villain ! 
 
 OldB. Sir! 
 
 Mr. W. Do n't interrupt me I feel the fit coming on. 
 I '11 murder you in a minute. 
 
 Old B. This is an infernal outrage ! Will you please 
 tell me 
 
 Mr. W. Of course I will. Reason, hold your own 
 while I tell this aged seducer of wives his villainy. My 
 wife is a fool, sir, a sentimental fool a poetic fool. We 
 didn't agree. What of that? What married pair does 
 agree ? She suddenly left my bed and board. I found a 
 note from her I found several notes to her letters, sir, 
 love-letters dated at this town and signed J. B. your lov- 
 ing James. I came here, sir I came with two detectives. 
 Two detectives examined directory and found the J. B. 
 James Brown you, sir you ! Reason, hold your own. 
 More, sir. Detectives tracked her to this house. I saw 
 her myself lace shawl, yellow hat and feather. Think I 
 do n't know them ? Cost me twenty dollars. Now, be- 
 fore I go mad, you aged seducer, where 's my wife ? 
 ( While he is talking, OLD B. is erecting a barricade of tables 
 and chairs before him.) 
 
Emotional Insanity. 299 
 
 Old B. How do I know ? 
 
 Mr. W. She's here she's on these premises the 
 premises of James Brown, Esq. 
 
 Old B. No, she is n't. 
 
 Rag. Hold hard, boss, do n't lie. 
 
 Old B. (Aside to RAG.) Would you have me mur- 
 dered ! 
 
 Rag. Never mind that. What's death to veracity? 
 
 Mr. W. Where is she, you whited sepulchers 
 you aged villains ? 
 
 Rag. Do n't be abusive, young man. Your wife is in 
 this room. 
 
 Old B. Oh Lord ! 
 
 Mr. W. Let me at her ! 
 
 Rag. No, you do n't. We do n't allow no obstreperous 
 conduct in this house, an' we 've had about enough uv 
 your noise. 
 
 Mr. W. Do you dare stand in my way ? 
 
 Rag. Uv course. 
 
 Mr. W. Do you see that, wretched man. (Present- 
 ing revolver.} That is a Colt, and carries four chambers 
 of death. 
 
 Rag. I see that an* go one better. (Presenting 
 pistol.} That is a hoss. Now ef you do 'n't drop that in- 
 strument there '11 be a sudden death in yer family. 
 
 Mr. W. Am I to be baffled thus of my revenge? 
 
300 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 No! I '11 kill the hoary-headed seducer. (Turning, sees 
 OLD B., stealing out.) Flies from me! Whoop! Now, 
 I 'm mad ! (Rushes after. RAG. follows, four shots heard, 
 and then a heavy explosion from horse pistol.) 
 Enter, screaming MERELDA, MRS. RAVEN WILD, SUSAN 
 and JAMES. 
 
 Merelda. What is the meaning of this ? James, where 
 is my father? 
 
 James. (Getting on a chair.) Miss, he 's making about 
 the best time, for an old gentleman, down the main walk 
 that I ever saw. Emotional Insanity is gaining on him, 
 and old Rags fetches up the rear. Two to one on Emo- 
 tional Insanity ! Now its neck and neck old Rags spurts 
 and closes on them ! They have tumbled into the bower 
 and unearthed the Colonel ! He jockeys on Emotional 
 Insanity ! Now they come at a tremendous pace ! A 
 blanket would cover the entire party. Your father spurts 
 he takes the lead ! Ten to one on paternal ! Here he is 
 on the home stretch. Whoop, hurrah ! 
 Enter OLD B., who throivs himself breathless upon the sofa, fol- 
 lowed by COLONEL BANGS, holding on to WILD. After, 
 enter OLD RAGENBAG. 
 
 Col. B. (Throwing off WILD.) There, you hound! 
 What does all this mean ? 
 
 Mrs. W. (Throwing herself on COLONEL B.) Take 
 me, protect me ! 
 
Emotional Insanity. 301 
 
 CoL B. (Seating her abruptly in a chair.} Certainly, 
 I '11 protect you ! I '11 protect any body I '11 protect every 
 body ! But I would like to know what all this is about. 
 
 Mr. W. She calls on you for protection. Perhaps 
 you are my man. Did you write these letters ? (Showing 
 letters.} 
 
 James. Hello ! Let me see them. Why, what are 
 you doing with my love-letters ? 
 
 Mr. W. Yours? 
 
 James. Yes, mine, Emotional Insanity and not ad- 
 dressed to you, either. 
 
 Susan. What, Mr. Jim ! 
 
 James (Aside to SUSAN. ) Hush ! I 'm executing a 
 flank movement to extricate my Colonel. 
 
 Mr. W. Now, Mrs. Wild, if you have any sense left 
 in your idiotic head, will you tell me which of these gen- 
 tlemen you eloped with ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Why, none of them. I fled alone from 
 your brutality, as I wrote you. I came here in search of 
 one who once said he loved; but, alas ! he disowns me. 
 
 Mr. W. And who wrote these letters ? 
 
 Mrs. W. I'm sure I don't know. This gentleman 
 says he did. 
 
 James. Yes, and I 'd like to know how you, or your 
 wife either, got hold of them. 
 
302 Emotional Insanity. 
 
 Mr. W. Well, are you going back with me after this 
 wild-goose chase ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Well, I suppose so, you brute. And if you 
 do n't treat me better I '11 turn woman's rights, and lec- 
 ture. There now ! 
 
 Old B. Colonel, you have saved my life threatened 
 by these lunatics. I forgive you, nay, I do more, I give 
 you my daughter. Bless you, my children ! 
 
 Rag. Amen ! Now, boss, shall we go on in the cause 
 of truth ? 
 
 Old B. No, my Christian friend, I have had truth 
 enough to do me the rest of my natural life. I find by 
 experience that a little lying is necessary to oil the wheels 
 of civilized society. It is only among wild Indians and 
 Friend Quakers that the truth is common, and it is dan- 
 gerous with one and very disagreeable with the other. 
 
BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 AARON BURR. 
 
 HARMAN BLENNERHASSETT, English gentleman, wealthy 
 and scholarly, living a secluded but luxurious life on an island of 
 the Ohio river. 
 
 MRS. BLENNERHASSETT, beautiful and cultured. 
 
 WOLF, a renegade. Victor Brady, an old lover of Mrs. 
 Blennerhassett's. 
 
 BARBARA DAIR, discarded love of Burr's. Enoch Brand, 
 a government messenger. 
 
 CAPTAIN WILKINSON, commanding United States troops. 
 
 MIKE FINK, ) 
 
 "OLD GETTYSBURG,") 
 
 MAHALA, Indian girl. 
 
 SCIPIO, Blennerhassett's colored servant. 
 
 Soldiers, hunters, boatmen, regulators and messengers. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE: portion of Blennerhassett's Island, giving the lawn 
 in front of house and view of the river. The house is large but 
 rustic, built of logs with porch having trunks of trees for columns 
 to support roof made of clap-boards held down by poles. 
 
 As the curtain rises a chorus of men is heard approaching as 
 if rowing. 
 
 (303) 
 
304 BlennerhasseW s Island. 
 
 " Oh, ho! boatmen, row, 
 We're floating on the waters of the O-hi-o." 
 
 Enter OLD GET, MIKE FINK, and others carrying deer. 
 
 Old Get. There boys, take the carcass to the Colonel's 
 kitchen and tell that son of Satan, the cook, to throw us 
 enough for supper. 
 
 Hunters. All right, Get. (They carry off deer and re- 
 turn.} 
 
 Old Get. We '11 get more sass than venison I guess. 
 I 'd like to take that nigger by the scruff of his neck and 
 the seat of his breeches and just pitch him into hell fire, 
 I would ! 
 
 Mike. Seein' he aint your nigger, old man, the owner 
 might think you was takin' liberties and that would hurt 
 his feelin's. 
 
 Old Get. Col. Blennerhassett is a mighty good man, 
 but he keeps the meanest niggers the most ornery critters 
 ever sot on end. For my part I 'm glad we 're goin' to 
 haul off to-morrow. I can't stand sass generally, but sass 
 from a nigger riles my bile till I am ready to bite. 
 
 First Hunter. Do you know, old man, whar we 're 
 goin' top 
 
 Old Get. Sonny, I haint the remotest idea. They 
 tells us we' uns air emigrants goin' to settle Col. Burr's land. 
 
 Mike. Well that's good to tell the women, children, 
 and weak-minded critters, but I know a thing or two. 
 
Blcnnerhassett ' s Island. 305 
 
 First Hunter. Tell us all you know. 
 
 Old Get. Now boys ef you set that young man to 
 tellin' all he knows we won t get off this island for a year, 
 and not then ef he aint exhausted. 
 
 First Hunter. Oh, you make too much noise with 
 your mouth. Go on, Mike. 
 
 Mike. Well, then, it aint common to drill men in 
 platoons to settle new land nor to fight Injuns. Now, is it ? 
 
 Hunters. No it aint. 
 
 Mike. Well, aint we bein' drilled by Colonel Burr, 
 night and day now, aint that so ? 
 
 Hunters. It air, it air. 
 
 Mike. Well, then, enny damned fool would know 
 why Old Get here would know that something 's up be- 
 sides settlin' land and settlin' Injuns. 
 
 Old Get. Oh, you 're too damned smart you air, aint 
 it necessary to have soldiers to fight Injuns ? 
 
 Mike. No, it just aint soldier fightin' is by platoon, 
 and Injun fightin' is for every feller to keep his eye skinned 
 and hug the trees. Now, aint that so ? 
 
 Hunters. It air, it air. 
 
 Old Get. Oh, much you know ! My father fit in the 
 revolution and I fit 
 
 Mike. Oh, thunder ! What 's that got to do with it ? 
 But I know something else. You know them big boxes 
 in the bottom of our broad horn ? 
 26 
 
306 Blennerhassetf s Island. 
 
 Hunters. We does we does. 
 
 Mike. Well, the head of one marked " bacon "got 
 knocked off, and I saw the muzzle of the biggest gun ever 
 made. Why, a feller could put his head in it. Least- 
 wise, Old Get could put his in easy. Is them guns for 
 Injuns, boys ? I reckon not. 
 
 Old Get. What do you know about big guns ? Let 
 me tell you about a gun 
 
 Mike. There, boys come here ; Old Get is preparin' 
 Old Get 's goin' to bust a big gun on us. 
 
 Old Get. What I 'm goin' to tell you is God's truth, 
 jist to show ye what ye do n't know about guns. 
 
 Mike. Pole her off, pole her off, old warrior. 
 
 Old Get. Whin I was in Gettisburg I was ridin' home 
 on my mare, Sunflower, when the awfullest storm come 
 up ever known in thim parts. I jist happened to know of 
 an old cannon on the side of the road that was left by the 
 British in the Revolution, and I jist rode my mare into the 
 mouth of it. 
 
 (The hunters hold up their hands and whistle.) 
 
 Mike. Hold on, hold on; take a turn around a root, 
 the old man aint under way yet. 
 
 Old Get. Well, it got as dark as midnight, and the 
 flashes of lightnin' clean blinded a feller. While I was 
 waitin' the stage coach came tearin' along, and I be 
 damned if the driver didn't drive helter-split right into 
 
Blennerhassett* s Island. 307 
 
 the mouth of the cannon and killed his two leaders agin 
 the lower eend. 
 
 Mike. And how did you escape? 
 
 Old Get. Escape ? Whin I heard the thing thunder in' 
 in, I jist realized the danger quick as wink, and I put 
 spurs to Sunflower and leaped her out at the touch hole. 
 
 Mike. Give him the honors, boys; give him the 
 honors. That 's the biggest lie yet. 
 Enter SCIP. 
 
 Scip. De grub foh de 4 common white trash is now pre- 
 pahed . (Exeunt all. ) 
 
 Mike. {Following.} If that aged African do n't strike 
 a snag before long, I do n't know the nature of the river 
 hereabouts. 
 
 Enter MR. and MRS. BLENNERHASSETT. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. These hunting expeditions are so perilous, 
 my love, that I count the hours in dread till your return. 
 But I can not bid you stay, for hunting is your only occu- 
 pation and amusement. 
 
 Bkn. Shooting game and being shot at by Indians 
 make rather an exciting life. It is selfish of me, for it 
 leaves you all alone at home. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Not all alone; I have my love of you 
 ever with me truest, bravest, and most generous of men. 
 But for your danger I would be well content. 
 
 Blen. I fear you deceive me, dearest, or deceive 
 
308 Blennerhassetf s Island. 
 
 yourself. I see you changing day by day. The smile 
 you greet me with is one of patience, resignation, not 
 of joy. Small wonder, though; these wilds and wilder 
 settlers are not the scenes and people my peerless love 
 was born to grace. 
 
 Mrs. Bkn. Not that, my own, not that. I have no 
 thought of or care for the vain life I put behind me. 
 
 Bkn. What ! my love ? 
 
 Mrs. Blen. We have escaped detraction escaped the 
 mocking eye of men and the stinging tongue of women 
 but Oh ! my heart, our sin we carry to the wilderness and 
 is ever with us. Waking or dreaming, I see the home I 
 made desolate, the husband I betrayed. 
 
 Bkn. These thoughts are morbid, love. The home 
 you left was never home to you. The husband you 
 fled from was but a brute. I see this solitary life, this 
 brooding wilderness, makes you ill. And that reminds 
 me, pet, this Colonel Burr offers to us a change. He begs 
 us to accompany him in his expedition. 
 
 Mrs. Bkn. Something within bids me fear this man. 
 He is so subtle, polished, calm. There is no impulse in 
 him, and his honeyed words seem prompted by design his 
 words conceal. 
 
 Blen. We have lived so long among rough men a 
 gentleman appears unnatural and therefore suspicious. 
 Hush, he approaches. 
 
Blennerhassett 's Island. 309 
 
 Enter AARON BURR. 
 
 Burr. (After a pause looking off.) I do not wonder, 
 that you, my friend, are fascinated with this lovely home. 
 See where rosy evening nestles in the arms of night, while 
 the flowing river turns to waves of gold and the rich 
 autumnal tints of wooded banks make earth a part of 
 heaven. The world seems fresh from God's own hand 
 unmarred by man's abusive waste. 
 
 Blen. One wearies of the sameness after a time. 
 
 Burr. That is true. The great Johnson tells us how 
 Rassalas tired of the happy valley, and I believe had 
 Adam and Eve been Yankees they/would not have waited 
 for the Lord to turn them from the garden of Eden ; they 
 would have emigrated long before and gone to speculating 
 in wild lands. After all, human life and human effort are 
 necessities to us. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. We have our human life, Colonel, never 
 fear. This paradise is a refuge for criminals escaping con- 
 viction and convicts escaping punishment. Why, even 
 red-handed murder with the mark of Cain comes to us. 
 
 Blen. My wife has a sharp tongue for our lower set- 
 tlement. You must pardon her. 
 
 Burr. God never placed an angel to guard a sacred 
 place without arming her with a flaming sword. 
 Enter BARBARA DAIR disguised as a government messenger. 
 
 Blen. Whom have we here ? 
 
310 Blennerhassett 's Island. 
 
 Barb. Mr. Blennerhassett? 
 
 Blen. At your service. 
 
 Barb. I am a government messenger in search of 
 Colonel Burr. 
 
 Burr. You find him here, my boy. What have you 
 for me ? 
 
 Barb. This package of papers sent you through the 
 care of the War Department. 
 
 Burr. Thanks, my lad. Will madam pardon me ? 
 (Takes papers and retires up the stage.) 
 
 Barb. And these for Mr. and Mistress Blennerhassett. 
 
 Blen. You are welcome, Mr. Messenger, to our is- 
 land. (Taking letters .) Go in, and Scip will see that you 
 are cared for. (Blennerhasset and wife open letters.} 
 
 Barb. (Aside as she enters house.} The devil did not 
 know me in this disguise. I '11 have my vengeance yet ! 
 
 Blen. What brings the mail to you, my love ? 
 
 Mrs. Blen. A gossip's letter from the world we left 
 behind. The one friend who knows of our retreat writes 
 that Victor fell in a tavern brawl so badly wounded that 
 he is not expected to survive. He may be dead and I can 
 be your, wife indeed. 
 
 Blen. I hope so, what is the date of your letter ? 
 
 Mrs. Blen. I had not looked at that. Why, it has 
 been some eight months reaching here. I may be free. 
 
 Blen. God send it may be so. Ill news flies swiftly, 
 
Blennerhassett ' s Island. 311 
 
 while good news lags like a lazy summer. I have a con- 
 fidential letter here from our friend, Governor Morris, who 
 introduced to us Colonel Burr, he writes (reads): " I feel 
 it my duty, old friend, having introduced the devil to your 
 paradise, to warn you of your peril. It is whispered here 
 that he is in some conspiracy against the government. I 
 do not believe this ; at the same time his operations in the 
 wild West are mysterious, so suspicious, indeed, that the 
 government has sent Captain Wilkinson with a force to in- 
 quire into his movements, and, if necessary, arrest him. 
 Do n't get yourself involved in any of his schemes, what- 
 ever they may be. He is as insinuating, selfish, and un- 
 scrupulous as Satan. Above all, keep guard when petti- 
 coats are about a word to the wise." 
 
 Mrs. Bkn. No need of such a warning to a woman. 
 My better instincts read the man aright when first we met. 
 I detest him. 
 
 Blen. Hush he is near. 
 
 Burr.- (Coming forward. Aside.') And so Tom Jef- 
 ferson sends an officer and guard for my arrest. He will 
 execute such order at his peril. Where could I have seen 
 that face and heard that voice. They haunt me like a 
 troubled dream. 
 
 Blen. I gather, Colonel, from your troubled look that 
 you have grave news. 
 
 Burr. Not at all. Our good president is somewhat 
 
3 J 2 Blennerhassett y s Island. 
 
 anxious over my expedition. The author of revolution 
 himself, he is jealous of a like right in others. I have 
 given you my confidence, noble friend, and here are the 
 papers unfolding all our plans and hopes. I hope they 
 will meet your approbation. (Gives papers as BARBARA 
 steals in unobserved. Enter OLD GET.) 
 
 Old Get. By the holy Moses, we 've got him we Ve 
 got him ! 
 
 Blen. Got who? 
 
 Old Get. The head devil himself. 
 
 Burr. My excited friend, such victory is worse than 
 defeat. To get the devil is to gain a loss. 
 
 Blen. Will you tell us what you mean? 
 
 Old Get. I mean the boys have captured Wolf, the 
 renegade got him fast. 
 
 Blen. Was there much loss of life? Did he resist 
 desperately? 
 
 Old Get. Bless your soul, resist ! He first took the 
 boys, and then the cuss surrendered. 
 
 Blen. How so? Confound it, man; will you stop 
 jumping, and tell us coherently what you mean ? 
 
 Old Get. Sartin I will sartin. The boys had settled 
 for supper. They put their guns agin an oak, lit a fire, 
 and went to cookin', when all of a suddint Wolf, the cuss, 
 stepped in betwixt 'em and their guns with a thunderin' 
 big pistol in each hand, and told 'em to surrender. Lord! 
 
Blennerhassett* s Island. 313 
 
 but things looked ugly for us, 'cause the boys thought he 
 had a hundred redskins at his back ready to jump an' yell, 
 and so they sot still and looked like geese before thunder. 
 
 Blen. And then? 
 
 Old Get. He told 'em jist as quiet and as cool as the 
 devil that he'd surrender if they'd agree to fetch him 
 here. They was only too willin', and they gave their 
 honor, and they 's acrossin' the river with the skunk this 
 minute. There they are. 
 
 Enter MIKE FINK and crowd with WOLF bound. 
 
 Fink. Here he is here 's the renegade and scalper ; 
 got him sure. 
 
 Crowd. Hang him ! hang him 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Oh! Harman, don't don't let them harm 
 him here before my very eyes ! 
 
 Blen. The man's a murderer a cruel butcher and 
 deserves death. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Oh! no, not now not now Oh, please 
 save him ! I can not bear it it will kill me. 
 
 Blen. Hold there. He must have a trial first. 
 
 Fink. Damn a trial he did not give the people he 
 killed a trial. 
 
 Crowd. Hang him ! Hang him ! 
 
 Blen. Stand back I say ! 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Oh, Colonel Burr, help us save him! 
 
 Burr. (Seizing a pistol from regulator^) Here, you 
 27 
 
314 Blennerhassett" 1 s Island. 
 
 men of my command, stand back {placing himself between 
 WOLF and crowd}. The man who stirs is dead. 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE: Same as in first act. MIKE FINK, OLD GET, and 
 others discovered. 
 
 Fink. I say, fellows, he 's got to hang ! 
 
 Old Get. Them 's my sentiments. 
 
 Fink. It 's bad enough for an Injun to slaughter and 
 scalp, but when it comes to a white man he ought to be 
 skinned alive and hung in a smoke house. 
 
 Old Get. Them 's my sentiments. 
 
 Fink. Why, boys, he 's taught the redskins how to 
 fight; he's a gineral among the devils, and shows 'em how 
 to spread in an ambush and swing in behind and attack 
 and retreat as good as Old Wayne damn him ! 
 
 Crowd. Damn him ! 
 
 Old Get. Have you heard the news, boys ten thous- 
 and United States troops landed at Marietta last night. 
 
 Fink. Oh, get out ! 
 
 Old Get. Fact, Fink. Saw 'em land; Gineral Wilkin- 
 sin is in command ; he 's a seven-footer if an inch carries 
 a sword that takes ten men to buckle on. 
 
 Fink. Get, you are the biggest liar unhanged. 
 
Blennerhas sett 's Island. 315 
 
 Old Get. Fact, Fink. Talk of officers ! When I lived 
 in Gettisburg an officer come along recruitin'. I tell you 
 what he was a bully buster. Why, that man weighed 
 
 Fink. Now, Get, hold hard ; take a turn on a saplin' . 
 You 've got a little character left do n t throw it away on 
 a few tons. 
 
 Old Get. Well, he weighed nigh onto a ton. Fact, 
 Fink. 
 
 Fink. Well, we '11 agree on that, but not a ton more. 
 
 Crowd. No, not a pound ! 
 
 Old Get. He was a mighty active man, though, for 
 all he was so big. Why, one day the powder mill near 
 Gettisburg took fire. The Gineral says, says he, " Old man 
 it won't do to let the town be destroyed come on." We 
 was about a mile off, and we was neck and neck, the Gin- 
 eral a little ahead. We got there in jist no time. All the 
 men had run away, jist skeered to death, and the powder 
 was explodin' like hot thunder. It was so deafenin' you 
 could n't hear yourself think. But we went in, I tell you, 
 and tromped out forty barrels apiece afore we got the thing 
 under control and saved the town. 
 
 Fink. Oh, Get ! forty barrels ? 
 
 Old Get. Fact, Fink. 
 
 Fink. Come, boys, let 's rig a purchase to hang the 
 renegrade. (As they go out WILKINSON and BARBARA enter. ) 
 
 WiL This letter from the secretary of war tells me 
 
316 Blennerhassett 's Island. 
 
 not only to confide in but advise with you, boy. I must 
 say the government has selected a very youthful adviser. 
 Are you sure this credential does not belong to some older 
 person ? You will pardon my doubts, but my mission is 
 too delicate and important to be risked by a blunder. Are 
 you Enoch Brand? 
 
 Barb. No, Captain, that is not my name. 
 
 Wil. I thought as much. Then, how came you by 
 this confidential letter ? 
 
 Barb. It was given me by the President. 
 
 Wil. This is a strange riddle my boy, you will excuse 
 a blunt soldier, but it is my belief that you are lying. You 
 stole this paper. 
 
 Barb. It is necessary, Captain, to accomplish the one 
 task we both are commissioned to execute that we should 
 have confidence in each other. 
 
 Wil. You have certainly a manly way of talking, boy. 
 
 Barb. Captain, I throw myself upon your better 
 judgment. I am not Enoch Brand. I am not a boy. 
 My name is Barbara Dair, and Aaron Burr, the man I 
 seek to punish, is my destroyer. 
 
 Wil. Why, this is amazing and the government com- 
 missions you to aid and advise me ? 
 
 Barb. Even so. The President knows that my com- 
 mission is from God. He but indorses that. I follow this 
 man as retribution tracks the steps of crime. 
 
Blennerhassett' s Island. 317 
 
 Wil. He, this Colonel Burr, has wronged you ? 
 
 Barb. Most foully. I was innocent and happy when 
 he crossed my path, and when he had won my heart he 
 cast me aside as he would a blighted flower. The flower 
 retains its thorn even in death. 
 
 Wil. I feel sorry for you, girl; sorry for your loss, 
 and yet more sorry for the task you have assumed. And 
 how do you propose to aid me ? My instructions are to 
 arrest Burr, but not without clear proof of his treason. 
 This throws a heavy weight of responsibility upon me. 
 The man is a devil, cautious and cunning as he is bold. 
 
 Barb. I believe I see the way. Burr seeks to gain this 
 Blcnnerhassett to his cause. He needs the money, for the 
 owner of this home is rich, and he loves the pretty wife. 
 He- confides in Blennerhassett; has given him in writing all 
 his plans all, I believe, that implicate the men associated 
 with him in his treason. Could we but get those papers 
 
 Wil. I see I see. What sort of a man is Blenner- 
 hassett? 
 
 Barb. A gentleman. 
 
 Wil. A gentleman ? That I believe makes the very 
 worst material to work upon. He will hold that confi- 
 dence as he holds his honor, and his honor above his life. 
 
 Barb. His honor, Captain, is not altogether in his 
 keeping. This wife he dotes upon has much the larger 
 trust, and Burr will undermine all that. 
 
318 Blennerhassett' s Island. 
 
 Wil. What ! Risk his all character, trust, life itself, 
 for a pretty woman ? 
 
 Barb. It is his one weak spot. Were the crown of 
 England within his grasp he 'd turn aside to dally with a 
 love. Leave him to me until I hold the proofs. There 
 come the puppets and the man himself. 
 
 Enter BLENNERHASSETT, MRS. BLENNERHASSETT, 
 and BURR. 
 
 Blen. You are most welcome to our island home, 
 Captain! Permit me to present my wife; Colonel Burr, 
 I believe, you have met before. 
 
 Burr. And glad, sir, to take your hand again. Time, 
 like a trusty friend, deals kindly by you, Captain. 
 
 Wil. I thank you, Colonel. It does seem strange 
 to meet so famed a soldier and renowned statesman in 
 such a wilderness as this. 
 
 Burr. You must not call a garden, guarded by such 
 an angel, a wilderness, Captain. 
 
 Wil. (Aside.') The oily-tongued devil! And I am 
 expected to out-scheme and arrest him. (Aloud.') It 
 seems attractive enough to make you linger here. I 
 understood your immigration scheme is quite perfected. 
 
 Burr. We need a few more frosts, my friend, to 
 insure us health. 
 
 Blen. Now, Captain, what can we do for you and 
 your troops to make your brief stay pleasant ? 
 
Blennerhassetf s Island. 319 
 
 Wil. I only ask a camping ground, if you will be kind 
 enough to designate the spot that will least disturb your 
 princely home. 
 
 Blen. With pleasure. This way. 
 Exeunt CAPTAIN WILKINSON, BLENNERHASSETT, BURR, 
 and BARBARA. Enter guard. 
 
 Guard. The renegade, Wolf, madam, wants to speak 
 with you. 
 
 Mrs . Blen. Wants to speak with me ? Well, conduct 
 him here. (Exit guard?) 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Poor doomed man, doubtless he seeks 
 further aid from me, and aid I can not give. I saved him 
 from the cruel mob only to have him die by a drum-head 
 court-martial. 
 
 Enter WOLF, bound, between two guards. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. You wish to speak to me ? 
 
 Wolf. If you will trust me, fair lady, and bid these 
 watch dogs step aside. Never fear, I pledge my word of 
 honor as a gentleman to take no advantage of your 
 kindness. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Leave us alone, good friends. Be at ease, 
 I will answer for his security. You can rest the while, and 
 Scipio will give you refreshments in the kitchen. (Exit 
 guards.} 
 
 Wolf. These soldiers obey you better than did the 
 beastly mob of boatmen and regulators. (After a pause.} 
 
320 Bknnerhassett' s Island. 
 
 You do not know me in this guise and place. Have these 
 short years so changed my face that it has grown strange ? 
 I thought when you were pleading for my worthless life 
 you recognized the victim. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. I ? No, I did not know you ; nor do I know 
 you now. I plead for you in peril of your life as I would 
 have plead for the meanest animal threatened with a cruel 
 
 death. 
 
 BARBARA steals in listening. 
 
 Wolf. Can it be, Clara, that my very voice is lost to 
 you? 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Great heavens, Victor Brady ! you alive 
 and here ! (Staggers back. ) 
 
 Wolf. Be firm. Be quiet. Time is brief with me. 
 Lean against this oak. I am doomed to die at early dawn 
 to-morrow, and I have something to communicate that it 
 is well for you to hear. Will you hear ? 
 
 Mrs. Blen. {Faintly.) Go on. 
 
 Wolf. When I recovered from my wound, got in a 
 drunken brawl, I followed you across the seas tracked 
 you to your hiding, with hell in my heart. I had no 
 thought by day or dream at night but vengeance on my 
 enemy who stole you from me. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. But Victor 
 
 Wolf. I know I know You would say I was a 
 beast, and stole your child away. 
 
Blennerhassett' s Island. 321 
 
 Mrs. Blen. My child, my poor Mary ! 
 
 Wolf. Hush, hear me, 't is of that I 'd speak. For 
 months I have haunted this river, brooding upon my re- 
 venge, hoping for the opportunity to kill you both, and I 
 could have slain you both ere this ; I have had you pass 
 me on your steed; I have been hid in the wood when 
 your lover hunting passed within range of my good rifle ; 
 but I could not be satisfied unless you knew the hand 
 that dealt the fatal blow. This stealthy watching gave me 
 among my Indian friends the name of Wolf. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. And you grew to be cruel as the savages ? 
 
 Wolf. Speak them fair, my girl, speak them fair ! 
 These simple children of the wood are gentlemen, loyal 
 and true. They forget no favors and forgive no wrong. 
 The little good I 've done in life was aiding them against 
 these cut-throats and thieves called settlers. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. But my child, my child, Victor! Tell me 
 of my child. 
 
 Wolf. Yes, 'tis she I would restore to you. Hear 
 me ; living this life beneath the open sky, removed from 
 all the evils of my early life, a change came over me and 
 my sense of wrong died out. I surrendered that I might 
 face you both and have an end of it. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. But did you not know that such surrender 
 would be death? 
 
 Wolf. What matter I was weary of life 
 
322 Blennerhassetf s Island. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Our child, Victor 
 
 Wolf. Since you saved me for a little time I would 
 prolong the respite that I might enable you to again 
 possess 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Oh ! Victor tell me ! I will traverse the 
 earth on foot to get my child again 
 
 Wolf. I left my papers in the keeping of my Indian 
 friends. Without them your search would be useless. 
 Could I escape 
 
 Mrs. Blen. (Unbinding Wolf.) Yes Yes, steal through 
 the garden to the water edge. There you will find a boat, 
 built for me. Drop down the river under cover of the 
 willows on this bank, then row across. 
 Enter BARBARA. 
 
 Barb. Not so not so. The soldiers going into camp 
 are in your way. They can not fail to see you; pull 
 boldly for the further shore, it is your only hope. 
 
 Wolf. Thank you, my lad. (Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. Blen. He must be seen he can not escape ! 
 
 Barb. Never fear; the idlers are gazing at the soldiers 
 going into camp. All the boats are on the further end of 
 the island ah ! I see him. Brave man, he rows quietly 
 along with no show of hurry in his efforts. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. I can not look upon him. 
 
 Barb. Every second sends the light craft further on 
 its way. (A cry is heard.) Hark ! He is recognized. 
 
Blcnnerhassct? s Island. 323 
 
 (The cries increase.} Ah, now he pulls for life ! (Shouts 
 heard.} They are firing on him from the camp. The 
 shots strike the water all about him. (More shots.) Ah ! 
 God, he 's down No, he 's up again ! He pulls as if hurt 
 He 's beyond range ! He gains the shore. He staggers 
 slowly up the bank. He is gone. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. (Falling to her knees.} Thank God ! 
 
 (The long roll is heard as the curtain descends.} 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE: Same as ist act. BLENNERHASSETT and BURR. 
 
 Blen. I have but glanced at the papers you gave me 
 to read. I have learned enough, however, to realize the 
 magnitude of what you propose Mexico and Louisiana 
 united in one kingdom. It seems to me the force you 
 have is quite inadequate to compass so great a scheme. 
 
 Burr. It is not the head but the heart that makes the 
 effort potent. It is not the handful of common men upon 
 a raft that troubles the Government at Washington and 
 makes the country tremble. It is Aaron Burr. The name 
 that fills the land I leave with vague anxiety fills the land 
 I seek with hope. I am to this new land of ours what 
 Napoleon is to Europe. 
 
 Blen. Pardon me, Colonel, while I admit the force of 
 
324 Blenmrhassetf s Island. 
 
 what you say, yet will not this 'proposition of a kingdom 
 in this day of republics be a grave obstacle to your 
 success ? 
 
 Burr. My friend, a republic which means the equal- 
 ity of men made unequal by nature is a dream of lunatics. 
 It is called self government, and at what period did a man 
 govern himself? 
 
 Blen. But the world progresses, Colonel. 
 
 Burr. Not in that direction. In a barbarous age, 
 when a man conquered his enemy he killed and ate him. 
 After a time he progressed; he conquered and enslaved 
 him. Then came what we are pleased to call civilization, 
 and while one class became masters under the feudal sys- 
 tem another sunk into slaves. The few fatten in idleness, 
 while the many labor to live on a bare subsistence. Why, 
 in this vaunted republic, my patriotic friend, the great 
 leader a very giant among pigmies, this French-Ameri- 
 can, His Excellency while preaching the equality of all 
 men, lives on unrequited toil, has slaves to watch his face, 
 to do untold his bidding as he wakes and fan his lordly 
 brow when lost in sleep. 
 
 Blen. But these are negroes. 
 
 Burr. Yes, they are only negroes. In France they 
 are only peasants, and in Prussia, serfs. Let us be consis- 
 tent in this age of reason. If George Washington could 
 be soothed to sleep by music made by whipping slaves, let 
 
Blennerhassett 's Island. 325 
 
 us not blame the eastern monarch for his bath of human 
 blood, or the dainty aristocrats of France, whose delicate 
 gloves are tanned skins of men. 
 
 Blen. You think these slaves should be made citizens ? 
 
 Burr. I think, to be consistent, we should make the 
 masters citizens. We can not have all men born equal 
 where one can be born to a thousand slaves. 
 
 Blen. Or a thousand acres ? 
 
 Burr. We make a distinction between property in 
 dead matter and property in man. Our Virginia philoso- 
 pher, who does not believe in God and does believe in 
 Tom Jefferson, has caught from France the choice phrases 
 that he tosses in our eyes as a showman does balls and 
 knives to vulgar fooling. We have gone to sea in a bowl. 
 We are bid to hope for a political impossibility. Look 
 about you, man ! Where do we find in all creation this 
 thing called self-government ? From the brutes up to the 
 great Creator might is right. God allows of no republic. 
 It is the law of our being that the fool may do for the wise 
 man what the wise man can not do for himself govern 
 him. 
 
 Blen. These are heterodox opinions, Colonel. 
 
 Burr. None the less true on that account. This 
 scheme of self-government carries in itself its seeds of 
 destruction. One corner is slavery ; the other the corpor- 
 ation. We have dethroned the well-born to give place to 
 
326 Blennerhassett* s Island. 
 
 vulgar wealth. All men are born equal, provided they 
 are born white; and there shall be no inequality before 
 the law, save that which is embodied in a corporation. 
 
 Blen. I beg your pardon, Colonel ; I do not compre- 
 hend this that you call a corporation. 
 
 Burr. The soulless thing created by law that may 
 amass wealth and live forever. It is a cloud no bigger 
 than your hand. We shall not die before that cloud shall 
 cover the heavens and spread desolation over the earth. 
 Before it this thing of shreds and patches called a consti- 
 tution, with its nicely adjusted checks and balances, will 
 be wrecked like a boy's kite in a storm, and become a 
 thing for men to laugh at. It is all in vain, my friend. 
 What the people gain through violence they lose through 
 fraud, and that with their own consent. The iron hand 
 of greed has a velvet glove and fondles while it feels for 
 power. 
 
 Blen. Pardon me a seeming idle curiosity it is not 
 idle. I am tempted to take part in this daring scheme. 
 Before I do, however, I seek to know all there is to know 
 on what you found your hopes. 
 
 Burr. I am glad to know this, my friend. A man of 
 your ability and wealth should not be buried in this wilder- 
 ness. A wide and noble career is offered you, and you 
 will find on looking over the papers I entrusted to your 
 honor that the journals of Europe, alarmed by the trouble 
 
Blennerhassetf s Island. 327 
 
 in France that gets countenance from our Yankee republic, 
 favor a dismemberment of the states and building at the 
 South a monarchy to hold in check the wild insanity of 
 these republicans. Now I must take my leave with a long 
 ride to meet some friends at Marietta. Au revoir, my ex- 
 cellent friend when we again meet, may we meet as 
 allies. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter MRS. BLENNERHASSETT in riding dress, followed by 
 BARBARA. 
 
 Blen. Ah ! You 're for a ride I see. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Yes; Colonel Burr invites me to be his 
 guide a short distance on his road to Marietta. 
 
 Blen. Why, this is something novel why, since when 
 have you become so intimate ? 
 
 Barb. (Aside, .) Jealous is he? 
 
 Mrs. Blen. My conduct has been rude and I repent 
 me of it. This gentleman is our guest, and as such I 
 strive to look upon and treat him. 
 
 Blen. And I will see him mounted and the boat 
 manned to row you over. (Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. Blen. (To BARBARA.) Well, well, what have you 
 to report ? 
 
 Barb. We found the boat adrift and stained with 
 blood. Beneath the seat on which he sat and rowed for 
 Me there was quite a pool. I sent back the man, and in 
 this light boat of yours I rowed to where the stream we 
 
328 Blennerhassetf s Island. 
 
 told him of emptied in the river, and without much trouble 
 found the sycamore, but no papers, and indeed no trace 
 of any human being having been there. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. He was wounded, and may be dead, and 
 every trace of my poor child lost forever! Will you try 
 once more ? If alive he will keep his promise though he 
 has to crawl. Stay I will write a note that you may 
 leave will you? 
 
 Barb. With pleasure, madam. (Mrs. BLENNERHAS- 
 SETT enters house.} Poor woman, born weak and born to 
 suffer. If I can only get possession of those papers held 
 by her husband, one of earth's devils will come to punish- 
 ment that is death and disgrace in one. But how in 
 what manner to go about it. Let me think. ( Walks up 
 the stage.) 
 
 Enter MAHALA, FINK, and OLD GET. 
 
 Fink. Starboard your stern starboard your stern; 
 you 're comin bows on aboard me. 
 
 Mahala. Well, get out then, I don't want to get 
 aboard I can tell you. 
 
 Old Get. Stand back stand back, and give the old 
 man a chance. 
 
 Mahala. Go away both of you. I never see two such 
 ridiculous men never in all my life. 
 
 Old Get. Oh, you dog-wood blossom, you wild plum, 
 come to my arms. 
 
Blennerhassett ' s Island. 329 
 
 Fink. Do hear his old bones rattle ! I 'm your feller. 
 Take a turn round my corpus and tie to me. 
 
 Old Get. Oh ! Go 'way wimmen is scarce in this 
 neck of woods, and good men real good old reliable men 
 aint plenty. I tell you, Mahaly, when I was in Gettis- 
 burg, wimmen lit into me like butterflies on a sun- 
 flower. 
 
 Fink. Oh, get out! 
 
 Old Get. Fact, Fink. 
 
 Mahala. I wish you'd a' stayed there. 
 
 Fink. Hear that, you old chestnut. I'm the winnin 
 man on this occasion. 
 
 Mahala. Oh ! Get out I would n't touch you with 
 a ten-foot pole. 
 
 Fink. Young female, you 're a takin' on furrin airs 
 and graces, you air. The next trip I make down in the 
 Sally-Ann I'll fetch a load of lovely females from Pitts- 
 burgh, and then you '11 sing small, you will ! 
 
 Mahala. (Snapping her fingers.} That for your lovely 
 females. I 'd like to see the girl 'd take you for company, 
 nor you, you old bald-headed, snaggle-toothed scolly 
 jumper ! (Exit?) 
 
 Old Get. Whew! What a scratch cat. I tell you, 
 Fink, this scarcity of wimmin is a spoilen of 'em. The 
 feller's aint right in their minds. Why a gang of us came 
 
 across an old sun bonnet in the woods, and we gave three 
 28 
 
33 Blennerhassett' s Island, 
 
 cheers and formed a ring and danced and squealed 'round 
 like mad. 
 
 Fink. I feel that way myself. I never knowed afore 
 the power of petticoats. We 've got to look after that 
 trade; as Rout Out & Co. says at Pittsburgh, fetch the 
 supply up to the demand. Ef I do n't fetch down a load 
 of gals I'm a mink. 
 
 Old Get. And throw in a few likely widders, Fink, 
 widders is mighty takin'; would n't mind a gross of 'em 
 myself. Do n't forget the widders, Fink. 
 
 Fink. I '11 bear in mind, old snowflake. But what 's 
 this talk about the regulators going for us here because of 
 the escape of Wolf? 
 
 Old Get. There is such talk, Fink, and the settlers 
 are mighty stirred up about it. You see that massacre at 
 Big Sandy aint forgot in a hurry, and they do say that the 
 regulators are gettin' a force ready to come down and clear 
 out this island. 
 
 Fink. Well, I can't say that I anger up at their bein' 
 mad. It was enough to make a man snortin' mad to see 
 his friends and neighbors ambushed, killed and scalped, 
 but what the devil has folks here got to do with it ? 
 
 Old Get. There's some curious stories goin' about. 
 It is said that the Colonel's woman sent the guards off 
 to drink, and Abe Anker is ready to swear he saw her 
 going on over the renegade and untie him. 
 
Blennerhassett ' s Island. 331 
 
 Fink. Abe Anker aint as big a liar as you, Get, but 
 he 's close where you 're steerin' in that line. I would n't 
 believe it on his affidavy 'specially ef you swore to it, too. 
 
 Old Get. This is a free country, Fink, and every man 
 has a right to his opinion. Its your right as a free citizen 
 to think what you please about my veracity I aint gain- 
 sain' that. But do n't be a fool, Fink. 
 
 Fink. I was n't branded cast-steel for that, so do n't 
 feel oneasy touchin' my foolishness. But pole on, pole 
 on, partner. 
 
 Old Get. Ef she did n't untie the renegade how did 
 he get loose, and how did he know about her boat and its 
 oars, eh ? Answer me them questions, Mr. Solomon. 
 
 Fink. Well, I must say there 's snags about and a few 
 eddies; but there 's one thing I can say to them regulators 
 they 'd better time their visit here after our Red Run 
 expedition gets off. Ef they don't they run on a few 
 snags that are tiptop sawyers, I can tell you. 
 
 Old Get. I 'm with you there, Fink ; but, its long be- 
 tween drinks, partner. Let's adjourn to the broad horn 
 and try that corn-juice. 
 
 Fink. Agreed. (Exeunt.} 
 
 Enter MRS. BLENNERHASSETT. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Now, please do n't fail me, boy ; if my 
 this man I mean were to die without giving me a clue I 
 
33 2 Blennerhassett ' s Island. 
 
 would be doomed to a life of torture. (In taking note 
 BARBARA drops /'/.) 
 
 Barb. Trust me, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. I do. May heaven serve you as you 
 serve a wretched mother ! (Exit.) 
 
 Barb. Poor woman. What helpless playthings we 
 are in the hands of men, and how we pay with broken 
 hearts for their amusement. There is one, at least, I 
 doom to death. Those papers could I but gain that 
 proof, the task were easy. (Exit) 
 
 Enter BLENNERHASSETT. 
 
 Blen. A strange depression weighs me down. This 
 hazy sun of autumn, with the gorgeous drapery of the 
 dying woods I have so loved, seems to me the sunlight of 
 a cemetery. I can not understand this sudden intimacy 
 with Colonel Burr. Last night my more than wife awoke 
 me by her weeping. She wearies of this solitude. Can 
 it be this fascinating villian, this man whose oily tongue 
 and polished ways win hearts in spite of reason, has come 
 between us? The thought is madness, and yet why not? 
 She left her husband, child, and home for me ; why may 
 she not in turn follow him ? (Picks up note mechanically. ) 
 This were punishment I could not bear What is this ? 
 (reads} "My heart is full of agonized suspense. You 
 have aroused a love I thought dead. You promise to re- 
 turn my child. God bless you for the hope, and heaven 
 
Bknmrhassett' s Island. 333 
 
 reward you. Such deed will wipe away your sins yea, 
 cleanse your hands of blood. Only grant me what you 
 promise and I will give you all that is left of my wretched 
 life." I see it all! This devil in human shape I have ad- 
 mitted to my house and home has won her through her 
 mother love and seeks to have me embark in his wild 
 schemes that he may have her by his side. 
 Enter BARBARA. 
 
 Barb. (Aside.) I have lost the note. (Sees BLEN- 
 NERHASSETT.) Ah! sir, you seem disturbed. (BLENNER- 
 HASSETT stares at her.) Are you ill ? 
 
 Blen. Aye, ill ill sick at heart ! But what is that 
 to you; go from me; why do you look upon me so 
 strangely? Is my disease written upon my face go, I 
 say ! Hold! Perhaps you know. In cases of this sort it 
 is common for all to know the rot before the sufferer feels 
 his wrong. Do you know what tortures me ? 
 
 Barb. I believe I do. 
 
 Blen. Well, answer what is it? Do n't stand there 
 with that look of pity on your face. Out with it, boy, or 
 I shall choke it from you ! (Seizing her. ) 
 
 Barb. The disease from which you suffer is known to 
 the world as Aaron Burr. 
 
 Blen. So I thought! Known is it known to the 
 world and all these camp followers and ruffians have 
 seen what I have not even suspected; and so my name 
 
334 Blennerhassetf s Island. 
 
 and trouble are tossed about camp-fires by vulgar lips for 
 laughter and contempt, or worse than both, their pity. 
 
 Barb. There is no need thus to torture yourself by 
 such exaggeration. But it does seem' strange to me that a 
 man wise as you should admit to your home a man against 
 whom every door is closed, and upon whose Cain-marked 
 brow the finger of public scorn is fixed. 
 
 Blen. True most true. 
 
 Barb. What is there sacred that he respects, what law 
 of God has he not violated ? Brave as a soldier, brilliant 
 as a statesman so fascinating that he wins by looks where 
 eloquence fails other men his treachery has undone him ! 
 He is doomed. 
 
 Blen. Yes, yes; I fell a victim to his wiles. But now, 
 while stealing from me all my heart holds dear, he trusts 
 his honor and his life into my keeping. See, I hold here 
 papers that, if given to the government, would doom him 
 to a felon's death for treason high treason. 
 
 Barb. And you keep faith with a man like this? 
 Give me the papers; this officer is waiting here for proof; 
 with these in hand your enemy, the country's foe, will be 
 carried back in irons to die upon the scaffold. 
 
 Blen. Take them my boy. -Such vengeance brings no 
 relief to me, but it is well that he should die. 
 
 Barb. (Aside.) \ have won. (Seizing the papers. ) 
 
Blennerhassetf s Island. 335 
 
 Rest assured sir, more than one broken heart will rejoice 
 over this man's fall. (Exit.) 
 
 (BLENNERHASSETT seats himself and buries his face in his 
 hands. MRS. BLENNERHASSETT approaches him and places 
 her hand upon his shoulder. ) 
 
 Mrs. Bkn. My love, I have a hideous secret to reveal 
 to you. 
 
 Blen. ( Without looking up.} So soon returned ! You 
 should have continued on and saved the telling of what I 
 know I know too well. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Colonel Burr was met at the landing by a 
 messenger with news that brought us back. I have re- 
 solved to confess to you a strange experience that has 
 come to us. 
 
 Blen. Save yourself the shame of telling. I know it 
 all without (Starting up.*) I was slow to learn, the very 
 last to learn the shame the entire camp and country bab- 
 bles of. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Do not blame me, love. I sought to hide 
 from you the misery of this event. I can not kill a 
 mother's love ; there is no hour of the weary day I do not 
 see her little form look in her gentle face, and when night 
 comes I hear in sleep the patter of her tiny feet the 
 music of her voicej the pressure on my bosom of her 
 gentle touch, and I awake to weep in utter wretchedness. 
 Oh ! Harman, he promises to restore my child to give 
 
33 6 Blennerhassett* s Island. 
 
 her to these loving arms I stretch in vain to gather vacancy 
 that holds but woe. 
 
 Blen. He promises ! he is a treacherous villian Why 
 promises are cheap ! He sought by promises such as these 
 to win you from me. Thank God, I hold the scoundrel 
 by the throat and a shameful death I promise him. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. You do mistake most strangely ; he never 
 sought to win my love nor I to give it him. 
 
 Blen. Hold ! Add not to crime by lies. Is that your 
 writing? (Showing note.} 
 
 Mrs. Blen. (Faintly.} Yes. 
 
 Blen. "You pen such words to him to this wretch 
 whose life has been an infamy and I abandoned home, 
 friends, fortune and a future to bury like a fool my love 
 and self in a wilderness for such a thing as this ! 
 
 Mrs. Blen. I gave you all I had to give. And were 
 I less a mother could you love me more ? 
 
 Blen. And this love was to be bandied about, from 
 one to another. It began with me and will end with the 
 common herd. Paugh ! It makes me sick. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. These are bitter words. Oh, Harman, 
 hear me, be patient with me ! 
 
 Blen. Patience ! Great Heavens, and would you have 
 me patient with my own dishonor pander to my own dis- 
 grace ! What sort of woman is this that before God I made 
 my wife into whose keeping I have placed my all in life ! 
 
Blennerhassett' s Island. 337 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Alas, you will not listen. Oh, my love 
 {placing her hand upon his arm.) 
 
 Blen. {Throwing her off.} Off, you strumpet ! How 
 dare you touch me with your polluted hand ! Go join 
 your new found love; he waits you now. Go go to 
 him, and by the great Creator I will put the rope around 
 his worthless neck and you shall see him hanged. 
 
 {She exits slowly, shrinking from htm; he rushes back, 
 sinks into a seat and buries his face in his hands. Enter 
 BARBARA.) 
 
 Barb. This officer when wanted most is absent from 
 his post. I have left orders at his camp for a file of men 
 to arrest this traitor. 
 
 Blen. {Rising suddenly.) I find no comfort here. He 
 shall die by my own hand. 
 
 Barb. Better leave that to the hangman. The rope 
 is woven and the scaffold built for the traitor Burr. Leave 
 the law he has offended to do your work. 
 
 Blen. Too slow, too slow and all uncertain. I'll arm my- 
 self and shoot him where he stands. I '11 send his treacher- 
 ous soul to hell before his faction shall have time to rescue. 
 
 Barb. But sir 
 
 Blen. Out of my way you spy! (Throunng BARBARA 
 aside and rushing into the house.) 
 
 Barb. The man is crazed. Well, be it so ; my enemy 
 
 is punished either way. 
 29 
 
33& Blennerhassett* s Island. 
 
 Enter BURR. 
 
 Burr. Barbara (she starts), you do this masquerading 
 remarkably well. 
 
 Barb. You know me, then ! 
 
 Burr. My heart were dead indeed did I not see 
 you through this thin disguise. You may stain the snowy 
 skin and hide the roses, cut off with cruel shears your 
 silken locks, put on a boy's attire, yet leave enough for 
 me to know the sweetest woman heaven ever fashioned to 
 fascinate a man. 
 
 Barb. Enough of that! I have learned to value 
 these soft speeches at their real value. 
 
 Burr. And did you suppose, my girl, that you could 
 change the winning sweetness of that voice, your grace of 
 motion and those sparkling eyes because this vulgar dema- 
 gogue this French philosopher, Tom Jefferson, bids you 
 try? 
 
 Barb. I have enough to suit my purpose. See (show- 
 ing package of papers), I hold your life, you traitor to God, 
 your government and me. I put the rope around your 
 treacherous neck and send you swinging down to infamy. 
 
 Burr. Are those my love letters that you brandish so 
 triumphantly ? 
 
 Barb. No! I burned the worthless things when I 
 ground your worthless love beneath my feet. 
 
Blennerhassett 's Island. 339 
 
 Burr. What, then, are those very official-looking doc- 
 uments ? 
 
 Barb. The papers you entrusted to your host, the 
 wealthy owner of this town and isle ; all your traitorous 
 plans, your secret correspondence with despots abroad 
 who seek, through you, to break the Union and destroy 
 the government. 
 
 Burr. And is an Irishman's honor then so frail a thing 
 as woman's love ? Well, give me my property. (Seizing 
 her arm). 
 
 Barb. Not so, my love. You are desperate I see. 
 But one cry from me, and the guard will be upon you, 
 and you arrested with all the proof upon your person. 
 
 Burr. (Releasing her.) But you will not cry. 
 
 Barb. Unless you force me. 
 
 Burr. And you will restore my property. 
 
 Barb. Not so long as I have eating at my heart the 
 wrong you did me. 
 
 Burr. I accept the terms. What is the wrong that 
 thus has changed your trusting love to hate ? 
 
 Barb. Must I repeat what you have known so well ? 
 Did you not woo and win me from my quiet humble home, 
 from innocence and peace ? 
 
 Burr. Most true. It is the sweetest memory of my 
 life ! Through all my troubled years that joy rides on like 
 some bright star above the clouds of night. 
 
34O Blennerhassett } s Island. 
 
 Barb. And then to cast me from you like a worthless 
 thing to die of my own despair ! 
 
 Burr. That is a lie. Pardon my rough words, but I 
 am the one wronged, the one to complain. 
 
 Barb. You? You? Come now, this is audacity with- 
 out parallel. What a fool you think me to treat me thus ! 
 
 Burr. Your conduct certainly warrants such belief. 
 Listen, Barbara. When first we met you were but a school 
 girl, and I a man who had knocked about the world until 
 wearied with its dreary sameness. I saw you to love as I 
 never thought to love again. It was not only your rare 
 beauty but your quaint originality and force of character 
 that made you, not a man's plaything, but his equal to 
 soothe, comfort, and sustain. 
 
 Barb. And you wearied of all these charms so soon ! 
 
 Burr. You provoke me. This weakness is unworthy 
 of you, my love. You measure my love with a pack 
 thread. After that fatal duel in which I killed mine 
 enemy and the world killed me, I turned to you as my 
 only solace, my only hope. 
 
 Barb. It is such a pity you kept all this hid in your 
 own heart, not even deigning to answer my poor letters. 
 
 Burr. I never received them. I have been sur- 
 rounded a hundred deep by spies, to which you, my love, 
 have added your sweet self to work my ruin. My letters 
 were intercepted and destroyed. 
 
Bknnerhassett 's Island. 341 
 
 Barb. Ah ! If I could believe all this. 
 
 Burr. Your inner heart believes it. Your better in- 
 stincts guide you to the truth. Why, Barbara, do you 
 know why I shot that man with the sunlight blazing on his 
 face? 
 
 Barb. For a political difference that he made per- 
 sonal. 
 
 Burr. Not at all. 'T is true, the world puts me at 
 fault, finding no cause for my deadly malice. It was be- 
 cause he coupled your dear name with mine for scorn and 
 laughter among his drunken comrades. 
 
 Barb. Can this be true ? 
 
 Burr. True! I would it were not true. Before I 
 killed that man I had the world before me; a past that 
 made me loved, and troops of friends to insure me a 
 brilliant future. After the howling mob of Puritans, 
 headed by this demagogue, whose cunning passes for 
 genius, succeeded in closing against me my field of old 
 success and drove me to try a new, I accepted the 
 tempting offers of monarchs abroad to build an empire on 
 a portion of this frail republic. And do you know, Bar- 
 bara, the hope that held me to this desperate work the 
 one bright star that shone along my troubled sea, my guide 
 to empire ? 
 
 Barb. How can I know, not knowing you? 
 
 Burr. So it seems. Well, I put my life, my name, 
 
342 Blenncrhassetf s Island. 
 
 my fortune on the hazard of this scheme, not only that I 
 might fulfill my destiny but sweeten it with your com- 
 panionship ; I would place a crown upon that lovely head 
 and have your love to live upon and your rare intellect to 
 aid me in my public cares and lift a burden from my 
 dreary life. 
 
 Barb. Ah me, I ought not to listen, I know I 
 know your words are false. I have that within that warns 
 me of your treachery, and yet I must submit ! I love you 
 still. There, take the proofs and count me out, too small 
 a thing for you to keep me even in your memory. 
 
 Burr. No, keep the papers, Barbara. They are safer 
 in your hands than mine. And stay with me for I need 
 your clear brain as much as I need your love. Hold ! you 
 can do me a service, a great service. His Excellency has 
 ordered my arrest. He proclaims me traitor and calls on 
 all good citizens to give no aid to my endeavors. Give 
 me those papers; take these, carry them to the President 
 and say you risked your life in getting them. And if His 
 Excellency can spare time from the embraces of his sad- 
 dle-tinted love he will read therein that I only mean to 
 settle lands I purchased in Louisiana, and so be put at 
 fault. I need time; this will fetch delay. 
 
 Barb. Be assured I will and Oh ! my love, let this 
 one service plead in my behalf ! 
 
 Burr. No need of pleading, dearest. You hold my 
 
Blennerhassett 's Island. 343 
 
 future, my heart and hope within the hollow of your little 
 hand. Soon return. 
 
 Barb. Where shall I find you ? 
 
 Burr. In Mexico, my love. The halls of Montezuma 
 shall know a king once more. ' Au revoiri\\\ then. {Exit 
 Barbara.) Go your ways, you little fool! By the Lord, 
 though, she came near to proving my ruin. Here comes 
 this padded chicken cock with a nation's care upon his 
 military front and a file of men behind. 
 
 Enter CAPTAIN WILKINSON and troops followed by FINK, 
 OLD GET and others. 
 
 Sergeant. Halt ! 
 
 Captain. Colonel Burr, it is my painful duty to arrest 
 you. 
 
 Burr. By what authority, sir? 
 
 Captain. By that of the President and Secretary of War. 
 
 Burr. Pardon me, Captain; I must have a warrant 
 from court of proper jurisdiction. There has been no 
 proclamation establishing martial law. 
 
 Captain. I take the responsibility. Seize him, Sergeant. 
 
 Sergeant. Take this man in custody. (Soldiers do not 
 move.) Do you hear me seize this man! 
 
 First Soldier. We wont obey; we go with Burr. 
 (Cries of "Burr" "Burr" the crowd cheers.} 
 
 Captain. Why this is mutiny ! 
 
 Burr. It certainly resembles something of the sort. 
 
344 Blennerhassett 's Island. 
 
 Captain. Doubtless of your cunning. 
 
 Burr. Captain, give me your sword do n't hesitate, 
 it is your only safety. (Captain gives sword.} Comrades, I 
 am Aaron Burr, a soldier late of the Federal army. I 
 thank you for the honesty that makes you refuse to execute 
 an illegal order, and I thank you for the impulse that bids 
 you seek to follow my fortunes; but, comrades, in the 
 hazardous expedition I have on hand I need men, not 
 deserters. Were I to accept your offer I would justify the 
 government in arresting us. You are gallant soldiers en- 
 listed on your honor and must return to duty. Fall in. 
 By the right flank, forward march ! Sergeant, march them 
 to camp. Captain, having restored to you your company, 
 I have the honor to restore to you your sword. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE: Same as in former acts. FINK and MAHALA. 
 
 Mahala. What 's up, Mike ? 
 
 Mike. My back 's up for one thing. 
 
 Mahala. Like a torn cat. Back rounded, claws and 
 teeth out, and tail bigger nor its head. What riles you, 
 Fink? 
 
 Fink. Those damned fool regulators. They hadn't 
 the pluck to hunt down and capture the devil, Wolf; but 
 
Bknnerhassett y s Island. 345 
 
 now that he is gone they are ragin' like catamounts and 
 are gettin' a force to clean us out, they say, because the 
 lady let him escape. I say what 's become of the lady ? 
 
 Mahala. Well, Fink, there you 've got me. She dis- 
 appeared all of a suddint, no one knows where, and the 
 boss has been goin' on like mad. He walked and walked 
 his room all last night, muttering to himself like one 
 possessed. 
 
 Fink. The troops are gettin' off, bound for New 
 Orleans. I wished the roosters 'd stay a little longer. 
 
 Mahala. Why, I thought you wanted 'em gone. 
 
 Fink. Yes, when they was talkin' of 'restin' our 
 Colonel Burr. But that's over now. The Captain give 
 it up like a sensible fellow and then I did n't like the way 
 they had of walkin' round you like crows round a sick 
 lamb. But now that the regulators are a' gettin' up mis- 
 chief, I would n't mind havin' the roosters take a hand in 
 the scrimmage. 
 
 Mahala. The regulators will be down on us the 
 moment the soldiers go. 
 
 Fink. Should n't wonder cuss 'em. I say, Mahala, 
 my may apple, my dog-wood blossom, when 'er you and me 
 goin' to tie to eh ? 
 
 Mahala. When you give up boatin' and settle down to 
 an honest life. 
 
 Fink. Now, puss, do n't say that. I tell you, my red- 
 
346 Blennerhassett' s Island. 
 
 bird of the wilderness, there 's more hard dollars in a 
 broad horn than in forty quarter sections. 
 
 Mahala. Yes, and a sweetheart in every town you tie 
 up at. No, Mr. Fink, I do n't want part of a husband, I 
 want all or none. 
 
 Fink. Well, you 've got me fore and aft I am all 
 your 'n ; let me grapple. 
 
 Enter OLD GET. 
 
 Old Get. Throw off thar throw off, I 'm a comin' ! 
 {Pushing in between them.} Give the old man a chance. 
 
 Mahala. Go away, you scare-crow, you string-haltered, 
 spavined old creeter' ! 
 
 Old Get. Oh ! You, hollyhock of the garden patch 
 Jehosiphat, aint she handsome ! Amputate my off limb, 
 I wants to hug ye 'r. 
 
 Fink. Pole off, pole off thar ! That aint a saplin' for 
 you to tie to. I 've secured that cargo. 
 
 Old Get. Do n't ye be deluded, young gal, by his in- 
 sinuatin' ways. He 's got a wife and family this minute 
 jist a weepin' for him, the ornery cuss ! 
 
 Fink. See here, old man, keep your lies for your 
 own use. You 're breedin' a protuberance on that nose of 
 your 'n. 
 
 Old Get. Come on come on, young Arabian ! Hail 
 Columby ! Who 's afeard ? As for this little gal, I warn 
 her agin boatmen. (Sings.} 
 
Blennerhassett 's Island. 347 
 
 The boatman come, he blow his hawn, 
 Look out old man, yer shote am gone. 
 
 (Chorus all.) 
 
 Oh! ho! boatman row, 
 We 're floatin' on the waters of the O-hi-o. 
 
 Pink. Where have you bin, anyhow? 
 
 Old Get. A bar huntin', and I tell you I made a mity 
 narrow escape with my life. 
 
 Pink. Put your fascinatin' eye on him, May. Here 
 comes a lie. 
 
 Old Get. Well, ye see I 'd been explorin' the woods 
 with one eye out fur Indians and tother out for bars r and 
 had n't seen either, when I leaned up agin a big oak to 
 rest, and while I was a restin' I heard a scratchin' and 
 whinin' noise inside. Them's coons, possums, or young 
 bars, says I. I sot down my rifle, husked my wamus, and 
 went up that thar tree like a squirrel. About twenty feet 
 up I found the trunk broke off and the tree holler. 
 Without thinkin' what I was doing I jist slipped down, and 
 way at the butt I found them little bars. I had them cubs 
 in no time and slung 'em over my shoulder, and concluded 
 to climb back, when, bless your soul, I found I could n't. 
 The inside wus soft and slippy. Every foot I climbed up 
 I fell back two. I knowed I could eat them little bars 
 and I could drink all the wiskey in my flask, and then 
 old Get could jest peg out. 
 
343 Blennerhassetf s Island. 
 
 Fink. Did you repent of all the lies you 've told ? 
 
 Mahala. And all the chicken you stole? 
 
 Old Get. Well, for a real truth tellin', honest Christian 
 man, I wasn't so much alarmed about the hereafter as the 
 here. But I jist felt in my bones that the Lord was n't 
 goin' to leave me to perish, and sure enough at that minit 
 I heard a noise of growlin' and scratchin' on the outside 
 and I knew the old she bar was a comin'. Then, Oh, 
 Lord ! says I, it is goin' to be a bar fight of magnitude, 
 and I drawed my knife. Then the hole above was 
 darkened and down she comes rump foremost. An idea 
 struck me. When she got in reach I jist seized her by the 
 tail and stuck my knife in her hind quarters, and the way 
 that bar scratched, growled and kicked me out of that hole 
 was a caution. I caught on the rim as she went over the 
 top and I gave a yell as she tumbled and went a canterin 1 
 into the brush a twistin' her old rump as if she felt ridicalus. 
 
 Fink. Oh, get out ! 
 
 Old Get. Fact, Fink. 
 
 Fink. You 'r a failin', old man; I heerd that bar story 
 when I wus knee high to a duck on the Monongahela. 
 
 Old Get. Young man, ef you begin a lyin' that ar way, 
 the devil '11 catch you afore you are gray. Let the choir 
 sing. 
 
 Mahala. Well, I 've got my work to do and can't stay 
 here a hearin' you fellows swap lies. 
 
Bltnnerhasself 1 s Island. 349 
 
 Fink. Farewell, my dog-wood blossom. 
 
 Old Get. Goodby, little hollyhock. (Exit MAHALA.) 
 Enter COLONEL BURR. 
 
 Burr. Fink, you must select about ten trusty men to 
 cross the river yonder and follow a trail you find up the 
 hollow, till you reach a camp, where you '11 find a wounded 
 man and a woman; surround and capture without kill- 
 ing and fetch them here. Mind, you are to hurt no one. 
 Make a litter and bring in the wounded man. 
 
 Fink. All right, Colonel, we '11 be on the trail in half 
 an hour. (Exeunt FINK and OLD GET.) 
 
 Burr. Now for a settlement with this mad fool who 
 betrayed my trust. (Enter from the house BLENNERHASSETT 
 with two dueling pistols in his hand.) He comes, pale and 
 insane with wrath. 
 
 Blen. Aaron Burr, I thought to shoot you on sight, 
 with no more warning of my deadly intent than you gave 
 me of your treachery. But my own life is not of so much 
 value to me that I care to save it, and if in my seeking 
 your life you take mine, it will be peace to me and a fit- 
 ting end to your hellish conduct. 
 
 Burr. I never refuse a satisfaction of the sort you ask, 
 whether the demand is well founded or not. Before we 
 proceed to that honor I wish to say a word. 
 
 Blen. I warn you, Aaron Burr, that my patience is 
 exhausted. There is naught that you can say to change 
 
350 Blennerhassett* s Island. 
 
 my purpose, and your attempt will only drive me mad. 
 Take your choice. (Off ering pistols ?) 
 
 Burr. Excuse me. I am well aware that a man who 
 could so betray my confidence is quite capable of assassin- 
 ation. It is I who should demand satisfaction. 
 
 Blen. Treachery for treachery. What law of honor 
 bound me to one who stole into my household to rob it of 
 peace and honor ? Take your choice, sir. 
 
 Burr. The word honor, my friend, had better be 
 dropped between us. All the honor sheltered by your 
 roof is scarcely worth our breath. 
 
 Blen. What do you mean ! What do you mean, you 
 scoundrel ? 
 
 Burr. I mean that a man who makes his roof the 
 shelter for his neighbor's wife leaves honor at the thresh- 
 hold. 
 
 Blen. She was my wife to you as she was before God. 
 This, then, is your excuse this is to palliate your crime ? 
 God give me patience ! I shall throttle him tear his 
 lying tongue from his throat. Aaron Burr, will you do as 
 Ibid? 
 
 Burr. Certainly; but I will say that I have no crime 
 to palliate. 
 
 Blen. You did not steal into my house as a friend and 
 win that woman from me as a devil ? 
 
 Burr. Certainly not. 
 
Blennerhassett' s Island. 351 
 
 Blen. You have not hid her in your camp ? 
 
 Burr. Certainly not. 
 
 Blen. You lie you lie! I speak of what I know. 
 Will you take your weapon and your place, or shall I 
 shoot you like a dog ? 
 
 Burr. Be patient, Harman Blennerhassett. You shall 
 have all that you demand and probably more than you 
 expect. I do not skrink from putting one more fool out 
 of the world. 
 
 Blen. You think to kill me ? 
 
 Burr. Most assuredly. In sixty seconds by my watch 
 (taking it out} I will end this controversy between us for- 
 ever. Now, let me tell you, sir, before you die that you 
 merit your doom. I am the man aggrieved. I trusted my 
 honor, my life, my all to your keeping as a gentleman, 
 and you repaid that trust by betraying me to mine 
 enemies. 
 
 Blen. Hold trust with a scoundrel who treacherously 
 took advantage of my hospitality to do me a most foul 
 wrong ? 
 
 Burr. It was your duty as a gentleman to call me to 
 account. After you were certain of your facts you could 
 have punished me as your vengeance dictated. Time is 
 up, Mr. Blennerhassett. Give me either weapon. I 
 suppose both are loaded. Now, take your stand by yon- 
 der bush. That will give us the proper distance. 
 
352 Blennerhassett' s Island. 
 
 Bkn. I want no such space I want it arm's length, 
 face to face, and muzzle at breast. 
 
 Burr. Mr. Blennerhassett, I am a gentleman and not 
 an assassin. Either we fight like men, or you may carry 
 out your first intent and shoot me where I stand. 
 
 Blen. Fight me here. Who is to measure distance ? 
 Give the word. All this is a mockery under which you 
 hope to escape to your love. 
 
 Burr. Enough, sir; you are wasting breath in talk 
 that lately you protested. Take your place, sir, or shoot 
 me. I want this ended. 
 
 Blen. And I. (Starting.) 
 
 Burr. One word fire when you reach your place as 
 it suits you, as I count three. But mind, the one who 
 misses forfeits his life, and the winner has the right to 
 shorten distance till his aim is death. 
 
 Blen. I understand. (Takes his place.) 
 
 Burr. One, two, three. (BLENNERHASSETT fires.) 
 And now, before I end this wretched business, will you 
 please explain why you charge me with seducing this 
 woman from you? 
 
 Blen. Her own writing read. (Gives note.) 
 
 Burr. (Reads.) There is no address. 
 
 Blen. None was needed. 
 
 Burr. Yes, for this was not addressed to me. 
 
 Blen. Who else? 
 
Blennerhassett' s Island. 353 
 
 Burr. Wolf, the renegade. 
 
 Blen. Wolf, the renegade ! 
 
 Burr. None other. Learn, sir, what you might 
 have known had you retained your senses. The beast 
 whose wife you stole followed you here to murder you 
 both. For some unknown reason he surrendered himself, 
 had his life spared by your wife, and in return promised 
 to restore her their child. On this promise she favored 
 his escape. On this account she attempted a correspond- 
 ence, for the man while escaping was terribly wounded 
 
 Blen. Great heavens, can this be true? 
 
 Burr. This letter found where she embarked last 
 night may tell you more. ( Takes from his pocket a Utter.} 
 
 Blen. (Opens and reads.} "Before I cross this river 
 to die in the wilderness beyond for you have driven me 
 into these wilds with no place wherein to find a shelter or 
 a friend I beg of you, as my last prayer, to take up the 
 search I shall have to abandon and find my poor lost little 
 one. It was from my great love of her that I listened to 
 Victor and aided him to escape. I had no thought, Oh, 
 my love, that this would have so offended you, and yet I 
 feared to tell you. I can say no more. Oh! my love, 
 my love, I gave up home, heaven, and my own child for 
 you, and now in sight of a cruel death I swear that to you 
 I have been true in thought, word, and deed." My God! 
 What have I done ? I have driven her forth to perish in 
 30 
 
354 Blennerhasset? s Island. 
 
 the wide wilderness. She is dead, and I her murderer ! 
 Sir, you were right to kill me in mercy now put me out 
 of my misery. 
 
 Burr. Come, come, man, it is not so bad as that. I 
 have sent some trusty fellows on the trail, and if naught 
 goes amiss this fair woman will yet be saved. 
 (Enter Messenger?) 
 
 Messenger. Letters for Colonel Burr. 
 
 (BURR opens hastily and reads :) 
 
 "Your boats have been seized at Pittsburgh and an 
 officer with troops is on his way with orders to seize and 
 carry you in irons to Washington." 
 
 Burr. So the French Virginian springs his trap before 
 the prey is in the net. It is unlucky, though. A few 
 more days and I were far beyond his reach. 
 
 {Shouts and firing heard. Enter OLD GET.) 
 
 Old Get. The regulators is on us ! 
 
 Burr. The troops are gone, and I have sent away the 
 best of our men. (To BLENNERHASSETT, who sits with his 
 face in his hands.} Rouse up, man ; your people are 
 being killed, your home will be destroyed. 
 
 Blcn. It is not worth the saving. Let me die amid 
 its ruin. 
 
 (Boatmen and soldiers hurry in armed.) 
 
 Burr. Rally here, my men ! cut loose the boats ! (A 
 glare of light , showing the house to be on fire, flashes tip. ) 
 
Blennerhassett'* s Island. 355 
 
 What! so soon? The rogues are quick and sudden in 
 their attack. Fall back upon the camp steady steady 
 men. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE: As in previous acts. The house in ruins, trees leaf- 
 less and snow falling. OLD GET and MAHALA. 
 
 Old Get. Winter's come as suddint as the regulators 
 and jist about as onpleasant. 
 
 Mahala. Ef it had n't been for the Colonel's boat 
 we 'd a froze to death. 
 
 Old Get. Ef it had n't been for that same Kunnel we 
 would n't a 'lived to be froze. Jehosiphat! but he did 
 make his fellers fight. The little handful was as firm 
 under him as a rock, and fierce as tigers. We made them 
 regulators take to water git up and git, although about 
 ten times our number. I tell ye, gal, there 's nothin' like 
 havin' a gineral in a scrimmage. The boss hisself was n't 
 worth a continental cuss. 
 
 Mahala. What ailed him ? 
 
 Old Get. Lord only knows. He seemed all of a daze. 
 The men had to pull him out of the fight. He jist looked 
 and acted like a dumb beast in a blaze. Did you see me 
 
356 Blennerhassetf s Island. 
 
 fight, little gal ? Ef it had n't been for me and the Kun- 
 nel wher 'd you bin, eh ? 
 
 Mahala. I got sight of you onct behind a tree. 
 
 Old Get. And did n't I stand firm ? 
 
 Mahala. Agin that tree yes; you was a huggin' that 
 tree as if it had been your sweetheart. 
 
 Old Get. That was high old strategy, ye see. It was 
 my pint of observation to command knowingly. Ye see, 
 that was jist whar I saw how to turn their flank and pepper 
 'em in their rear. Me an' Kunnel Burr got 'em bad 
 behind, and that 's what scared 'em worst. As we was 
 light handed I never leveled old Betsy 'till I could take 
 from three to five in a row. Why, fellers died here by 
 dozens jist a wonderin' what ailed 'em. Men, I '11 venture, 
 went home to their families, took their suppers and did n't 
 know 'till they poled for bed that they was mortally 
 wounded. When I was in Gettisburg (Mahala steals off 
 unnoticed by OLD GET.) the British came down on us all 
 of a suddint and began firing bombs into us. I was a 
 mere boy then, but what does I do but pick up them 
 bombs afore they could explode and throw 'em back. I'd 
 a killed off the hull army but for an unfortunate bomb that 
 exploded right in my commissary. It knocked me into 
 the middle of next week, and when I come 'round they 
 was a bury in' me with the honors of war. I tell ye, gal, 
 
Blennerhassetf s Island. 357 
 
 Hello, the specimen female has disappeared ! Well, 
 women has no 'preciation for good men at any time. 
 (Enter BURR, meeting OLD GET. as the last exits. ) 
 
 Evening to you, Kunnel bad weather, Kunnel. 
 
 Burr. A rough day, comrade. My life is in its wane. 
 Success no longer waits upon my will. There was a time 
 when fortune smiled and fate seemed at my bidding. 
 Then, fair women and brave men loved and feared me. 
 But since that fatal moment, when with cool deliberate aim 
 I sent the leaden messenger of death to smite mine enemy, 
 all seems changed. What I seize upon fades to nothing- 
 ness, and my cherished projects turn to ill. Women fear 
 and men shun me. This fair isle I found a paradise, is 
 turned in one short day to desolate nakedness. Its 
 peaceful loving life went out in violence, and yet it was no 
 deed of mine. All that I touch drops to swift decay. I 
 dreamed to build an empire in the mighty West. The 
 potent governments of earth gave me means. What could 
 be fairer than my future ? And now my boats are seized, 
 my men arrested, my seeming friends turned traitors, while 
 armed emissaries hurry on to take me back in irons. 
 Well, well, I look the invisible calmy in- the face, and let 
 the future be what it may, no man shall question me in 
 doubt upon my courage or my power to hurt. I will ful- 
 fill my destiny. The hand that gave, the poison to the 
 snake and to the cruel tiger its ravenous appetite gave 
 
35 8 Blennerhassetf s Island. 
 
 man his impulse, be it good or ill, and I will do the evil 
 I was born to do. When I die no monument built by lov- 
 ing hands shall mark my narrow bed, but for ages after my 
 epitaph shall be my name, and men will say a dangerous 
 man no one crossed his path and lived. (Entet MIKE 
 FINK.) Well, Fink, what success? 
 
 Fink. I found the camp, Wolf wounded, an old 
 medicine man making him worse, and Mrs. Blennerhassett 
 nursing him. 
 
 Burr. Is he much hurt ? 
 
 Fink. Could n't be much worse and live. 
 
 Burr. You brought him in ? 
 
 Fink. Aye, aye, sir ; we obeyed orders ; made a litter 
 for the wounded man and toted him down ; madam treats 
 him as she would a child, tho' its my opinion he will be in 
 hell afore he reaches here. They're comin'. 
 Enter number of men carrying WOLF, followed by MRS. BLEN- 
 NERHASSETT, and at a distance BLENNERHASSETT. 
 
 Burr. How fares it with you, man ? 
 
 Wolf. I think this little trip has about finished the 
 work. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Oh, Colonel, can not aid be obtained? 
 Have you not a surgeon with your men ? 
 
 Wolf. (Lifting himself up.} All the surgeons in the 
 world could not give me an hour's life. Where is Blen- 
 nerhassett ? I want a word with him before I die. 
 
Blennerhassett' s Island. 359 
 
 Blen. I am here. 
 
 Wolf. You sought my wife ; I leave you my widow. 
 Do not start, man it is all right. You saved her from a 
 brute. 
 
 Blen. I never knew the wrong I did till now. 
 
 Wolf. The knowledge comes a little late. Better 
 late than never. That is all bosh. You can now repay 
 the wrong, if any wrong you did. I made her wretched. 
 It was the husband's right. You made her happy; it was 
 the lover's right. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Oh, Victor, do not speak thus ! . You will 
 yet live ; we will nurse you back to life we will have a 
 surgeon you are only exhausted by this moving. 
 
 Wolf. A priest were better than a doctor now. I 
 make you all my confessor. I have sinned to the best of 
 my ability. There is no crime I have not committed save 
 what a gentleman can not do. I have not forged to ob- 
 tain your property, but by the slow torture of abuse I 
 have made your life more terrible than death, and now, in 
 expiation I give my life to you and not against my will. 
 I beg you to observe I have lived a gentleman and die a 
 man. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Do not think of dying, Victor! We will 
 save you yet. 
 
 Wolf. It is not what I think but feel. I am dead in 
 all save speech, A priest who could absolve us all were 
 
360 Blennerhassett' s Island. 
 
 best. The dying sinner he could confess and the living 
 sinners he might absolve by marriage. Give me your 
 hand, wife my left the right is in its grave. I have 
 been a poor devil, though a gentleman ; I made your ex- 
 istence a misery ; try to forgive if you can not forget. 
 
 Mrs. Blen. Can you forgive? 
 
 Wolf. With all my heart. Small difference. Here, 
 Harman, take the blessed of the wicked. The chill 
 reaches my heart, and night is gathering on my eyes you 
 will find the child ah ! (Falls back dead.) 
 
 Burr. With him the world is ended. 
 
 Blen. Carry him to the garden. We will make his 
 grave amid its ruins, and his requiem shall be these wintry 
 winds and the murmur of the river's waves as they sweep 
 by his lonely tomb. (They carry offWoLF.) 
 
 Burr. And now, my friends, what will you do with 
 yourselves? 
 
 Blen. Drop down the river till we reach New Orleans, 
 then sail for Europe. Will you not fly with us? 
 
 Burr. Fly? My name is Aaron Burr I go to face 
 mine enemies, demand their proof, and defy their malice. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
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