ACT I.
SCENE I.—Interior of a pretty
rural cottage.—Flowers, paintings, &c.Everything exhibits refined taste, and elegant
simplicity.—Table, with bible and arm
chair, R. MARY
seated by table,—L. Mrs. W. It was in that corner, Mary, where your poor father breathed
his last—this chair is indeed dear to me, for it was in this he sat the very day before he
died. Oh, how he loved this calm retreat, and often in his last illness he rejoiced that the
companion of his youth would close his eyes in these rural shades, and be laid in yon little
nook beside him; but now—
Mary. Dear mother. It is true, this sweet cottage is most dear to
us. But we are not the proprietors. Old Mr. Middleton never troubled us much. But as our
late worthy landlord is no more, it is generally believed that our dear cottage will be sold.
We cannot censure his son for that.
Mrs. W. No; the young must be provided for, and willingly would I
bow with resignation to that great power that loveth while it chasteneth; but when I think
that you, my beloved child, will be left exposed to the thousand temptations of life a
penniless orphan. [A knock
8
C.D.] Hark! who knocks! Dry your tears, my darling. Come in.
Enter LAWYER CRIBBS
C.D.—comes down C.
Good morning, sir. Mary, my child, a chair. Cribbs. [Sitting, L.
C.] Good morning, Mrs. Wilson; good morning, my dear young lady. A sad calamity
has befallen the neighborhood, my good Mrs. Wilson.
Mrs. W. Many a poor person, I fear, will have reason to think so, sir. Cribbs. Yes, yes. You are right. Ah! he was a good man, that Mr. Middleton. I knew him well. He
placed great confidence in my advice.
Mary. Was he not very rich once, Mr. Cribbs? Cribbs. Yes, yes; when the times were good, but bad speculations, unlucky investments, false
friends—alas! alas! we have all our ups and downs, my dear madam!
Mrs. W. Ah! Mr. Cribbs, I perceive you are a man, who— Cribbs. Has a heart to feel for the unfortunate. True, madam, it is the character I have
attained, though I am not the man to boast. Have you any prospect of—that is—have
you provided—
Mary. It is true then, too true, the cottage and garden will be sold? Cribbs. Why, what can the young man do, my dear? A gay young man like him. Fond of the
world, given somewhat to excess, no doubt. But pardon me, my dear Miss Mary; I would
not call up a blush on the cheek of modesty. But you know, the extravagance, that is,
the folly—
Mrs. W. All, sir. I understand you—very much unlike his father I would say. Cribbs. I place great confidence in your prudence, Mrs. Wilson. I wish the young man well,
with all my heart. Heaven knows I have cause to do so for his honored father's sake.
[Puts a handkerchief to his
eyes. Mrs. W. Come, come, Mr. Cribbs, he is better off. It is impiety to mourn a good man's death.
His end was that of a Christian.
Cribbs. Judge, then, of the interest which I take in the
9 last remaining scion of that honored stock. But, madam, Edward Middleton. He is yet
young, and—
Mrs. W. I think he is not more than twenty. I recollect him when a lad, a bright,
blue-eyed boy, with flaxen hair, tall of his age.
Cribbs. Twenty-three last July, madam; that is his age precisely—he is giddy, wild,
and reckless. As the good man says, "when I was a child, I thought as a child."
[A pause.—Cribbs looks
round the room.] Well, madam, business is business. I am
a plain man, Mrs. Wilson, and sometimes called too blunt—and—and—
Mary. You mean to say that we must leave the cottage, sir. Cribbs. [Pretending feeling.]
No, not yet, my dear young lady—I would say it is best to be
prepared, and as Edward is sudden in all his movements, and as my entreaties would never
change him—why, if you could find a place before he moves in the matter, it might save
you from much inconvenience, that's all.
Mrs. W. You impose on us a severe task, my dear sir. Cribbs. Bear up, my dear madam, bear up. If I may be so officious, I would try Boston—at
the Intelligence Offices there, any healthy young woman, like your daughter, can
obtain a profitable situation—think of it, think of it, my good madam. I will
see you again soon, and now, heaven bless you.
[Exit, C.D.,
and off L.—Mrs. Wilson
and Mary look for a moment at each other, and then embrace.
Mrs. W. Well, comfort, my daughter, comfort. It is a good thing to have a friend in the hour
of trouble. This Mr. Cribbs appears to be a very feeling man; but before taking his
advice, we would do well to make our proposed trial of this young man, Edward Middleton.
You have the money in your purse?
Mary. It is all here, mother. Thirty dollars—the sum we have saved to purchase fuel for the
winter.
Mrs. W. That will partially pay the rent score. When this young man finds we are disposed to
deal fairly with him, he may relent. You turn pale, Mary; what ails my child?
Mary. Dear mother, it is nothing; it will soon be
10 over—it must be done. I fear this young man. He has been described so wild, so
reckless. I feel a sad foreboding—
Mrs. W. Fear not, Mary; call him to the door. Refuse to enter the house—give him the
money, and tell him your sad story. He must, from family and association at
least, have the manners of a gentleman—and however wild a youth may be, when
abroad among his associates, no gentleman ever insulted a friendless and
unprotected woman.
Mary. You give me courage, dear mother. I should indeed by an unnatural child,
if—[Aside.]—yet
I am agitated. Oh, why do I tremble thus? [Puts on a village bonnet, &c. Mrs. W. [Kisses her.]
Go forth, my child—go as the dove flew from the ark of old, and if thou shouldst fail
in finding the olive branch of peace, return, and seek comfort where thou shalt surely
find it—in the bosom of thy fond and widowed mother.
[Exit R.D.,
and Mary, C.D.
|
SCENE II.—Front and cut
woods in C.
Enter
LAWYER CRIBBS, L.
Cribbs. Well, that interview of mock sympathy and charity is over, and I flatter myself pretty
well acted too, ha! ha! Yes, the widow and her child must quit the cottage—I'm resolved.
First for the wrongs I years ago endured from old Wilson; and secondly, it suits my own
interests; and in all cases, between myself and others, I consider the last clause as
a clincher. Ha! here comes the girl—I must watch closely here. [Retires, L.S.E.
MARY enters, fearful and
hestitating, L.
Mary. I have now nearly reached the old mansion house. In a few moments I shall see the
young man, this dissipated collegian. Oh! my poor mother must be deceived! Such a
man can have no pity for the children of poverty, misfortune's supplicants for shelter
beneath the roof of his cottage—oh, my poor mother, little do you know the sufferings
that—ha! a gentleman approaches. My fears tell me this is the man I seek. Shall I
ever have
11 courage to speak to him? I will pause till he has reached the house.
[Retires gathering flowers,
R.
Enter EDWARD MIDDLETON,
R. S. E., and CRIBBS,
L. S. E. meeting.
Cribbs. Good day, good day, son of my old friend! I have been looking for you. Edward. Mr. Cribbs, your most obedient; any friends of my father are always welcome. Cribbs. Well said, nobly said. I see your father before me, when I look on you. Edward. You were enquiring for me, Mr. Cribbs? Cribbs. I was. I wished to see you with regard to the cottage and lands adjoining. I
have an opportunity of selling them. When last we talked upon this subject—
Edward. I was then ignorant that a poor widow—[Mary at back, C.,
listening.]—and her only daughter—
Cribbs. Who are in arrears for rent— Edward. Had lived there many years—that my father highly esteemed them—to turn them forth
upon the world in the present condition of the old lady—
Cribbs. Which old lady has a claim upon the Alms House. [Mary shudders.
Edward. In short, Mr. Cribbs, I cannot think of depriving them of a home, dear to them
as the apple of their eyes—to send them forth from the flowers which they have
reared, the vines which they have trained in their course—a place endeared to them
by tender domestic recollections, and past remembrances of purity and religion.
Cribbs. Oh! all that and more—the fences which they have neglected; the garden gate off
the hinges; the limbs of the old birch tree broken down for firewood; the back windows
ornamented with an old hat—
Edward. Cease, Mr. Cribbs; all this has been explained; my foster-brother, William, has told
me the whole story. The trees were broken down by idle school-boys, and with regard
to an old hat in the window, why, it was the hat of a man; can as much be said of yours,
Mr. Cribbs?
Cribbs. You are pleased to be pleasant, to-day, sir. Good morning, sir; good morning.
[Exit, L., muttering.
12
Edward. I'm sorry I offended the old man. After all he was the friend of the family;
though it is strange, my poor father almost always took his advice, and was invariably
unfortunate when he did so.
Re-enter CRIBBS,
L.
Cribbs. Good morning again; beg pardon, sir. I now understand you better. You are right;
the daughter—fine girl, eh! sparkling eyes, eh! dimples, roguish glances! Ah, when
I was young, eh, ha? Well, never mind; you have seen her, eh?
Edward. Never; explain yourself, Mr. Cribbs. Cribbs. If you have not seen her, you will, you know, eh! I understand. Traps for wild
fowl; mother and daughter grateful; love-passion; free access to the cottage at
all hours.
Edward. Cribbs, do you know this girl has no father? Cribbs. That's it; a very wild flower growing on the open heath. Edward. Have you forgotten that this poor girl has not a brother? Cribbs. A garden without a fence, not a stake standing. You have nothing to do but
step into it.
Edward. Old man! I respect your grey hairs. I knew an old man once, peace to
his ashes, whose hair was as grey as yours; but beneath that aged breast there
beat a heart, pure as the first throbs of childhood. He was as old as you—he
was more aged; his limbs tottered as yours do not—I let you go in peace. But
had that old man heard you utter such foul sentences to his son; had he heard
you tell me to enter, like a wolf, this fold of innocence, and tear from her
mother's arms the hope of her old age, he would have forgotten the winters that
have dried the pith within his aged limbs, seized you by the throat, and dashed
you prostrate to the earth, as too foul a carcass to walk erect and mock the
name of man. [Crosses,
L.
Cribbs. But, Mr. Middleton, sir— Edward. Leave me, old man; begone; your hot lascivious breath cannot mingle with the
sweet odor of these essenced wild flowers. Your raven voice will not harmonize
with the warblings of these heavenly songsters, pouring
13 forth their praises to that Almighty power, who looks with horror on your brutal
crime. [Crosses,
R., Mary rushes forward, C.,
and kneels. Mary. The blessings of the widow and fatherless be upon thee, may they accompany thy voice
to Heaven's tribunal, not to cry for vengeance, but plead for pardon on this wretched
man.
Cribbs. Ha! The widow's daughter! Mr. Middleton, you mistake me. I—I cannot endure a
woman's tears. I—poor child! [Aside.] I'll be terribly revenged for this. [Exit Cribbs, L. S. E. Edward. This, then, is the widow's child, nurtured in the wilderness. She knows not the cold
forms of the fashionable miscalled world. Cribbs, too, gone; a tale of scandal—I'll
overtake the rascal, and at least give no color to his base fabrications. [Crossing, and going,
L. Mary. (R.) Stay,
sir, I pray you. I have an errand for you. This is part of the rent, which—
[Holding out
money. Edward. Nay, then, you have not overheard my discourse with the old man, who has just left
us. I have told him—
Mary. That we should still remain in the cottage. Oh, sir! is that a reason we should
withhold from you these dues? now paid with double pleasure, since we recognize a
benefactor in our creditor—take this, I entreat, 'tis but a portion of the debt; but be
assured, the remainder shall be paid as soon as busy, willing hands can earn it.
Edward. Nay, nay, dear girl; keep it as a portion of your dowry. Mary. Sir! Edward. If you have overheard the dialogue that I just held with that old man, you must know
that I sometimes speak very plain.
Mary. [Apprehensively.] Yes,
sir.
Edward. I have spoken plainly to him: shall I now speak plainly to you? Mary. Alas, sir! It is not our fault that the fences are broken down. When my poor father
lived, it was not so. But since—
Edward. When that vile old man spoke to me of your charms, I heeded him not. There are plenty
of pretty
14 girls in this section of the country; but I have since discovered what I had before
heard, something more that the ordinary beauty which he described. A charm that he
is incapable of appreciating. The charm of mental excellence, noble sentiment, filial
piety. These are the beauties that render you conspicuous above all the maidens I
have seen. These are the charms which bind captive the hearts of men. I speak plainly,
for I speak honestly, and when I ask you to keep that money as a portion of your
dowry, need I say into whose hands I would like to have it fall at last.
Mary. [Droops her head during the
above.] To affect—to affect not to understand you, sir, would be an idle return
for kindness such as yours, and yet—
Edward. I sometimes walk down in the vicinity of your cottage, and— Mary. Should I see you go by without stopping—why, then— Edward. Then what, dear Mary? Mary. Then I should suppose you had forgotten where we lived. Edward. Thanks! [Kisses her
hand.] Ah! little did I think when I thought of selling that dear old
cottage, that it should be regarded as a casket, invaluable for the jewel it
contained. [Leads her off,
L. U. E.
|
SCENE III.—Interior of Miss
Spindle's dwelling house. Toilette table, looking glass, essence bottles.—All denotes
vulgar wealth, devoid of elegance or taste.—MISS SPINDLE
discovered at toilette table, R.
Miss S. The attractions of the fair sex are synonymous. True, old
Bonus is the destroyer of female charms; but as my beautiful
poet, Natty P. says, in his sublime epistle to Lucinda Octavia Pauline, "Age cannot
wither me, nor custom stale my infinite vacuity." But time
is money, then money is time, and we bring back, by the aid of money, the times of
youth. I value my beauty at fifty dollars a year, as that is about the sum it costs me
for keeping it in repair year by year. Well, say that my beauty is repaired in this way,
year by year; well, what then! I have heard a gentleman say that a pair of boots when
repaired and
15 foxed, were better than they were when new. Why should it not be so with our charms?
Certainly, they last longer in this way. We can have red cheeks at seventy, and, thanks
to the dentist, good teeth at any time of life. Woman was made for love. They suppose
that my heart is unsusceptible of the tender passion. But the heart can be regulated
by money, too. I buy all the affecting novels, and all the terrible romances, and
read them till my heart has become soft as maiden wax, to receive the impression of
that cherished image I adore. Ah! as true as I live, there goes his foster brother,
William, by the window. Hem, William! [Taps at window, C.—William sings without, L.
"When I was a young and roving boy, Where fancy led me I did wander, Sweet Caroline was all my joy, But I missed the goose and hit the gander."
Enter WILLIAM DOWTON,
L. William. Good day, Miss Spindle. Miss S. You heard my rap, William? William. As much as ever, Miss Spindle. Such fingers as yours don't make noise like the fist
of a butcher.
Miss S. My hand is small, William, but I did not suppose that you had noticed it. William. I only noticed it by the lightness of your tap. So, I supposed you must be very light
fingered.
Miss S. Pray, sit down, William; take a chair, don't be bashful; you're too modest. William. It's a failing I've got, Miss Spindle. I'm so modest I always go to bed without
a candle. [Both sit,
C. Miss S. (R. C.) Shall
I tell you what I have thought, William?
William. (L. C.) Why,
that's just as you agree to with yourself. I don't care much about it, one way or
t'other.
Miss S. You were singing as you came in, William. I suppose you know I sometimes invoke
the help of Polyhymnia.
William. Why, I don't know as to the help of Polyhym-him-nina, but if you want good
help, you can't do better than hire Polly Striker, old
Farmer Jone's wife's daughter, by her first husband.
16
Miss S. You don't understand the heathen mythology, William. William. Why, I hear Parson Roundtext talk sometimes of the poor benighted heathens; but
I am free to say, that I can't come anything in regard to their conchology, as
you call it. Will you have some shell-barks, or chestnuts, Miss Spindle?
Miss S. No, William. But this is what I have thought. William there are two sorts of
men.
William. Oh yes, Miss Spindle, long ones and short ones, like cigars. Sometimes the short
ones are the best smoking, too.
Miss S. You mistake my meaning, William. Some are warm and susceptible of the charms of
women.
William. Warm, oh, yes. Florida boys, and Carolina niggers, eh? Miss S. While others are cold and apparently insensible to our
beauties—
William. Oh, yes. Newfoundlanders, Canada fellows, and Blue noses. Miss S. Now William, dear William, this is the confession I
would confide in your generous secrecy. I have a trembling affection, and then, a
warm, yet modest flame.
William. Trembling affection, warm flame, why, the old girl's got the fever and ague. Miss S. And how to combat with this dear, yet relentless foe. William. Put your feet into warm water, and wood ashes, take two quarts of boiling hot
arb tea. Cover yourself with four thick blankets, and six Canada comforters, take
a good perspicacity, and you'll be well in the morning.
Miss S. Sir! William. That's old Ma'am Brown's recipe for fever and ague, and I never yet found it fail. Miss S. Fever and ague! You mistake me, William, I have an ardent passion. William. Don't be in a passion, Miss Spindle, it's bad for your complaint. Miss S. You will not understand. I have a passion for one. William. For one! Well, it's lucky it's only one.
17
Miss S. Can you not fancy who that one is? He lives in your house. William. Well, I'm darned, Miss Spindle, it's either me or Mr. Middleton. Miss S. I never can bestow my hand without my heart, William— William. Why, I think myself they ought to be included in the same bill of sale. Miss S. Ah! William, have you ever read the "Children of the Abbey"? William. No, Miss Spindle, but I've read the "Babes of the Wood." Miss S. I have read all the Romantics of the day. I have just finished Mr. Cooper's
Trapper.
William. Oh! I dare say she understands trap, but she don't come the trapper over my
foster brother this year.
Miss S. He understands little of the refinements of the civilized circular. I must
try something else. How do you like my green dress? How does it become me?
William. Beautiful! It matches very well indeed, marm. Miss S. Matches with what, William? William. With your eyes, ma'rm. Miss S. It becomes my complexion, William. William. It's a beautiful match—like a span of grey horses. Miss S. Does your master fancy green, William? William. Oh, yes, ma'rm. He loves it fine, I tell you. Miss S. But in what respect? How did you find out? William. In respect of drinking, ma'rm. Miss S. Drinking! William. Yes. He always tells the cook to make green tea. Miss S. Well, William, how about the cottage? When are you going to turn out
those Wilsons?
William. The girl will be out of that place soon, depend on that, mar'm. Miss S. I'm glad to hear it. I never could endure those Wilsons, and it's a duty
when one knows that respectable people like your master are injured, to speak
out. I know they haven't paid their rent, and do you know that girl was
18 seen getting into a chaise with a young man, when she ought to have been at
work, and she did not return till nine o'clock at night, William, for I took
the pains to put on my hood and cloak and look for myself—though it was raining
awful.
William. That was the time you cotched the fever, the fever and the ague, ma'rm. Well,
good-bye.
Miss S. Are you going, William? William. Yes, ma'rm. I shall be wanted to hum. You take care of your precious health,
ma'rm. Keep your feet warm, and your head cool; your mouth shut and your heart
open, and you'll soon have good health, good conscience, and stand well on your
pins, ma'rm. Good morning, ma'rm.
"To reap, to sow, to plough and mow, And be a farmer's boy, and be a farmer's boy
[Exit William,
L.
Miss S. The vulgar creature! But what could I expect? He ought to know that American
ladies ought never to have any pins. But I am certain for all this, Edward, dear
Edward, is dying for me—as the poet, Dr. Lardner, says: "He lets concealment, like
a worm in the bud, feed on the damask curtains of—his—cheek"—damask bud. I'm
quite sure it's something about bud. Yes, I am convinced, my charms as yet are
undecayed, and even when old age comes on, the charm of refined education, will
still remain—as the immortal Chelsea Beach Poet has it:
"You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, The scent of roses will cling round it still."
[Exit,
affectedly, R.
|
SCENE IV.—Landscape
View.
Enter PATIENCE
BRAYTON, SAM EVANS, OLD JOHNSON. Male and female
villagers, R. U. E.—Music.
Patience. Come, there's young men enough, let's have a ring-play. All. Yes, a ring-play. A ring-play! fall in here. Sam. Come, darnation, who'll go inside? Patience. Go in yourself, Sam.
19
Sam. Well, I'm agreed. Go on.
[They form a circle
and revolve round the young man, singing.
"I am a rich widow, I live all alone, I have but one son, and he is my own. Go, son, go, son, go choose you one, Go choose a good one, or else choose none."
[Sam choose one of the
girls.—She enters the ring. He kisses her, and the ring goes round.
"Now, you are married you must obey What you have heard your parents say Now you are married you must prove true As you see other's do, so do you."
[The ring goes
round.—Patience, who is in the ring, chooses Old Johnson.
Patience.
Mercy on me, what have I done? I've married the father instead of the son His legs are crooked, and ill put on. They're all laughing at my old man
[A general
laugh.
Sam. Come, girls, you forget 'tis almost time for Mary Wilson's wedding. Patience. (R.C.) Well,
now, ain't we forgetting how proud she must be, going to marry a college bred.
Johnson. (L.C.) She'll
be none the better for that. Larning don't buy the child a new frock.
Sam. Well, let's have a dance, and be off at once. All. Yes. Partners. A dance! A dance! [A village dance, and exit, L.
Enter LAWYER CRIBBS,
L. Cribbs. Thus ends my prudent endeavors to get rid of those Wilsons. But, young Middleton,
there is yet some hope of him. He is at present annoyed at my well intended advice,
but that shall not part us easily. I will do him some unexpected favor, worm myself
into his good graces, invite him to the village bar-room, and if he falls, then, ha! ha!
I shall see them begging their bread yet. The wife on her bended knees to me, praying
for a morsel of food for her starving children—it will be revenge, revenge! Here comes
his foster brother, William. I'll wheedle him—try the ground before I put my foot on
it.
20
Enter WILLIAM DOWTON,
whistling, L. William. Lawyer Cribbs, have you seen my poor, little, half-witted sister Agnes, eh? Cribbs. No, William, my honest fellow, I have not. I want to speak to you a moment. William. [Crossing, R.] What does old Razor Chops want with me, I wonder. Well, lawyer, what is
it?
Cribbs. You seem to be in a hurry. They keep you moving, I see. William. There are pretty busy times, sir. Mr. Edward is going to be married—that's a dose.
[Aside.] Senna and
salts.
Cribbs. Yes, yes, ahem! Glad to hear it. William. Yes, I thought you seemed pleased. [Aside.] Looks as sour as Sam Jones, when he swallowed vinegar for sweet cider.
Cribbs. I am a friend to early marriages, although I never was married myself. Give my best
respects to Mr. Edward.
William. Sir? Cribbs. William, I suppose I leave it to your ingenuity to get me an invitation to the wedding,
eh? And here's a half dollar to drink my health.
William. No, I thank you, lawyer, I don't want your money. Cribbs. Oh, very well; no offence meant, you know. Let's step into the tavern, and take a
horn to the happiness of the young couple.
William. Lawyer Cribbs, or Squire, as they call you, it's my opinion, when your uncle Belzebub
wants to bribe an honest fellow to do a bad action, he'd better hire a pettifogging bad
lawyer to tempt him, with a counterfeit dollar in one hand, and a bottle of rum in the
other. [Exit William,
R.
Cribbs. Ah, ah! You're a cunning scoundrel, but I'll fix you yet. [Agnes sings without, L.
"Brake and fern and cypress dell, Where the slippery adder crawls
Cribbs. Here comes that crazy sister of his. She knows too much for my happiness. Will
the creature never die?
21 Her voice haunts me like the spectre of the youth that was engaged to her, for my
own purposes I ruined, I triumphed over him—he fell—dies in a drunken fit, and
she went crazy. Why don't the Alms House keep such brats at home?
Enter AGNES,
deranged, L. Agnes.
"Brake and fern and cypress dell, Where the slippery adder crawls. Where the grassy waters well, By the old moss-covered walls."
For the old man has his grey locks, and the young girl her
fantasies.
"Upon the heather, when the weather Is as wild as May, So they prance as they dance And we'll all be gay."
But they poured too much red water in his glass. The lawyer
is a fine man, ha, ha! he lives in the brick house yonder. But the will. Ah,
ha, ha! The will—
Cribbs. [Angrily.] Go home, Agnes, go home.
Agnes. Home! I saw a little wren yesterday. I had passed her nest often. I had
counted the eggs, they were so pretty—beautiful, so beautiful—rough Robin
of the mill came this morning and stole them. The little bird went to her nest,
and looked in—they were gone. She chirruped mournfully and flew away.
She won't go home any more. Cribbs. Agnes, who let you out? You distress the neighborhood with your muttering
and singing. [Threatening.] I'll have you taken care of.
Agnes. There's to be a wedding in the village. I saw a coffin carried in full of
bridal cake.
"And the bride was red with weeping, Cypress in her hair."
Can you tell why they cry at weddings? Is it for joy? I used
to weep when I was joyful. You never weep, old man. I should have been married,
but my wedding dress was mildewed, so we put off the marriage till another day.
They'll make a new dress for me. They say he won't come again to me, and then
the will, ha, ha, old man, the will.
22
Cribbs. Ha, confusion! Get you gone, or thus— Seizes her and raises cane, William enters
rapidly, R., and throws him round
to R. corner William. (L. C.) Why,
you tarnation old black varmint! Strike my little, helpless, half-crazed sister! If
it was not for your grey hairs, I'd break every bone in your black beetle body. If
all I have heard be true, you'll have to account for—
Cribbs. [Rising,
R.] You'll rue this, young man, if there's any
law in the land. A plain case of assault and battery. I'll put you in jail.
Predicaments, premunires, fifa's and fieri facias. I'll put you between stone
walls. [Exit,
blustering, R.
William. Put me between stone walls! If you'd have been put between two posts with a
cross-beam long ago, you'd had your due, old land-shark. You stay here, darling
Agnes, till I come back. Fiery faces, and predicaments! If I can get you near
enough to a horse-pond, I'll cool your fiery face, I'll warrant. [Exit, R.
AGNES,
scattering flowers and singing.
"They lived down in the valley, Their house was painted red, And every day the robin came To pick the crumbs of bread."
But the grass does not wither when they die. I will sit down till I
hear the bells that are far off, for then, I think of his words. Who says he did not
love me? It was a good character he wanted of the parson. A girl out of place, is
like an old man out of his grave. [Bells chime piano.] They won't ask me to their
merry-makings, now, though I washed my best calico in the brook.
"Walk up young man, there's a lady here, With jewels in her hair."
[Suddenly
clasps her hands and screams.] Water, water! hear him, oh, hear him
cry for water; quick! he'll turn cold again! his lips are blue; water, water!
[Exit,
frantically, R.
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SCENE V.—Exterior of
a beautiful cottage, L., Vines, entwined
roses, &c.—The extreme of rural tranquil beauty.—Rustic table, with fruit, cake,
&c., &c., L. Rustic chairs and
benches.
Enter procession,
R. U. E., of villagers.—EDWARD, MARY, MRS. WILSON,—Bridesman and Bridesmaid, &c., &c.,
—Bells ringing.—They enter, come down, R., to
front, cross and up stage on L., singing
chorus.
Hail, hail! happy pair! Bells are ringing, sweet birds singing Bright roses bringing—flowers flinging Peace, purity, and happiness
Edward. (L. C.) Dearest
Mary, ah, now indeed my own; words are too poor, too weak to express the joy, the happiness
that agitates my heart. Ah, dear, dear wife, may each propitious day that dawns upon thy
future life, but add another flower to the rosy garland that now encircles thee.
Mary. (L.) Thanks,
Edward, my own loved husband, thy benison is echoed from my inmost heart. Ah, neighbor
Johnson, many thanks for your kind rememberance of your pupils. My dear friends, your
children, too, are here.
Johnson. (R.) Yes, my
dear Mary, your happiness sheds its genial rays around old and young. Young man I was
a witness at your father's wedding. May your life be like his—an existence marked by
probity and honor, and your death as tranquil. Mrs. Wilson, I remember your sweet
daughter, when but a child of nine years, and that seems only yesterday.
Mary. Dear Patience, I am glad to see you too, and who is this, your brother?
[Points to Sam,
L. corner.
Patience. (L.) No.
An acquaintance, that—
Sam. Yes. An acquaintance that— Mary. Oh, yes, I understand. Mrs. W. My dearest children, the blessing of a bereaved heart, rest, like the dews of
heaven, upon you. Come, neighbors, this is a festival of joy. Be happy, I
entreat.
William. Well, if there's anyone happier than Bill Dowton, I should like to know it,
that's all. Come, lads and lasses, sing, dance, and be merry. [Dance—tableau.
END OF ACT I.
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