SCENE I.—A chamber in Miss Spindle's house.—LAWYER CRIBBS and MISS SPINDLE discovered, seated, C.

  (L.) Be explicit, my dear madam; this is a most serious affair: breach of promise, marriage promise. How my heart bleeds for you, dear young lady, suffering virtue. But tell me the particulars.

  (R.) Oh, sir, why will you cause me to narrow up my feelings; my bleeding heart, by the recital of my afflictions. I have "let concealment like a" caterpillar on a button-wood, feed on my cambric cheek—and—[Aside.] I can't remember the rest of it.

  Alas, poor lady! pray go on.

  The first of our acquaintance was down at a corn-husking. Not that I make a practice of attending such vulgar places, Squire, but—

  Oh, certainly not—certainly not.

  Well, I was over-persuaded. I set up and stripped the dry coatings from the yellow corn—only two years—I husked no more, Squire.

  Indeed, indeed! two ears—you are certain it was but two ears? It is best to be particular. We shall make out a prima faciæ case.

  Well, I got hold of a red ear, it was the last I husked. I think it was a red ear; so I was obliged to be kissed. Oh, Squire, think of my mortification, when I was told that such was the invariable rule—the custom at a husking.

  [With energy.] Your sufferings must have been intolerable.

  Oh, sir, you know how to feel for delicate timidity. A big coarse young man, Bill Bullus, rose up to snatch the fragrance from my unwilling cheek—

  [Groans.] Oh!

  I put up my kerchief—it was a cambric, a fine

  I understand—he—yes. I understand.

  He did it, sir. I felt the pressure of his warm lip upon—

  Your cheek, of course.

  Oh, no, no, sir. It was said, by my friend, the Chelsea Beach Bard, that from my lips he stole ambrosical blisses.

  Enormous! but go on.

  You may judge what was my confusion.

  Certainly, Miss Spindle.

  The ear of corn was not more red than was my burnished cheek.

  I do not know, my dear young lady, but you might make out a case for assault and battery.

  It was very rude for a college-bred. Well, after that he bowed to me as we were coming out of church.

  Aha! the evidence comes in. Have you got proof of that, most injured fair one?

  Oh, sir, no proof would be required. I trust that a person of my respectability need bring no proof of what they know. Well, after that I was agoing down to Mr. Simmons', and lo, a cow stood in the road. I must pass within twenty feet of the ferocious animal if I continued my route; providentially, at the very instant, Edward came down the road that turns up by Wollcott's mill. He saw my strait. He saw that I stood trembling like some fragile flower tossed by the winds of heaven. Like Sir William Wallace flying to the rescue of the Greeks, he came, panting on the wings of love. He rushed like an armed castle to the side of the cow, and she wheeled about like the great leviathan of the deep, and trotted down towards the school-house.

  I can imagine your feelings, Miss Spindle—a delicate young lady in imminent danger. But he did no more than any man would have done.

  Well, sir, you may judge what were the feelings of my palpitating heart, tender as it always was—

  Have any letters passed between you?

  Oh, yes, yes; five or six, sir.

  We've got him there, aha! If Miss Spindle would be so condescending as just to show me one of those letters.

  He's got them all in his possession.

  Unfortunate! horrible! How did he obtain possession of those letters?

  Oh! I sent them—sometimes by one person, sometimes by another.

  How, madam? His letters, I mean—how did he get—

  Oh, sir, mark his ingratitude. I sent him half a dozen—

  [Discouraged.] Oh! I understand. The correspondence was all on one side, then?

  Not one letter did he write to me. Ah! sir, think of it; all my tenderness, all my devotion. Oh! my breaking heart.

  [Aside.] Oh! humbug! Well, good day, Miss Spindle. I have a pressing engagement, and—

  Well, but, lawyer Cribbs, what is your advice? How ought I to proceed?

  Get your friends to send you to the insane hospital, and place you among the incurable, as the most fusty, idiotic old maid that ever knit stockings. [Exit hastily, R.

  Spirit of Lucretia Borgia! Polish pattern of purity—was there ever such a Yankee hedgehog! [Exit angrily, R.

SCENE II.—A Landscape.

Enter WILLIAM DOWTON, R., FARMER GATES, and FARMER STEVENS, meeting.

  (C.) Good day, good day. Mr. Edward was not at church last sabbath.

  I heard tell where he was in the afternoon.

  Aye, Stevens, you told me. Well, well, I'm right sorry. We used to consider Mr. Edward a promising young man, and when we seed him get married and settle among us, we thought to have a respectable man like his father for a neighbor, and that like him, he'd go

  (R.) I don't exactly know what you mean, Farmer Gates. Mr. Middleton is about the same free kind-hearted fellow that he ever was, it appears to me. No longer ago than this blessed morning, he says to me, Bill, says he, your birth-day comes this day week, go to Ned Grogran's, the tailor, next the post office, and get yourself measured for a new suit of clothes at my expense. Now if I that lives with him, and sees everything he does, think well of him, I don't know as other folks need be so very perpendicular about it.

  Well, well, I'll tell you what I have heard; you know Squire Cribbs?

  In course I does.

  Well, he says that if your foster brother doesn't attend a little more to his own interest—

  He'll do it for him, I suppose! Now, Mr. Stevens, I'll tell you what I think of that sly old fox, Squire Cribbs. He takes to wickedness just as natural as young ducks take to water. I think, really, if Mr. Edward's soul was put in a great box, that seven thousand such souls as that black beetle's wouldn't fill up the chinks—the spare room around the edges.

  Give us your hand. Bill, my man, lawyer Cribbs bears but a middling character hereabout. He has got a prodigious sight of larning, and 'tis not for the likes of me to pretend to decide between you; but I'll be darned if I don't like the man that stands up for him whose bread he eats; and so, Bill, any time you want a drink of cider, just call up our way, and you shall have what you can drink, if it's a gallon. [Exit, R.

  Well, well, William, after all neighbor Gates has said, I fear the young man's in a dangerous way—spending his Sabbaths going about the country from one tavern to another. I don't say that he does take too much liquor—but there's a great many that has began that way. [Exit, R.

  [Rather serious.] Well, good-bye to you, and thank'ye. I don't think Mr. Edward drinks any too much—at least I hope not. For my part I wish he'd never seen anything stronger than milk or green tea. I

SCENE III.—A Country Bar-Room.—Old-fashioned gun hung up.—Cow notices, &c., &c.—STEVENS, the Drover seated at table.—Several loafers.—Landlord behind Bar at L. attending.—Decanters filled with different liquors, on bar.—Stools, benches, &c., &c.

  [Seated, R. C.] Well, I don't know, Mr. Landlord, them are 'counts we have about Queen Victory, amounts to just about as much as the frogs and mice.

  Oh, that's Pope; we've got the book in the house now—the battle of frogs and mice.

  Landlord, will you just score up another three-center—I feel deuced bad.

  No, thank'ye, Sam; rub off old sores, and then—

Enter EDWARD MIDDLETON, dress rather shabby, from door, R.—All look at him; he walks up to the bar.

  Give me some brandy. [Drinks] How much, landlord!

  A six-pence, sir. This is something 'sperior; a bottle I keep for those who are willing to pay a little more—are you quite well, sir?

  Well, well, quite well, I thank you—this is good, landlord, another glass.

Enter CRIBBS, R. D.

  Ha! Mr. Middleton, you here! He! he! he! Well, come, that's a good one. First time I was ever

  Squire, how are you; glad to see you. [Shakes hand across the bar.] What's it to be, gentlemen. The same, Mr. Middleton?

  Oh! I must be excused; you know I just drank.

  Well, well, I'll leave it to him. Landlord, how long is it since I've seen you?

  Why, Squire, it must be full ten years ago; you remember the day Si Morton had his raising? the day I saw you digging in the woods.

  [Starts violently.] Go on, go on—nothing but the cramp. I'm subject to it.

  Well, Squire, I've never seed you since then."

  Well, come, let's drink; come, Edward.

  Oh, take a little more, Mr. Middleton—the Squire wouldn't advise you to what wasn't right.

  Well, I—

  Well, come, here's whiskey—good whiskey.

  I believe I drank—

  Mr. Middleton drank brandy before.

  Not half so healthy as good whiskey.

  Oh, whiskey be it. It can't be stronger than the other was. [Stevens looks up and shakes his head.

  [Drinks.] Well, this is pleasant, ha! ha! this goes to the right place, eh, Cribbs. Is this Irish whiskey?

  Yes, sir; pure Innishowen.

  Well, the Irish are a noble people, ain't they, Cribbs? [Slightly intoxicated.] Friend Cribbs, I think I may call you. I never doubted it.

  Never!

  Oh! I might have suspected; but "suspicion's but at best a coward's virtue;" the sober second thought—

  Oh, exactly. [Shaking his hand earnestly.

  I have a heart, Cribbs—[Getting tipsey.] I have a heart; landlord, more whiskey; come gentlemen, come one, come all. Landlord!

  In one minute, sir.

  Landlord, give them all anything they want, come—a bumper—here's the health of my old friend Cribbs. [Drinks it off.

  [Throwing away his liquor unseen.] Well, here goes.

  Landlord! landlord.

  Sir?

  I have a heart, Cribbs. We know how to do the handsome thing, landlord. [Cribbs slyly fills Edward's glass.

  Don't we? It takes us, sir.

  [Drinks.] Well, I think, landlord, a little spirit hurts no man.

  Oh, no, sir; no—does him good.

  I have a heart, Squibbs—a heart, my old boy; come, let's have another horn.— [1st loafer falls asleep on bench R. against partition.]—Come, boys, trot up, I'll pay.

  Well, I don't want to hurt the house.

  Oh, no—musn't hurt the house. [Walking up to bar.

  Come, don't you hear the news? [Strikes 1st loafer with whip, and he falls on ground.

  Well—[Lazily.]—I don't want to hurt the house. [Tumbles against the wall.

  You will hurt the house, if you butt off the plastering at that rate.

  A bumper—well, in the absence of Burgundy, whiskey will do, eh, old Ribbs— [Hitting Cribbs.]—why don't you join us, old sulky. [To Stevens.

  I drink when I'm dry, and what I drink I pay for.

  —You're saucy, old fellow.

  Do you think I'm a sponge, to put my hands into another man's pocket? Go away, you make a fool of yourself.

  A fool! say that again, and I'll knock you down—a fool!

  [Rising.] I want nothing to say to you—be off—you're drunk.

  [Strikes him.] Death and fury! drunk!

  Take that, then—[Cribbs and others sneak off—struggle—Stevens hits him down with whip.]—Landlord, you see I was not to blame for this. [Exit Stevens, R. D.

  Well, he's got in any how—serve him right, quarrelsome young fool. House was quiet enough till he came in disturbing honest people. This is too bad. How to get this fellow home? He lives two miles from here, at least.

Enter WILLIAM DOWTON, R. D.

  Mr. Middleton—where is he? Lord ha' mercy! what is this? Speak! [Seizes Landlord.] If you have done this, I'll tear our your cursed windpipe, old heathen.

  In my own house? Let go my throat.

  Who did this.

  Let go; it wasn't me, it was drover Stevens.

  [Throws him off, kneels by Middleton.] Blood on his forehead—Mr. Edward, speak to me, oh, speak—his poor wife—poor old sick Mrs. Wilson, too.

  [Reviving.] What is this? what's been the matter here?

  Don't you know me, sir? It's William, sir; poor Bill, come to help you home. Sam Stanhope told me you were in a row at the tavern, sir.

  Oh, yes, I remember; where are they all? where's Cribbs? where's Cribbs?

  Cribbs! was he with him?

  Why, yes, I guess the Squire was here a short spell. Well, you can walk, sir, can't you?

  Walk, yes, I can walk—what's the matter with my head? Blood? I must have fallen against the corner of the bench.

  Don't you remember Mr. Stevens?

  I don't know what you mean by Stevens; what the devil have I been about?

  Why, Stevens said you were drunk, and you hit him, and he knocked you down with his whip-handle.

  And if I get a hold of Mr. Stevens, I'll make him smell something nastier than peaches, or my name's not Bill. Come, sir, come home.

  Drunk! fighting! Oh, shame, shame!

  Lean on me, Mr. Edward. You go sand your sugar, and water your bad brandy, old corkscrew! His poor wife!

  Hush, William, hush.

  Pray give me pardon, sir; oh, I wish I had died before I had seen this.

  Drunk, fighting—my wife, my children! Oh, agony! agony! [Exit, leaning on William, L. D.—Landlord retires behind bar.

SCENE IV.—Landscape view.

Enter CRIBBS, L.

  So far the scheme works admirably. I know his nature well. He has tasted, and will not stop now short of madness or oblivion. I mostly fear his wife, she will have great influence over him. Ah, who's this, Bill Dowton? Where then is Middleton? [Retires, L.

Enter WILLIAM DOWTON, L.

  Well, I don't know but he's right; poor fellow, if he were to appear before his wife, without her being warned, it might frighten her to death, poor thing, and as he says, the walk alone may do him good, and sober him a bit. The old woman takes on most cruel, too, and she is so very, very ill. Here he comes. I guess he'll follow me. I'll hasten on, for if he sees me, he'll be angry, and swear I'm watching him. That old sarpent Cribbs, he'd better keep out of my track. I'd think no more of wringing his old neck, than I would twisting a tough Thanksgiving turkey. [Exit, threatening, R.

  [Advancing cautiously.] I'm much obliged to you, most valiant Billy Dowton. I shall hold myself non est inventus, I promise you; here comes Edward. Caution, caution. [Retires, L.

Enter EDWARD, L.

  Is this to be the issue of my life? Oh, must I ever yield to the fell tempter, and bending like a weak bulrush to the blast, still bow my manhood lower than

  (L.) Why, Middleton! Edward, my dear friend, what means this?

  (R.) Tempter! begone! Pretend not ignorance! Were you not there when that vile fray occurred? Did you not desert me?

  As I am a living man, I know not what you mean. Business called me out. I left you jovial and merry, with your friends.

  Friends! Ha! ha! the drunkard's friends! Well, well, you may speak truth;—my brain wanders;—I'll go home!—Oh, misery! Would I were dead.

  Come, come; a young man like you should not think of dying. I am old enough to be your father, and I don't dream of such a thing.

  You are a single man, Cribbs. You don't know what it is to see your little patrimony wasted away;—to feel that you are the cause of sufferings you would die to alleviate.

  Pooh, pooh! Suffering—your cottage is worth full five hundred dollars. It was but yesterday Farmer Anson was inquiring how much it could be bought for.

  Bought for! Cribbs—

  Well, Edward, well.

  You see yon smoke curling up among the trees?

  Yes, Edward. It rises from your own cottage.

  You know who built that cottage, Cribbs?

  Your father built it. I recollect the day. It was—

  It was the very day I was born that yon cottage was first inhabited. You know who lives there now?

  Yes. You do.

  No one else, Cribbs?

  Your family, to be sure—

  And you counsel me to sell it!—to take the warm nest from that mourning bird and her young, to strip them of all that remains of hope or comfort, to make them wanderers in the wide world, and for what? To put a little pelf into my leprous hands, and then squander it for rum. [Crosses, R.

  You don't understand me, Edward. I am your sincere friend; believe me, come—

  Leave me, leave me—

  Why, where would you go thus, Edward?

  Home! Home!—to my sorrowing wife—her dying mother, and my poor, poor child. [Crosses, L.

  But not thus, Edward, not thus. Come to my house, my people are all out. We'll go in the back way,—no one will see you. Wash your face, and I'll give you a little—something to refresh you. I'll take care it shall not hurt you. Come, now, come.

  Ought I—dare I? Oh, this deadly sickness. Is it indeed best?

  To be sure it is. If the neighbors see you thus—I'll take good care of you. Come, come, a little brandy,—good—good brandy.

  Well, I—I—

  That's right—come. [Aside.] He's lost. Come, my dear friend, come. [Exeunt, L.

SCENE V.—Interior of the cottage as in Act 1st.—The furniture very plain.—A want of comfort and order.—Table and two chairs, R. C.

Enter MARY from set door, R. S. E.—Her dress plain and patched, but put on with neatness and care.—She is weeping.

  Oh, Heaven, have mercy on me!—aid me!—strengthen me! Weigh not thy poor creature down with woes beyond her strength to bear. Much I fear my suffering mother never can survive the night, and Edward comes not, and when he does arrive, how will it be? Alas, alas! my dear, lost husband! I think I could nerve myself against every thing but—Oh, misery! this agony of suspense! it is too horrible.

Enter JULIA from room, R. S. E.—She is barefooted.—Dress clean, but very poor.

  Mother! dear mother, what makes you cry? I feel so sorry when you cry—don't cry any more, dear mother.

  (L.) I cannot help it, dearest. Do not tell your poor father what has happened in his absence, Julia.

  No, dear mother, if you wish me not. Will it make him cry, mother? When I see you cry it makes me cry, too.

  Hush, dear one, hush! Alas, he is unhappy enough already.

  Yes. Poor father! I cried last night when father came home, and was so sick. Oh, he looked so pale, and when I kissed him for good night, his face was as hot as fire. This morning he could not eat his breakfast, could he? What makes him sick so often, mother?

  Hush, sweet one!

  Dear grandma so sick, too. Doctor and nurse both looked so sorry. Grandma won't die to-night, will she, mother?

  Father of mercies! This is too much. [Weeps.] Be very quiet, Julia, I am going in to see poor grandma, [Crossing, R.] Oh, Religion! sweet solace of the wretched heart! Support me! aid me, in this dreadful trial. [Exit into room, R. S. E.

  Poor, dear mother. When grandma dies, she'll go to live in heaven, for she's good. Parson Heartall told me so, and he never tells fibs, for he is good, too.

Enter WILLIAM gently, D. in F.

  Julia, where is your mother, darling? [Julia puts her finger on her lip, and points to door.

  Ah, she comes.

Enter MARY, R. S. E.

  How is poor Mrs. Wilson now, madam?

  Near the end of all earthly trouble, William. She lies in broken slumber. But where is my poor Edward? Have you not found him?

  Yes, ma'am, I found him in the ta—in the village—he had fallen, and slightly hurt his forehead; he bade me come before, so as you should not be frightened. He'll be here soon now.

  Faithful friend. I wish you had not left him. Was he—Oh, what a question for a doating wife—was he sober, William?

  I must not lie, dear lady. He had been taking some liquor, but I think not much—all I hope will be well.

  [Sings without.] "Wine cures the gout," &c., Ha! ha!

  Oh, great Heaven! [William rushes out, C. D. and off, L. U. E., and re-enters with Edward drunk and noisy.—William trying to soothe him, he staggers as he passes door-way.

  I've had a glorious time, Bill. Old Cribbs—

  (R.) Hush! dearest!

  Why should I be silent? I am not a child. I—

  My mother, Edward, my dear mother!

  [Sinks in chair.] Heaven's wrath on my hard heart. I—I—forgot. How is she? Poor woman; how is she?

  Worse, Edward, worse. [Trying to hide her tears.

  And I in part the cause. Oh, horrid vice! Bill, I remember my father's death-bed; it was a Christian's;

  [Crossing to her father from R. to C.] Father, dear father? [Striving to kiss him.

  Leave me, child, leave me. I am hot enough already. [She weeps, he kisses her.] Bless you, Julia, dear, bless you. Bill, do you remember the young elm tree by the arbor in the garden?

  Yes, sir.

  Well, I slipped and fell against it, as I passed the gate. My father planted it on the very day I saw the light. It has grown with my growth; I seized the axe and felled it to the earth. Why should it flourish when I am lost forever? [Hysterically] Why should it lift its head to smiling heaven while I am prostrate? Ha, ha, ha! [A groan is heard, R. D.—Exit Mary.—A pause;—a shriek.

Enter MARY.

  Edward, my mother—

  Mary!—

  She is dead!

  Horror! And I the cause? Death in the house, and I without doubt the means. I cannot bear this; let me fly—

  [Springing forward and clasping his neck.] Edward, dear Edward, do not leave me. I will work, I will slave, anything; we can live, but do not abandon me in misery; do not desert me, Edward! love! husband!

  Call me not husband—curse me as your destroyer; loose your arms—leave me.

  No, no! do not let him go. William, hold him.

  [Holding him.] Edward, dear brother!

  [Clinging to him.] Father! father!

  You will be abused. No one near to aid you. Imprisoned, or something worse, Edward.

  Loose me; leave me; why fasten me down on fire? Madness is my strength; my brain is liquid flame! [Breaks from her.—William is obliged to catch her.] Ha! I am free. Farewell, forever. [Rushes off, C.D.

  Husband! Oh, Heaven! [Faints.

  [Bursting into tears.] Edward! brother!

  Father, father! [Runs to the door and falls on the threshold.

END OF ACT II.