<^I5 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS I.IJI;;lii:;ll:ltl::lllllJIMI , 015 793 081 3 Vt >S 635 .Z9 J277 ^opy 1 MONICA; OR, M Mtttegt llt«1t«nt|t|. A COMEDY.O PITTSBURGH, PA. \%f^^_^^^CfCl> lb74 Ijitered ice Tdiii^c t.i Vet of O)nj,'ross in the your 187;!, by George Ward- man, in th'j office of the Liibrariin of I'on^res, at Washington. TMP92-007544 SYNOPSIS. PAUL Van Milgem, alias Ricketicketack, the happy black- smith of Westhmal, loses his wife who leaves him one child. He grows reckless at his loss, becomes a drunken char- acter and finally is compelled to sell his shop. He entrusts the care of his infant daughter to his old school-master, and himself joins the French army whei-e he receives merited promotion. Returning from Egypt he visits the scenes of his early life in search of his child, who, meanwhile, having lost her old protec- tor, the school-master, has become a drudge at the Van Dael farm, where .Tan Van Dael champions her against the cruelty of his mother. Naturally a strong feeling of attachment grows up between the two young people. The first act introduces the people at the Van Dael farm. The second presents the Colonel on his return in search of his daughter; his appearance in the old blacksmith shop, — ihe fanoous song of Ricketicketack, (a most effective scene,) — his accidental meeting with his daughter — how she is recognized, and the affecting parting be- tween Monica and Jan. In the third act Jan's sufferings are vividly portrayed, a secret sorrow of Monica hiuted at. The Colonel's determination to bestow the hand of his d&ughter on a military friend. Again the song of Ricketicketack and a happy denouement. Each act affords splendid opportunities for displaying emotion — the plot is enveloped in a mystery which is not too obscure, and the interest increases from first to last, with happily interspersed bits of humor to relieve the heavy work. Each act closes with a natural tableau. r MON ICA; OR, THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. A VOBIEBY, DRAMATIS PERSONS. Col. Van Milgem, father of Monica. Jan Van Dael, a farm lad. Lieut. Adolph Broeck. LUDWIG. ^ BaKDULPH, > Smiths. KONRAD, ) Peter, « simflctoji, Scene: Brahayit and Ant--:cr;pt. A Scribe. M AGD alen, aftcrxvards Monica. Mistress Van Dael. Barbara, \ Daughters to Mad, Kate, J Van Dad. Granny, a?i old woman. Peasants, Attendants, dx. ACT I. Scene I. — Interior of a farm-house kitcTien. Magdalen seated at a spinning-wheel. [Looks up at clock.'] Mag. — Only an hour gone of the lon^r day and I am already tired ; I never feel rested. How slowly the hands move on the dial I Happy are they who know kind friends and gentle treat- ment. I should be happy too, perhaps, if I hrd strength to do all my mistress imposes on me. But my power to work grows less as the duties increase. Happiness for me can (nly come with the long rest in the grave — so cold and yet so kind. No blows, no aching bones, no weariness there. But 1 was happy once, so long ago, I scarce remember it, except when Ricketick- etack comes to my mind. That is to me like the warm sun rising on a chilly morn. Ah, Ricketicketack ! how happy you make me, if only for a single moment at a time. Eicketickctack, KicKetickotoo, The iron is warm — Ui> with the arm, Now strike one, two, Kicketickecoo. I wonder what it is that makes rae sing that song, so silly yet so sweet. 'It comes when [ feel most weak and weary, and then for the moment I feel so happy. I love Ricketack and it seems Ricketack must love me also or it would not coaie so often to comfort me. It lovea me better than anybody does — no not better than Jan, — dear, good Jan, — he is kind to me also, and I — Enter Mistress Van Dael hastily^ then halting to .Monica, thus: What's this, you lazy lump ! There you sit staring before you like a stuck pig ! \_Advinces and strikes Mag.] Make up the fire directly or I'll be after you with a stick and give it to you well, you good for nothing sloth. [Goes to the stairway.'] Up, up ! you lazy-bones, all ! Must t come to fetch you down, sleepy-heads? Come! look alive! Kate, Barbara, Jan ! As I'm alive here's five o'clock and the whole stt of you not done snoring ! Magdalen. — Mistress, the coHee is ready, will you — Mistress Van Duel. — You think of nothing but eating. The day goes by and nothing is done but eat, eat. Bring me my coffee, and bestir yourself or I'll letch you another sound box on the ear. 8et the table! [Mag. places cups and a loaf on the table. Kate and Barbara descend the stairs yawniny, §'c.] Kate. — Oh, I'm so sleepy. Mrs. Van D. — Eat your breakfast. Barbara. — I could lie in bed forever. Mrs. Van D. — Eat and away to your work. [Serves each a slice of bread and half a slice to Mag. standing by 'Jiefii-e.] Enter Jan, going to Magdalen. Jan. — Good morning, Magdalen. Mag. — Thank you Jan, good morning. Jan. — [talcing a seat at the table] good morning, Mother, Kate, Barbara. [Sips his coffee thoughtfully .] Barbara.^-Look at that "poke," standing by the fire. Kate. — A lazy, good-for-nothing. [All arise from the table.] Mrs. Van D. — Now, away to your work, all of you ! (Jan goes to Magdalen and secretly passes her his bread. E.vuent Kate, Barbara and Jan.] Mrs. Van D. — Put the cream in the churn while I fetch Bruno to turn the wheel. [Exit.] Mag. — [solus] Poor Jan ! Yon hunger to feed me. Your bread is moist with tears, brave heart ! You would starve that might eat; and you suffer to ease my pain. I am not quite lone. Mrs. Van I). — \re,- enters furiously and strikes Mag. ] — See, you .bominable buzzy ! \'ou bave given the poor beast uotbing to at yeslerday, and tbere be is st'irved to deatb. 13ut I'll teacii ■ou ! Heic ! {^Strikes her again.'] You won't say a word, ?on't you? You obstinate good-for-uotbing ! It isn't true, suppose, tbat you gave the dog uotbing to eat? Eb ? Sjieak vill you, or 1*11 wring your neck for you ! Mag. — Mistress, 1 gave the dog bis food yesterday, and there t stands by bis ktnuel; be bas not touched it and the dish is uite full. Mrs. Van D. — The dish ful, indeed, you lying monkey ! You iiled the disb this mornmg ! Do you think I don't know your ricks? But I'll make you repent it ! Yes, you shall pay for t; you shall turn ibe wbi el yourself. So come! in with you ! Mag. — Have mercy, mistress. Mrs. Van D. — [seizing a stick from a bundle near the fire.} Jome ! quick ! will you get into the wheel or not? Mag. — Ob ! do have mercy on me ! I will turn the wheel, but or God's sake dun*t beat me. Jan. — [enters liastily — ruslies before his mother and raises Mag. rom her knees.] — Mother, bow cm you go ou so? It's ever ud again the same story. I can't turn my back to go to work ut I bear you scokling and raving at Magdalen as if she was a umb beast. If you want her dead you'd better by half kill her t once. Don't you see tbat she's ill and wasting away ? Ah lotber, do let her alone ! Else see, (mind I tell you,) I'll be If wilb the first soldiers tbat go by, and you won't see me gain my life long. Mrs. Van D. — I tell you t-be shall take the dog's place in the burning-wheel. I 11 teach her to let bim starve. Jan. — What's that you say ? She — Magdalen — run in the burning-wheel? So, ho ! mother, that's going too far ! Now ell me quick, do you really mean it? Quick ! Quick ! ^li s. Van D. — Lool< you tliere, bow tlie fool stands shaking ke an aspen ! And what then it I do really mean it ? Jun. — This then, if you nieau it mother, as soon as Magdalen 1 in tlie wheel I am out of the house. Chains would not bold le, and if you won't believe me when I say it, I swear it by all — Mag. — [in terror,] Jan ! Jan! Ja7i. — You shall not go in the wheel I [Scene closes.] DENE II. — Road through a field— harmsters passing with sickles, bundles of grain, etc. Enter Bakbara followed by Peteb. Peter. — If you will not wait to listen I must follow. Barbara. — You've followed me all day about the harvest 3ld. [Going.] Peter. — I pray you stop for my last word. Barbara. — I pray your mouth be stopped. ♦ Peter. — Hear me, I'm au honest man. Barbara. — A stupid fool ! Peter. — You are an honest, hard- working woman, able to hold a plow or swing a tlail ; I need a wife. I am learning to read now, and next year I shall set up as a school-master. I will be a learned man. Barbara. — You have no sense. Peter. — And offer you— [s/te (toes'] but stay ! stay just to hear — Barbara. — \_still going'} Neither stays nor buts for such as you. [ Exit. ] Peter. [solus'] — The woman's a fool— of course — they're all alike. There's that girl of Mistress Van Dael — Magdalen. I watched her from the round hill for hours to-day. She was sent out to lead the cow to pasture and keei> it from feuce-breakiug, and there the girl sits all day under the lone beach tree in the alder thicket, sighing and singing her Ricketicketack, and the cow is free to roam and break through hedges at will. The girl is a witch. Anybody can see that in her white face; like a corpse; and her staring eyes. Well, she shan't bewitch me. I'll away to my reading-book and be a learned man. YJ^-^it.] Scene III. — Sunset — an alder thicket — road beyond winding away over the undulating moor toioard a village in the distance — Magdalen seated beneath a tree weaving a wreath of leaves and grasses. Mag — Tears again, all day. I feel no pain, but still I weep for loneliness. This will not do, I'll try my old friend, Rick- eticketack. \_Sings. ] Kicketicketack, Eicketicketoo, The iron is warm, Up with your arm, Now, strike one, two, Ricketicketoo. There, I feel better now. What a strange song it is and such a good friend. I wonder who taught it to me ? Mother ? Father, may be ? I cannot tell. It comes to me as tears flow, involun- tarily, and I love it without knowing what it means It is my only friend — no, net the only one, .Ian is my truest friend after all. What a brave lad he is ! It almost makes me happy to think of good Jan. \_8ings.'\ Kicketicketack, Kicketicketoo, The iron is warm, Up with your arm. Now, strike one, two Ricketicketoo. But the cow! [rising.,'] it won't do to forget the cow any longer. I have been neglecting my work ; that won't do. [ Ooes to the side.] Ah ! yonder is the contented creature on the freshest of grass. I'll take a seat on my favorite hillock again. \_Seat$ 6 herself on a small eminence over-looking the road toward the vil- lage. '\ i wonder if any body iu Ihat towu ever knew me. Day after day I see people coming along that road, but no one ever comes for me. How could anybody in a great city like that ever think of me? There is a road for everybody, and I sit here and wait and wait, and nobody comes. I cannot live in this loneliness. [Jan's voic3 calling. 1 Magdalen! Magdalen ! [She rises hastily and comes slowly foricard, meeting Jan at the entrance.'] Jan. — [leads her to a small Jiillock,'] Sit here beside me, Mag- dalen. [Takes a slice of bread and meat and a cup from under his mnock.l There, you have something to eat. And see, I will fill this cup with water from the spring, yonder. [ Ooes out.^ Magdalen. — Good Jan ! I could not live without his kind- ness. [Eats."] [lie returns.] Jan. — Here is the water, cool and pure. I knew you must be suffering for food, as you had nothing since early morning, and then so little; and now the sua is almost down. Mag. — God will reward you Jan, for thus helping and com- forting me iu my misery. I think you very much for all your coodness and kindness to me. [Ue weeps.] Jan, my best friend, do not grieve yourt^elf so much about me; your tears hurt me moie than your mother's blows. Jan. — Forgive her Magdalen, for my sike; for if you were to die without having forgivtu her, and without saying a prayer for her, she could not rest quiet in the giave. Mag. — I have nothing to forgive her, Jan. There is no hatred in me; I do not eyen think any more, when you are with me, on what I have to bear; every thing of the kind is already for- gotten. Jan. — Don't deceive me, Magdalen. It is not possible to forget such barbarous treatment. Mag. — I've told you the same thing before, but you don't .understand me ; and indeed I hardly understand myself. When lam beaten and knocked about to be sure my body suffers, but my mind remains free and goes on dreaming of mysterious things that I know not of, which dart hither and thither before me and cheer and gladden me. These dreams comfort my soul; iu them I forget everything; they speak to me of another and a better life, and give me hope that I shall not always be forsa- ken. Will God in heaven be a father to me? or shall I see my mother before I die ? I know not. Jan. — Your parents are dead, Magdalen. My mother has of- ten told me so. But don't let that make you iinhappy. Just see what a pair of arms I have already. In a few years I shall be a man, and a strong one. Live 'till then, Magdalen, and I will work for you from morning 'till uij^lit, and be your servant forever. Mag. — You my servant? Ko, that vron't do, Jan. I shall not bo here long. Relief must come in one form or another. I cannot live this way long. Jan. — Magdalen, you never knew father or mother ; from a little child you have ')een brought up in our house, and tliere you have had to bear more than enough for any two mortal creatures. If that was to go ou so, you must die sure enough. I see death would soon come to your relief at this rate. But if from this time forward you are left alone and well treated, don't you think you might live then ? Mag. — Live then? Who knows when their time shall come ? I know what you are going to do, but why turn her hatred upoa yourself? Jaft.— Why? Why that I don't know myself. But this I can tell you : that if you have one fixed thought or dream that follows you everywhere, I have one of my owa too, that never leaves me, — neither in the hardest work nor fastest sleep. And this thought is that I must make good the evl! that my mother lays upon you. Ah, Magdalen, I can't express myself so well, nor s -' strongly as you can, but for God's sake don't doubt what I say. From the d:ty that you die, not a stroke of work more will I do, and they'll soon lay me in the church-yard beside you. And if you ask me why — why I can't tell that either. Look you, I have a heart under my smock after all ; you are a poor thing without lather or m ther and that's enough for me. Ah, only do live 'till I am of age, Magdalen ; my words will — [ Voice in the distance~\ — Home with the cow 1 Jan.— {disappearing among tlie bushes'] I shall come in di- rectly. Go along, she won't beat you now. [Curtain falls,] ACT II. Scene I. — \_Interior of a Blacksmith shop — smiths at work.] Bardulph. — Ye.s, I might have been a field-marshal by this time only for my mother, who could not bear to lose me. I was a splendid child. Konrad. — Spoiled in the making. Bar. — Hush, you fool. My parents would not hear to my leaving home. They apprenticed me to Master Ludwig there, out of pnre tenderness and consideration for my good looks and figure. Konrad. — A spoiled carcass truly. It would serve a better purpose lying upon the field for the fattening of crows. Bur. — Cease your chatting, idiot! whatdo }ou know of genius and sentiment ? I say I might have worn epaulets to-day had it not been for my parents, whom I foolishly permitted to rule me when I was young. Look at the emperor now, who at Toulon was only a sub-lieutenant. Kon. — He was a full lieutenant. !?(*;■.— A sub-lieuleuant I say, and now he rules the world. I have in me, I tell you, a valiant spirit and a talent for siege and campaigns, and -I have b en told I could easily have com- manded a corps before now but for this filthy trade of soot and smoke and sweat and slavery, which defrauds meoutof abatoa and gold lace and — I Voice -without^ Hallj 1 within there! my horse wants shoeing. [Enter CoL Van Milgetn and Lieutenant Broch.'\ Ludwig. — Which foot, your worship? Col. — 'I'he near forefoot. Lud. — I will go and examine it myself. [Exif.'\ Col. — [Examines tools tvif/i interest, then., aside., to LIEUTENANT] Adolph, these tongs were made and used by my father. This hammer has many a day caused my boyish arm to ache. Here he worked, and I learned to be a smith. This shop and these tools were once his, then mine, now a stranger's. Can you wonder at my emotion? Lieut. — I do not wonder, but pray be calm. Liuhoig. — [re-en fcrinffl^ I have examined the hoof, Colonel, and will soon have tbc beast again iu traveling condition. [ Tkrotvs a rough " shoe-shape " on the forge.~\ Come, Bardulph, to the bellows ! lively now ! [Baijdulph blozvs the belloii's, creating u rudy light and jet of bright sparhs. The ivork of forming the shoe goes on., by LUDWIQ and liAllDOLrn.] Kon. — [working at a vise on the bench, aside'] That oldish one lotyks at things as if he wanted to buy the whole shop. If he isn't a smith in disguise I am no longer a man of talent. [ yV/f shoe haz'ing been fernted, the CoL. tal;es it in a pair of tongs, loo/vS at it and throzvs it bach into the fire.] That will never do. It is too clumsy. It would cripple the brute. [Throws off coat.] Give me the tongs and hammer! [cheerily.] ]Sow, lads! look alive! blow away, and be ready to strike ! Here we are now ! I'll give the time atd we'll turn out a shoe fit for the Emperor's nag. Attention ! [Beating the time on the anvil.] Ricketicketack, Eicketicketoo, Tlie iron is warm. Up with your arm, Isid tarry not. Again one, two, Eicketicketoo. There ! Look at the shoe now ! [Konrad takes the shoe and exit. ] Bar. — Wonderful ! and I know that is just the kind of a sol- dier I would be now, if I had not been apprenticed to a smith, Lud. — I am surprised, indeed, to see such work, but the sol- diers of this day kt:ow other things than fighting. But here comes KoNKAD. Your horse is shod, sir. Col. — Is/ia/a'iiff fiaiids] Good day, men. I like to shake the honorable hand of your craft. [Layi)ig tzvo coins on the an nil.'] Good day. One for the master and one for the men. Drink my health together, and good bye to you. [Exit Cot. and Lient.'\ Konrad. — Colonel ! Colonel ! I say it and I'll stand to it, he has been a smith some day like the rest of m. From the manner in which you eyed him, master, I believe you must know him, or think you do, Ltid. — Well, I never iu my life knew but one man that could knock off a shoe like that - so light and neat and so handily ; and I am much mistaken if the grand Colonel is'nt just Karl Van Milgem himself; he you know — no, you can't know either — he that the folks used to call Ricketicketack. Bar. — What ! he the merry smith of Wosthmal ? I've heard talk enough about Karl liicketicketack. It was his story that caused me to dislike the trade. He was a good-for-nothing fel- low—a drunken dog, fit only to turn the village upside down. No, no, that will never do ; the Colonel does'nt look like one of that kind. Oh ! pity I had'ofc gone to the army to be a Colonel, Kon. — Pity indeed you had not gone to the devil. But mas- ter, tell us the &tory of Karl Ricketicketack. Lud. — Well men, our day's work is paid for twice over, so we can afford to let our lire go down. The Colonel is Karl Van Milgem, sure enough. Let us step out and sit beneath the shade of the trees and I'll tell you his story as shortly as I can and then you can say what you think about it, [Exit and scene closes — re-enter front .'\ About sixteen years ago there lived iu this very A'illage, a young lellow who was married to the prettiest girl iu all the country a'lout. She came Irom Moll; and so fond were they of one another that it was a wonder and a pleasure to the villagers lo see them Well, he was Karl Van ^lilgem, of whom we are talking. That was the fellow for work; eatly in the morning and late at night he was at it 'till his f .ce ran down with sweat, and all the while he kept time with that nice little tune the Colonel knows so well; so that among ourselves every one called him Karl Ricketicketack. He was always in spirits, and a regular witty fellow; there never came a word out of his mouth but what raiglit set one laughing. And so iu all Westh- mal there was no such favorite as the merry snath. He had been married a couple of years and had no children; at last, however, he was expecting one. At this news he was merrier than ever; there was no end to his Ricketicketack, and at times 10 one got quite afraid he was going out of his senses with joy; for when the fit took him cart-ropes couldn't hold him. At last the day came and he had his wish; but, poor fellow ! his wife never got over it. She lies buried in our church-yard there where the iron cross slauds. From that moment Karl was never the same man again. He left his hammer and anvil to themselves and didn't lighi his forge twice in a week; and l.e began to drink as though he would make an end of himself. All his songs were forgotten and he led such a life that he was a scandal to the whole village. When he came home drunk he would go on like a downright madman. But the servant- girl that lived with him and took care of the child h.d ow way that never failed to quiet him; she used to put the little girl on his knee, and liowever far gone he might be, as soon as he saw the child it seemed as thougli an enchantment had come over him. He would laugh out as merrily as ever and ride cock- horse with the little thing, to the old tune of Ricketack. That Karl was ever at bottom a bad man, I don't believe. Every body knew well enough that it was his wife's death that had made him desperate and drunken; for every time that he cross- ed the church-yard and came to the iron cross, even if he was so that he couldn't keep his feet, he'd break out into tears be- fore all the world. And so every one had great compassion for him, and the neighbors took care that the child wanted for nothing, without sayiug anything to him about it. So things went on for three years 'till Karl was suddenly taken ill and had to keep his bed and that for a pretty long time too. All this while his friends and the clergyman too talked so much to him about mending his ways that he seemed quite cured of drinking But now he had got something else into his head. He had made up his mind to leave the village, where the sight of his wife's grave was forever reminding him of his loss; so he sold ofi' his smithy, with eveiything in it just as it stood, to my father, God rest his soul ! and early one morning otf he went with his child on his arm away over the heath, without telling a soul where to, and away he stayed; and from that day 'till this neither he nor the child has been seen nor heard of. JJar. — Ah ! the colonel is Karl Ricketicketack, that there is no doubt of. Lud. — He it is and no one else. Did not you see how he took up the tools and Icoked at them.? Well, everything that my father or I had bought, he laid down agiin quite carelesslj'^ as you saw, but every thing that had belonged to Karl Ricketack he looked at as though he would devour it. Did you not notice how he looked with almost fondness on the old hammer and tongs that were here before I saw the shop? Even you must have noticed that. And then his w^ay of speaking, just like the rest o( us ; his hand ness at the forge, and above all his little tune, Yes, yes ! that's a lad oat of our village I'll wager this piece of coin. Who'd have thought it ? And no "v a colonel — a real out-and-out colonel. 11 Kon. — A wonderful story. Bar. — Yes, but if I had gone with the emperor to Egypt — Kon—^hGve would lave been one fool less in Europe. Lud. — Now men, let us go to our dinners and be ready for a holiday. No more work to-day. [^Exctmt.'] Scene II — {Office of a Notary — CoL. ff«y ond book.] Granny. — IIow is your brother, to-dy, Mistress Barbara. For a week I could not, come tor sickness ai home. Barb. — lie is much improved ; he talked of going out to day, and I believe myseU a walk would do him good. But he sleeps now. Wake as little noise as you cm, gianny. That rattle-box of a husband of mine, the worthless good-mitured fellow makes so much talk and the b iby cries some times so that I think it is enough to drive poor s-ick Jau crazy. He is having a nice sleep now; [drazving- the curtain for a moment] look how quiet. Granny. — God be praised I But you never told me how it all came about. Baib. — Come away then and I will finish the story which I began when first you came to us. Aftei the girl was taken away by her father, with no thanks to us for taking care of the huzzy, who idways gave mother so much trouble, Jan did no'.hing but mope a'jout the trees. 17 ■ He would refuse his meals and go out to work on the farm, but soon we v/oukl find him lying under the trees, as pale and weak as if dying. He couldn't work, and as he didn't eat it could not be expected. The good father Paul noticed it too and he talked to Jan days and weeks and at last pursuaded him t3 go to the University at Mechlin and study to be a priest aud so forget the girl, and we all thought that was better, and he went. When his years ia the school were done, he came to Anlwerpt here awl of him we heard nothing aud I feai-ed for him aud packed our baby on Peter's back and I took our bundle and we came to seeii him. First it was nothing. Days and days I walked on tlie h ird pavement and asked but found nothing. Then I went among the hospitals, aud there I found him weak and thin like one dead, and his eyes closed aud he did not know me. I brought him here — Oran. — But God be praised, you have had him here for five or six weeks. Barb. — Going on six weeks, Ora7i. — But where do you sleep yourself, then— only one room and one l>f d ? Barb. — Why I sleep here with my head on the table, and the baby sleeps ia the cradle there, aud poor Peter he sleeps on the hearth, soft-hearted man. He is not so bad after all. He never coni;)lains unless 1 gr)W impatient and make him angry, the kind fellow. I always was a fool about that man aud when he is away I scold myself, and when he is here I scold him. Gran. — God be praised! and about your brother? Barb. — Oh yes, poor Jan ! I'll tell you. Come this way a little, so that my clatter may not disturb him. The people in the hospital told me that about eiglit weeks ago, on a stormy Saiuiday night late, when ihe muddy streets were almost de- serted, an outcry was raised by the watchmen, who were run- ning about with their lanterns. And it soon appeared that one of tUem had heard a gioan. Oran. — God be praised ! Batb. — And there by a dead wall among a lot of old carts, was the ptior pale boy lying on his back, his face covered with blood. Gran. — God be praised ! Covered with blood did you say? Barb.— Yes indeed. His face was covered with blood which must have llovved some hours before, as it was cold aud clotted. It appears as if he had fallen asleep oa a market cart aud tumbled off, and he laid there bleeding and senseless. Gran. — God be praised ! and dead? Ba.b. — No, no, granny, not dead. How could ho be dead whcu he is now sleeping quietly in my bed tlisie. He was picked up and carried mto the hospital where he lay 'till I found him as good as dead — Oran. — God be praised ! 18 Baib. — Well be raved in the hospital, and he raved here, but you could understand nothing of his mutterings — Gran. — God be praised ! Bdb. — Don't interrupt me, grannj% for th'.re is no occasion to give praises because he sutiered so much. Ortin. — No, God be praised ! I didn't mean it. Bai b — But the people in the hospital heard him plainly enough in his ravings, calling "Magdalen — Monica," and sometimes he would rave in l^atin, but of all things he never forgot, the old jangling tune that good for-nothing girl used to sing, that senseless "Kicketark." But now he is belter and is gl id to see me, which is pay enough for anything we have done lor him. ytill he does not tell me as much as I would like to know — Oraii — G<)d be praised ! B t/b. — About his past six years and what he intends to do — anything he does is all rigiit it he docs'nt go for a priest or a soldier. Poor fellow, he is as thin as a lath and as white as a night-cap. J tn. — \_from behind the curtain., faintly'^ Barbara ! Barbara ! Biib. — ilush ! that's him. I must give him the cream and milk now. [67/c carries the cup of cream to the bed and draivs the ciirtains.'\ Jan. — I will arise and go abroad. Biirb. — I fear you are too weak yet. Is it not so ? Jan. — Nay. I am strong enougli to go slowly and a walk will be benelicial. Birb. — So, as you say. [To the old woman:] Softly let us go out, that he may dress. {Exeuut'] \^Scene closes.'] Scene II. — \_A street — enter Jan, meanly clad, and f ale — he rests leaning against a zvall.] Jin. — [5f/«.<] It is a blessed thing to look upon the sua once more, and inhale tiic uncontined air flowing fresh from the bountiful fields of my native plains, of be.oved Brabant it may be, to cool this feverish city. Here lives Monici, bat here I cannot remain. Still I long to see her once again. That pale face of which I got but a glimpse in the cairiage when 1 fell, was not the index of a happy lieart. Perhaps she his not yet forgotten the old days when I was her only reliance and defen- der — perhaps she would be glad to once more see that old friend to whom with tears in her eyes she sad " Good bye 'till then." It was good-bye to peace and rest for me. But now I must go forward and take a last farewell. lExit.] Scene III. — [A dra-ving room — CoL. Van Milgem in an easy chair — MoNICA, ivith downcast eyes, at a table covered -with em- broidery-implements and material — She hums '■Hicketack.'] Col. — Geo SO that tune, Monica, it re calls unpleasant memo- ries of the past. You pass your life in endless Uiclancholy. 19 Was it for this tliat you speut years iu the brillinnt scliools and polished society of Paris? Where are all your accomplish- ments — your music, your drawing, your dancins;, your cultiva- ted conversation that I was assured you possessed? Ilcreiiave I been but six weeks i-elievcd from my last campaign over the Rhine, to which I owe this slittened knee, and I hnd you ever weeping and moaning. I am not scolding, my daughter, but I would sec you cheerful. Forget old times and tunes and make me happy by a smiling face. Mon. — What ! was I singing it again? Forgive me, father, for being so thouij^htless of your presence, but I did not know it. I will try to forget it as I hope, for uotiiiug but to mako you happy, to give you whii liltle pleasure I may for the long years ot your never tiring kindness toward me. Col. — When will the purse be ready, dear? Poor Adolph ! how pleased he will be at the present — he loves you so. Mon — Where is he now ? tol. — That's hard to tell. Who knows? Perhaps in the gloiious field, o il may be, suffering in an hospital; if indeed a bullei has not already ended him. Mon. — Oh father, father 1 You make me tremble. Col. — What ! do you tremble for him — then you do care for him ? Mon. — To be sure I do — as for a brother. Col. — Ah Monica, you must care for liim more than that. He deserves your love. He's a handsome young fellow, with every quality of liead and heart to please a woman; and besides that he was with me through all my campugns; he mourned with me for the loss of you and assisted to discover your pres- ence when I had almost given you up tor lost. He accompanied and cheered me m liiat h ng search, and more than all he it was who saved your father's lite at Dresden. Even though love cannot find its way to your heart, gratitu;le should make you willing to follow my advice ami my entreaties to reward him for his love and generous sell-devolion. Mon. — Look at me, father. Wbat have I to give Adolph? My real love is all set on you ; I have no heart for him. Shall I marry to ma.vc him unhappy with coldness and indifterence? Surely a husband asks more of his wife than mere friendship! But beside that 1 feel an invincible disinclination to a tie that would deprive me of my liberly. C(??.— Of what libert}', Monica? The liberty to dream and brood over you know not what? Would to heaven you might lose this libeily whirh only wears and wastes you. Do but see my cliild what a h:ippy life it will be for you when we take possession of our estate at Moll, from which I was called to be disabled in this last campaign. If you have a iriend who can wander over the heath with you, visit the beccli tree and tho brook with you, and whom to both of us would be a companion 20 in our solitude, wliioh without love becomes cold as death, I tliinlc we couid both be li.appy. Mon. — Ti'.at may all be true father, but Adolph is no son of the heath. He woak) never understand the speech of the grass- hopper nor the isilent language of the butterily. No firtreo shades the jday grounds of his youth, and the ocean-like im- mensity of the moor would seem mere monotony to him that is a child of ihe mountain. Ah father, confess it; between me and my darling heath he would stand as a stranger I Cith is bluer? Because the atmosphere is frauj^ht with fragrance? Because the sense of boundless vision transported me? Ah no I She had lived and wandered there, and I knew every spot of turl her foot had pressed ; every tree whicli her hand had touched; every plant which her tears had bedewed. I suftered because I regarded her as lost for ever. At last I yielded to my mother's prayers and tears and our old pastor's advice, and set off for Mechlin, there to study and to seek in the duties of the ministry, a protection against my recollections. Ah me ! what sufferings did I not go through in the seminary! The acquisi- tion of knowledge, the reading of the ancient authors developed my imagination more and more, 'till I became utterly a slave to my dreams. I avoided all companions and sought out quiet nooks where I could give myself up to revery and hum over and over her favorite tune. I was the jest ot all my fellow- students ; but that made just as little impression on me as the the rebukes of my teacher. At last the lime came when I had to declare whether I would take orders or not. But God help me! how could I do that? I was unworthy to ai>proach the altar ; I declined and left the seminary. My mother had mean- while died. I had still remaining something of my iaheritance. I dreajncd away my life in total recklessness. Regardless of the future, I consumed what little I had left. That year I fell into the uttermost distress ; but that effected me not at all ; I slept under the blue sky, under wagons, upon the ramparts. Nothing could move me or wake me up from ray apaihy. [Jan /««.«« — //is breath is thick and heavy — MoNICA fefw^ her head upon the table aiidiveeps convulsively — iK^i proceeds.'] One day as I was waiidering half in despair along the Place de Meir, she that I had thought lost forever to me, passed rap- idly in a carriage. The shock deprived me of my senses and I fell. How long I lay there or whither I was taken I only know from what I have been told. When I recovered consciousness I found myself under the care of a long forgotten si.ster, who with her husband had left the comforts of our old farm to search in poverty on foot and enduring many privations^ for me, the miserable wanderer. For weeks I occupied their only bed, and their scanty earnings were devoted to procuring for me such remedies as were recommen Jed by a physician. They had sac- rificed everything for me and to them I owe the life which I had attempted to throw away as a worthless encumbrance. Now I have something to live for— to repay their love and kindness — to labor for, to discharge faithfully, so far as in my power it may be possible,a debt of everlasting obligation which I shall endeavor to make a pleasant duty. Now I shall go. For- get, Colonel, I beg, what trouble my existence may have caused 24 you, as I acquit you of all obligation to me for any services I may have rendered your daughter ; forgive me the wOrds I have spoken in my despair for tlie relief of an over burdened heart ; yoa shall never again hear or see aught of me. Farewell ! and may God bless you I \_He arises and frocccds fo-vard the door. Monica das/n'nQ- a-.vay her tears darts after and to him.'\ Monica — Stay ! oh stay ! [Dropping at Colonel's /<'(^i' a7id thus:] Ah forgive me ! forgive me ! forgive me, father ! Keep him here or t die ! His image too was one of those which floated before me in my dreams ; he is my brother ; he was my faithful protector ; I love him ! He alone it is that can save me. Oh ! keep him here ! Col. — [Raising- Monica] So that was the mystery I What a heart ! Be it so, Monica, my child. Belong to one another ! [Jan sinks into a chair'i — MoNiCA throws her arms about him."] [Enter Barhnra hastily] — Wliere's the poor boy? He was seen enter the door. [7'urnino- sees Jan and MoNiCA. ] Ah I the white-faced one nurses him now — no use for me I suppose. Peter. — [entering with babe, thus:] Oh here have we the renegade ? Ah ! I may return to my book now. [Enterer GraNNY, hobbling hastily,] Barb. — Too late. Granny ! he's safe out of our hands. Gran. — God be praised ! Ool. — Welcome friends, all. True love has triumphed at last. [AIL] Ricketicketack, Ricketicketoo, The iron is warm, Up witli your arm, Now, strike one, two, Ricketicketoo. [Curtain falls.] LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 793 081 3 •