PS 635 
 .Z9 
 B848 
 Copy 1 
 
 [E DEVOTED WIPE ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 CALIFORNIA IN '49 AND '50, 
 
 A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 By A^LBERT BRE]\\rSTER 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ALTA CALIFORNIA JOB PRINTING HOUSE, 529 CALIFORNIA ST. 
 1874. 
 
THE DEVOTED WIFE ; 
 
 OR. 
 
 CALIFOIIXIA IX '49 AXD 'oO, 
 
 A PLAY IX FITE ACTS. 
 
 By i^LBERT BREAVSTER 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ^an ^rauci.sco: 
 
 ALTA CALIFORNIA JOB PRINTING HOUSE, 529 C.AXIFORNIA ST. 
 1874. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1874, 
 
 By albert BREWSTER, 
 
 In the oflBce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 TMP92-008696 
 
DRAMATIC PERSONS. 
 
 Frank Sumner, Government Clerk. 
 
 Ida Sumner, Wife of Frank Sumner. 
 
 Gracie, aged four, and Agnes, three ; Children of Mr. and Mrs. 
 
 Sumner. 
 Mr. Frederic Went worth. 
 Mrs. Frederic Wentworth. 
 Miss Grace Wentworth. 
 Mr. George Wentworth. 
 Mr. Henry Redington, Millionare. 
 Ike Tompkins, Tool of Redington. 
 Mrs. Hopkins, Mistress of Lodging House. 
 Mr. James Hamilton. 
 Mr. Charles Raymond. 
 Sarah, Colored Servant. 
 Doctor Erskines. 
 Mountain Tom, Veteran Hunter. 
 Harry Hogan, Backwoodsman and Miner 
 Bill. 1 
 Jim. I 
 
 Dan. I 
 Joe. 
 Will. 
 Bob. I 
 Steve. \ 
 Jake. J 
 
 Landlord op Miner's Tavern. 
 Other Miners. 
 Servants. 
 
 Miners. 
 
COSTUMES. 
 
 Frank Sumner, at Washington City and San Francisco, fash- 
 ionably dressed; at mines, in miner's costume 
 
 Ida Sumner and children, in first act, fashionably dressed ; in 
 third act, poorly dressed in first scene; fourth scene nicely 
 dressed ; at mines, neat traveling costume ; at San Fran- 
 cisco, in fifth act, handsomely and fashionably dressed. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth, handsomely and fashionably 
 
 r\ T*PQGIP(i 
 
 George Wentworth, handsomely and fashionably dressed. 
 
 Grace Wentworth, elegantly dressed. 
 
 Harry Reddington, fashionably dressed until seen at the 
 
 mines ; then policeman's dress, with star. 
 Mrs. Hopkies, plainly dressed. 
 James Hamilton, fashionably dressed. 
 Charles Raymond, miner's costume. 
 Doctor Erskink, business suit. 
 Mountain Tom, as hunter, buckskin dress and leggms, fur cap, 
 
 belt with knife ; carrying a long, old-fashioned rifle. 
 Harry Logan. 
 
 Bill. 
 
 Jim. 
 
 Dan. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Joe 
 
 Will. 
 
 Bob. 
 
 Steve. 
 
 Other Miners. 
 
 Landlord, same as miners. 
 
 Ike Tompkins, dress common and slouchy 
 
 As miners, red or blue flannel shirts, 
 red predominating, high-topped boots, 
 slouched hats, revolvers and knives in 
 in their belts. 
 
THE DEVOTED AVIFE 
 
 OK, 
 
 CALIFORNIA IN 'lO-'SO. 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Place : Washington City, D. C. 
 
 [Scene : Private parlor of boarding house. Present, Mr. 
 Frank Sumner holding in his hand a daily paper ; also present, 
 his wife Ida ; both seated.] 
 
 Frank 8umner. So you. perceive, dear wife, that the news 
 from the gold mines of California continue favorable ; thou- 
 sands are there engaged in reaping the golden harvest, and — 
 
 Mrs. Sumner. I do wish Frank, you would converse of some- 
 thing else ; what are the gold fields of California to us ? Is 
 not your salary sufficient for our support ? has it not proved so 
 for the five years of our married life ? Say, dear husband, have 
 we not been happy 'till. now ? so why not be content as in the 
 past ? 
 
 Mr. Sumner. {Rising.) Because, dear Ida, an opportunity 
 now offers to better our condition, and I consider it my duty to 
 provide for our future ; our little ones are growing up ; what 
 provision is there for them ? nothing — absolutely nothing I 
 Should I be taken away, where are the means of their and your 
 own support ? Out of the miserable pittance I earji as govern 
 ment clerk it is impossible to lay aside anything ; think of it ! 
 one thousand dollars a year ; why it would not pay for the dia- 
 mond ring you wore upon your finger when in your father's 
 house. I desire, beloved wife, to surround you with the comforts, 
 the luxuries to which you were accustomed prior to our marriage. 
 1 cannot bear to see you endure the deprivations incident to our 
 
6 The Devoted Wife; • 
 
 present position. So, dearest, consent to my going to California, 
 and in a few years I shall be able to restore you to that position 
 in life you would so grace. 
 
 Ida. {Rising.) Yes, dear Frank ; but if I am content ; if I 
 feel not the deprivations to which you allude, and am happy 
 now ? Your aflfection and society are more to me than all the 
 world's wealth. Did you propose to take me and our loved 
 children with you, it would be different; but to think of our 
 remaining here, while you are thousands of miles distant, en- 
 during the toils and hardships of a miner's life. Oh ! Oh dear 
 husband ! how, how can you think of it ? and — and then you talk 
 of going by land ! The dreadful idea of your crossing the plains 
 — the dangers you would have to encounter : The Indians might 
 kill and scalp you on the way ; but if they did not, the grizzly 
 bears and lions, or those dreadful wolves they call coyotes, 
 might devour you — Oh ! Oh ! don't, don't speak of it more ; but 
 if you love me dear Frank, abandon the thought, the idea of 
 leaving for California. 
 
 Frank. If I love you, dear wife ? why, do you not understand 
 that it is my great love that impels me to this step ? love for you 
 dearest, and our little ones. 
 
 Ida. Yes, yes, dear Frank ; I know you think so, but is it not 
 rather the greed for gold that seems now to have taken posses- 
 sion of men's minds ? the coveting of riches, ambition, and — 
 
 Frank. Admitting all you say, darling ; yet for whose sake 
 do I covet wealth ? for whom is my ambition ? Is it not for my 
 cherished ones? 
 
 Ida. Oh ! talk not so, my husband ; what shall I care for 
 riches, if to gain them you must imperil health, even life, by 
 engaging in unacustomed toil, for which your habits of life 
 have unfitted you ? How many go to the gold fields never to 
 return ? to think of your lying ill, perhaps dying, in some lone 
 mountain canon ; with none by to care for or to sooth your an- 
 guish ! Oh ! Oh ! think of it my husband ! 
 
 •Frank. But why think of it, darling, since they are only 
 imaginary ills ? so banish them from your mind ; cease to dwell 
 on the dark side of the picture, and look instead at the bright 
 side. Imagine at the end of one or two brief years of separa- 
 tion our joyful reunion ; yourself and our little darlings sur- 
 rounded by all the luxuries, the elegancies of life to which in 
 your girlhood you were accustomed ; think of — 
 
 Ida. But Frank, do you not see that these are but dreams 
 that may never be realized, while the evils I speak of are proba- 
 bilities ; yes, strong probabilities, as my presentiinent of coming 
 perils and misfortunes tell me. So, dear, dear Frank, for 
 
Oe, Califobnia en '49 and '50. t 
 
 Heaven's sake listen to me ; be advised by your wife wlio so 
 loves you, and for my sake — 
 
 {Enter Miss Grace Wentworth.) Good morning ; excuse my 
 so unfashionable call. 
 
 Ida. Oil ! Grace ! I am always so glad to see you • so speak 
 not of unfashionable calls. 
 
 Frank. Good morning, Miss Wentworth. 
 
 Miss Wentworth. Thank you, Mr. Sumner; but now you just 
 tell me what you have been saying to grieve dear Ida ? I see the 
 tear-drops in her sweet eyes ; so confess at once ; tell me, Ida, 
 what is it, has he been cross ? or — 
 
 Ida. No ; not cross, but oh ! so inconsiderate ! why he is 
 talking of leaving me, 
 
 Grace. Oh ! the naughty man — of leaving you to go to his 
 oflBce I suppose ; ha ! ha ! but then men are never reasonable you 
 know, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! Grace dear ! don't laugh, please ; he is talk- 
 ing of leaving me to go to California. 
 
 Grace. To California ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, yes, to go to California. 
 
 Frank. Now, Miss Wentworth, please don't look so astonish- 
 ed, but just come to my assistance. I have been trying to show 
 Ida how much better it would be for us, if, instead of remaining 
 here, where it is impossible for me to make any provision for 
 the future. I should go to the gold mines in California, where 
 fortunes are being rapidly acquired by thousands, and thus, in 
 one or two years be able to surround her with comforts, and 
 even the luxuries of life ; do you. Miss Wentworth, see anything 
 so very unreasonable in the idea ? 
 
 Grace. Well, no ; I can't say that I do. I think it the duty 
 of a man to better the condition of his family if he can ; now 
 Ida, dear, don't look so reproachfully at me. 
 
 Ida. Oh, Grace ! Grace ! 
 
 Frank. Don't blame Miss Wentworth, dear ; she has but ex- 
 pressed the opinion of all, not blinded by affection as yourself, 
 and you too will one day confess that I am right, and rejoice 
 that you consented to my going. 
 
 Ida. Why Frank, how you talk ! I am sure I have given no 
 consent ; what mean you ? 
 
 Frank. But then dearest, you will, you know. 
 
 Ida. I think not, dear Frank. 
 
 Grace. Indeed, I think you will Ida, since 'tis for your good 
 and future happiness he desires to go. Oh, if I were a man, I 
 would go to-morrow ! only think of it ! Instead of spending 
 
8 The Devoted Wipe; * 
 
 ones life in unrenumerative toil, just have to walk round and pick 
 up great lumps of gold. Why, it would be delightful! just 
 think of it ! 
 
 Ida. Why, Grace, what are you saying ? just walk about and 
 pick up lumps of gold ? why don't you know, they have to dig 
 way down deep in the giound to find gold? 
 
 Grace. Ridiculous ! surely you don't read the papers ; or you 
 would never entertain such absurd ideas ? Why, the papers are 
 filled with accounts of men picking up great pieces of gold, 
 worth from forty to fifty thousand dollars; and any quantity of 
 lumps, worth from five to ten thousand dollars ; tho' why they 
 should pick up five thousand dollar nuggets, when they could 
 just as well pick up those worth fifty thousand dollars, is more 
 than I can imagine ; unless 'tis because they are easier to carry, 
 
 Frank. Ha! ha! ha! I perceive Miss Wentworth, you look 
 at the bright side, instead of like Ida, the dark side. I am 
 afraid your picture of gold mining is somewhat overdrawn ; 
 don't think I shall be above picking up those five thousand dol- 
 lar nuggets, especially as you suggest they are so much easier 
 to carry, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Grace. Why, I don't see anything so unreasonable in what 
 I say, since the papers are all filled with such accounts ; and 
 Ida, just think how nice it will be when you are rich again ; 
 why, you used to dress so elegantly ; and now — excuse me dear , 
 — but that hat you wear is shockingly unfashionable ; why, Mr. 
 Sumner, do you not get Ida a new hat ? 
 
 Frank. Certainly ; if, as you say, hers is out of fashion. 
 
 Grace. Oh ! oh ! out of fashion, and she has been wearing it 
 more than a year. Out of fashion ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. Don't mind her Frank ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Frank. Certainly, dear Ida, you must have a new hat ; men 
 ■don't understand these things you know, so go to-day and pur- 
 chase yourself a new hat, and a handsome one. I think the 
 one Miss Wenthworth has on very pretty, and that it would be- 
 come you ; but get the best, dearest ; here is the money. I sup- 
 pose two dollars will do? 
 
 Grace. Oh ! oh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — you ridiculous man, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Ida. Oh ! dear, dear, Frank, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Frank. What, is not that enough ? 
 
 Grace. Is not that enough ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! oh ! oh ! — you — 
 you men ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. Never mind Frank ; ha ! ha ! ha ! — but if you wish me 
 to purchase a new hat, let me have five dollars, please ; though 
 I think it will not be exactly like the one Grace has on, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 
 
 Wank. Certainly, dearest ; here is five dollars, but if that 
 will not buy as nice a one as your fair friend's, of course you can 
 have more. 
 
 Ida. Why Frank! don't you know I can't wear such hats as 
 dear Grace? ha! ha! ha! Why the feather in her hat cost 
 three times the sum you present me. 
 
 Frank. What, fifteen dollars for a feather ! Well, if that is 
 the case, I think the sooner I start for California the better. 
 
 Grace. But tell me, Mr. Sumner, didn't you know dear Ida's 
 hat has been out of fashion the past year ? 
 
 Frank. No, Miss Wentworth, I did not ; she always ap- 
 pears lovely in my eyes, wear what she will ; and men don't 
 notice such things as the ladies do ; and so — 
 
 Grace. Notice! no, I should think not; men are all alike; 
 dress as you please, they never observe — 
 
 Frank. Ah, then Miss Wentworth, just please inform me 
 why fashionable ladies go to such expense in dressing ? since, 
 as you say, we men are ■ o unobservant ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Grace. Why — why — to be fashionable, and to excite the envy 
 of the ladies, ha ! ha ! ha! 
 
 Frank. Very commendable indeed; a most, cogent reason, 
 certainly — ha! ha! ha ! — but office hour has arrived, I see, and 
 the slaves of the treadmill must to work ; so adieu. Miss Went- 
 worth. Good-bye Ida, love ; I hope your fair friend will talk 
 you into a more reasonable state of mind concerninir my de- 
 parture for the land of gold. {Exit.) 
 
 Ida. Oh, dear Grace ! how could you ! how could you so en- 
 courage Frank in his idea of going to California? 
 
 Grace. Dear Ida, I only said I could not blame him for wish- 
 ing to better his fortune, and how could I? when I know 'tis 
 for your sake he desires to go. 
 
 Ida. Yes, yes, dear Grace ; I know you intended well, 1)at — 
 but oh, Grace ! — how, how can I let him go? But I will not 
 think of it more ; perhaps it \v\\\ never come to pass. I have 
 promised Frank that in case he should lose his office I would 
 give my consent ; but as that is nowise likely I will not borrow 
 trouble. 
 
 Grace. But where are my little pets ? Where is little 
 Gracie? my namesake. 
 
 Ida. They have gone out with their nurse to tak;^ a walk ; 
 they will be in soon ; lay aside your things and .spend the day, 
 
 Grace. Impossible; I have promised Mr. Redington to accom- 
 pany him in a ride to-day, so must soon be going. How kind it 
 was of you, Ida, to leave him for me to captivate, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. Oh, Grace ! do you nuan what you say ? 
 
 Grace. Why yes, certainly ; why do you ask ? 
 
10 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 Ida. Oh, Grace ! I — I don't like to say it — but indeed I don't 
 think Mr. Redington would make you happy. 
 
 Grace. Why, Ida, what mean you ? — not make me happy ! — 
 why not ? he is perfectly devoted, and my fair friends are all so 
 envious because I have captivated the elegant millionaire, ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Ida. Oh, Grace ! tell me, do you really love him ? 
 
 Orace. Well, really Ida, that is a plain, and I must confess, 
 a puzzling question ; I like him, and in time may learn to love 
 him. 
 
 Ida. Now, Grace, don't be in too much haste ; indeed Grace, 
 I think you would do better to accept Mr. Hamilton ; he is the 
 soul of honor, and I know is devoted to you. 
 
 Grace. Why, Ida, how could I accept him ? you know he has 
 gone to California. I confess I esteemed — yes, liked Mr. Hamil- 
 ton — but then leap-year only comes once in four years, you 
 know, ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Ida. Yes, Grace ; but I think it was the fact of your being 
 an heiress that prevented Mr. Hamilton from offering himself; 
 and that he has gone to California in pursuit of fortune, that he 
 may some day be able to offer it with his hand for your accept- 
 ance. 
 
 Orace. Ah, but that is a mere supposition. The saying is, 
 "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" — ha! ha! ha! 
 I^t us go in the other room, and favor me with a little music, 
 and then I will take my departure. 
 
 Ida. Certainly, dear Grace {Exit.) 
 
 Scene Second: Interior Martdon, Library. 
 
 [Enter Henry Redington.J 
 
 Henry Redington. Well, well, the game commences ; have 
 played my first trump ; it is now office hours for government 
 clerks. Think Frank Sumner will be somewhat surprised to 
 find upon his desk that interesting note from the department, 
 informing him that Uncle Sam will dispense with his farther 
 services ; and yet the fool will never suspect to whom he is in- 
 debted for that so interesting missive. Ha! ha! am I not his 
 friend? — ha! ha! ha! — does he not feel proud of his intimacy 
 with Harry Redington, the millionaire? — hai ha! ha! Fool, 
 fool, to think that the man who proved the successful rival of 
 Harry Redington could ever count on him as a friend — ha ! ha ! 
 ha! ' 
 
Ok, California in '49 and '50. 11 
 
 [Enter Frank Sumner.] 
 
 Redington. Ah, Frank, is that you? Glad to see you ; was 
 just this moment thinking of you ; but how in the dickens hap- 
 pens it that you call in office hours ? is Uncle Sam getting to 
 be less exacting ? or — 
 
 Frank. Redington, just read that interesting missive I found 
 on my desk when I entered the office this morning ; it will ex- 
 plain all. {Presents note ; Redington reads.) 
 
 Redington. Why Frank, what is the meaning of this ? Dis- 
 missed from office ? What the devil is up ; what is the cause, 
 the reason assigned ? 
 
 Frank. Can't say : government departments never deign to 
 enter into explanations. Clerks work on with the noose around 
 their necks, liable to be choked off any moment. 
 
 Redington. I will be hanged if I can understand ; but indeed, 
 Frank, I am real sorry for this ; but if there is anything I can 
 do for you as a friend, you may count on me. If a few thou- 
 sands will be of service, it is at your command. 
 
 Frank. {Taking him hy the hand.) Redington, I thank you 
 for your sympathy, your kind and generous offer. I am none 
 the less grateful for your offer, though I decline it ; but I have 
 my plans for the future. You know I was talking of starting 
 for the gold mines of California, and you approved the idea ; so 
 the loss of office will but hasten my departure. 
 
 Redington. I can but admire your manly independence, and 
 the energy and enterprise that prompts you to seek in California, 
 the wealth that but awaits the seeking ; but a friend should not 
 refuse from the hand of a friend a trifling favor ; so if you need 
 a few hundred for expenses, j ust name the sum, and — 
 
 Frank. No, no; thank you, my friend, I have sufficient. 
 Nevertheless your kindness will never be forgotten. 
 
 Redington. Nonsense, don't speak of it Frank; but how 
 does Mrs. Sumner regard your loss of office, and your contem- 
 plated departure for California ? I recollect you said she had 
 promised her consent, in case you should lose your clerkship. 
 
 F'ank. I have not as yet informed her of my loss of office. 
 I have not been home since my discharge ; as you say, in that 
 event she has consented, but persists in that case in the idea of 
 accompanying me. But I can not think of subjecting her to 
 the hardships and deprivations she would have to endure. What 
 think you, Redington ? 
 
 Redington. You are perfectly correct. It would be cruelty 
 to Mrs. Sumner to have her with you. Accustomed as she is 
 to the refinements of life, it would be far from kindness on your 
 part to place her in a miner's cabin ; don't mention this to Mrs. 
 Sumner as coming from me. I never like to appear in opposi- 
 
12 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 tion to the ladies ; you know I am a ladies' man, ha ! ha ! ha! so 
 would not like to incur their displeasure ; yet I must say I 
 should never so take advantage of any woman's affection, as to 
 subject her to suflfering-s and hardships, of which, having never 
 experienced, she could he no judg'e. 
 
 Frank. You have but expressed my sentiments. I cannot 
 subject my dear wife to the hardships of a miner's life. But I 
 must be .^ningr; I just stepped in while passing, to acquaint you 
 v/ith what has occured. 
 
 Redington. If you have really determined on ^oing to the 
 g-old fields, I know of a party of gentlemen that intend start- 
 ing in a day or two for California ; they will form part of a com- 
 pany that are to assemble in St. Louis, preparatory to crossing 
 the plains. On account of the Indians, it will be much safer to 
 go witli a large party ; so if you can make your arrangements 
 in time, and call here this evening, I will introduce you to some 
 of those gentlemen. 
 
 Frank. You are very kind ; I will call ; good day. {Exit ) 
 
 Redington. Now for weeping and wailing ; beauty in tears — 
 ha! ha! ha! Ah, Ida Sumner! I shall cause you to shed still 
 more bitter tears ere I am through. Wait till I have dis- 
 patched to California your fond husband ; and then, and then 
 my delicate little beauty — Ah ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — you will know 
 that Harry Redington always runs down his game — ha! ha! 
 ha! {Looking at Ids loatch.) I see it is pretty near time I was 
 driving round to Mr. Wentworth's. The fascinating Miss (irace 
 Wentworth is rather in the imperative mood, and don't like to 
 be kept waiting; think I shall tame her spirits somewhat when 
 I have done her the honor of making her Mrs. Redington — ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! At present 'tis her hour of rule, mine is to come ; and 
 then, fair Grace — well, never mind — you will know — ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! {Sounds the hell upon the table ; enter servant) 
 
 Redington. Tell John to harness the bays — no, no, the grays 
 — and have them at the door in ten minutes ; be lively. {Exit 
 Servant.) 
 
 A most fortunate circumstance that Mr. Wentworth and family 
 start so soon for Europe, to be gone six or eight months ; for 
 intimate friend as Grace is of Ida Sumner, were she to remain 
 here she would spoil my game, thwart me in my revenge ; but 
 as Grace is going abroad, I can break oflf all intercourse between 
 Ihem ; it will not do for them to correspond ; think I shall — 
 
 E/der Servant. Carriage at the door, sir. 
 
 Redington. If any one calls, say I will be back at five o'clock. 
 Servant. Yes, sir. {Exit Redington and Servant.) 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 13 
 
 Scene Third : Private Parlor of Boarding House. 
 [Enter Ida Sumner.] 
 
 Ida Sumner. Must it be ? Oh ! gracious Heaven m ust it be ? 
 Oh ! my husband, must you, must you go ? Will you leave me ? 
 Ah ! leave me and your dear little children ? Oh ! no, no ; it 
 cannot be, it must be some horrid dream. Surely I cannot be 
 awake ! Ah ! ah ! alas it is no dream ; dear Frank ib even now 
 in his room preparing for his departure, and in a short time will 
 come to bid me farewell. Oh ! oh ! when shall we meet again? 
 Perhaps never more on earth ! Ah ! can gold ever repay the 
 ansruish of this hour ? Surely my heart Avill break ; how can 1 
 survive this separation ? Oh ! merciful Heaven comfort me ! Oh I 
 oh ! [Seats herself in a chair near the table, and weeps wildly, 
 the children come in and go to their mother's side.] 
 
 Oracie. Say dear mamma, why do you cry ? 
 
 Mrs. Sumner. {Weeping.) My dear little ones, your papa is 
 going away. 
 
 Enter Frank. Dear Ida ! my loved my cherished wife, weep 
 not darling ; compose your feelings. This is but a brief separa- 
 tion ; we shall soon be re-united. Think of the comforts, the 
 happiness, I go to provide you, dearest. 
 
 Mrs. Sumner. (Rising and clasping Jier arms around his neck.) 
 Oh ! oh ! Frank ! dear Frank ! don't, oh, don't leave me. I-I 
 cannot, cannot let you go without me ; leave not the wife you 
 love, leave not our little ones — remember, dearest, we may 
 never — never meet again. Oh ! for Heaven's sake, let me go 
 with you, my loved husband, oh ! oh ! 
 
 Frank. How can I, dearest Ida, how can I take you with me? 
 How take you to the miner's rude cabin, how subject you, my 
 loved wife, to the long tedious journey across the plains; the 
 miner's poor fare, and all the hardships of a pioneer life? Im- 
 possible, dear Ida ; I love you too well to grant your request ; you 
 know not what you ask, my darling. 
 
 Ida. I do, I do, dear Frank ; the deprivations, the hardships 
 of which you speak I shall not feel, if but shared with you. So 
 take me. Oh ! take us with you, dearest. How — how can you 
 leave me? How leave your little ones? Oh! oh! my hus- 
 band ! ( Weeps wildly.) 
 
 Grade. Say, dear papa, why do you go away? Don't you 
 love any more dear mamma ? Don't you love Gracie, and little 
 Agnes ? 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! hear them, dear Frank ! Can you be deaf to 
 their artless appeal ? Oh ! listen to them, leave them not, but 
 
14 The Devoted AVife; 
 
 take UB with you. You will, dear Frank ? surely you will— say, 
 speak, dear husband ! 
 
 Frank. ' Oh ! my Grod, this is hard to bear ! Yes, surely this 
 surpasses the bitterness of death. Let us not, dearest wife, pro- 
 long this hour of parting, so fraught with anguish for us both. 
 Farewell, dear Ida — loved wife — 
 
 Ida. I cannot, I cannot say good-bye. ( Weeps Utterly) 
 
 [Enter Grace Wentworth.] 
 
 Ida. . Oh, Grace! Oh! Oh! don't let him leave me! Oh, 
 merciful Heaven ! Oh ! Oh ! {Faints in the arms of her friend.) 
 
 Grace. Oh ! dear, dear Ida ! Oh, Frank, since go you must, 
 go now ; don't let her see you when she revives. 
 
 Frank Yes, yes; but one more embrace, one more kiss. 
 Farewell loved Ida, though you hear me not, God bless and 
 keep you. 
 
 [Tableau : Ida unconscious, clasped in her husband's arms ; 
 one of the children holding on to the dress of the mother, the 
 other clasping the father's knee ; Grace standing tearfully by.] 
 
 Curtain Falls. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 California. Place: Mines. 
 
 [Scene : Interior of miner's cabin. Furniture pine table, 
 wooden stools, etc. Candles lighted. Present : five miners, one 
 of them engaged in removing remains of repast, (consisting of 
 pan-cakes, bacon, potatoes) and washing up the dishes, another 
 is patching a pair of pants ; one seated smoking pipe ; two of 
 them in front conversing.] 
 
 Charles Raymond. Now, Frank, try and compose yourself. 
 If you continue to harbor these evil forebodings, you will never 
 regain your health, but may — 
 
 Frank Sumner. Ah! Charley, it is easy to give advice, but 
 how can I compose my mind, when every letter I have received 
 from my loved wife since I left home, nine months ago, informs 
 
Or, Caltfornta in '49 and '50. 15 
 
 me she receives no letters in reply to tliose slie writes ; and the 
 letter I received a week ago, says she is in great distress, even 
 reduced to the verge of starvation — that herself and dear little 
 ones are lacking both food and necessary raiment. Good God! 
 it will drive me mad, Charles ! And-and I so weak from sick- 
 ness as to be unable to travel. What shall I do ? Ah ! what 
 shall I do my friend ? 
 
 Charles, But you can never hope to regain your strength, 
 while you continue to give way as you do, to such despairing 
 thoughts. So, Frank, do — 
 
 Frank. How can I but despair ? when I send to my wife 
 letter after letter containing remittances that she never receives? 
 Is it not enough to drive reason from her throne ? Is it not 
 not enough to — 
 
 Charles. But Frank, our friend Hamilton must by this time 
 have arrived at Washington City, and the letter you sent by him 
 must now be in Mrs. Sumner's possession, and the large remit- 
 tance it contained will not only relieve her necessities, but pro- 
 vide her with every cjmfort. So banish from your mind all un- 
 easiness ; all will come out right, my friend. 
 
 Frank. Thank you, Charles ; what you say is indeed very 
 comforting — yes, you have indeed reassured me. I will now en- 
 deavor to entertain more hopeful views. 
 
 Charles. That is right, Frank ; if you will but banish from 
 your mind all anxiety, you will recover, much sooner, your health 
 and strength. 
 
 Harry Hogan Whart in the world is you two fellers palaver- 
 ing about thar; spose Frank is talking about thart ar pooty little 
 wife of his'n, whose picter he spends harf his time looking art. 
 Wal, I don't blame him, no how ; if I hard such a pooty little 
 wooman back in the States, spect I should do the same. {Draws 
 a stool forward from the wall, seats himself, and measures his 
 length upon the floor.) 
 
 Miners. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Save the pieces Harry; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bill Johnson. Hallo ! Wharts the matter thar, Harry ? Haint 
 you larned to set on a stool yet ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 arry. (Rising.) It's that dratted three-legged stool ; this 
 makes three times it has sent me sprawling, reckon I'le jist put 
 in thart ar leg right away, dorg my cats if I don't. Whar's the 
 saw ? Oh ! thar it ar. (Looks around for something of which to 
 make a leg for stool, observes a broom in the corner, saws a piece 
 off the handle.) 
 
 Bill. Wal now, Is'e glard them ar dishes is all washed. 
 
 Jake. And I'm right glard that this hare patch is all fixed; I 
 don't go a cent on sewing; wouldent be one of them ar dress- 
 making gals for a heap of money. 
 
16 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 [Enter Dan.] 
 
 Dan. Wal Jake, dont think you'd make your pile at sewing, 
 judg-ing by looks of thart ar patch, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Jake. Now I should like to know wharts the matter with 
 thart ar patch ? 
 
 Dan. Why dont you see, you harve sewed the patch on the 
 wrong side ; it orter been on the inside stead of outside, and 
 jast look art them ar stitches, half an inch at least ; see how you 
 have puckered it. ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Jake. Now Dan you jist dry up, jast as though it makes any 
 odds which side a patch is sewed on — you don't know nothing 
 bout it 
 
 Dan. Now, just look thar at Harry; hang me if he haint 
 took and sawed off that broom-handle to make a leg for that ar 
 stool; now, how is we to sweep up the cabin? just tell me that. 
 
 Harry. Wal, carnt you tie on a piece ? tell me thart ; so 
 you jist shut up. 
 
 [Enter Jim Russel.] 
 
 Bill. Wal, now, if hare haint Jim Russel got back. Wal, 
 Jim, how is you? what's the news from below? 
 
 Jim. W^al, I haint got no news; but I tell you, boys, I've got 
 something hare 'twill do your eyes good to look at. 
 
 Charles. Well, Jim, just unfold your treasure, and let us see 
 what it is. 
 
 Jim. Wal, I will let you see ; but now boys jist be keer- 
 ful, and don't tech it, you mout sile it ; p'raps your hands ain't 
 jist as clain as they mout be. 
 
 Harry. You dry up Jim ; recond our hands is jist as clain 
 as your'n, p'raps a heap site clainer. 
 
 Jim. Wal, thart may all be, and northen left to brag of, 
 nuther ; but you see I'me keerful. 
 
 [Commences unwrapping his treasure ; takes oflF carefully 
 half-a-dozen wrappings of paper one after another, and lays 
 them aside ; the miners gathering around the table in great ex- 
 pectation.] 
 
 Dan. Wal, are you ever goin to get through takin off 
 them ar wrappins? I should loik to know? 
 
 Jim. Now, you jist hold your bosses, and don't go hurrying 
 a feller. {Having taken off the last wrapper, stancUiig proudly 
 erect, and casting around exultant glances, he liolds up by the 
 string to the admiring ga,ze of his brother miners, a lady's dimin- 
 utive gaiter.) Thar now, boys, what do you think of thart thar ? 
 
Or, Califoenia in '49 and '60. 17 
 
 ^ill. Wliy, whar in thunderation did you git thart ? Jist 
 let's have a closer look, worn't you ? 
 
 Jim. Now, you jist stand whar you is ; don't go for to be 
 tecliing it, but jist look. Say, boys, whart do you think of 
 thart ? 
 
 Harry. Carn't you tell a feller how you got it ? say ? 
 
 Jim. I found it, thart's how I got it ; found it about ten 
 miles from the mouth of the canon, laying right 'iongside of 
 whart I'se got in this here tother bundle ; but whart do you 
 think of thart are, boys ? 
 
 Harry. Wal, I will tell you whart I ihink ; haar's a fifty- 
 dollar slug you can have for it, Whart say you, Jim ? 
 
 Jim. It carn't be did. 
 
 Biil. Wal, hear's two slugs ; whart do you say to thart ? 
 
 Jim. It carn't, be did. 
 
 Dan. And hear's three slugs Jim ; are it a bargain ? 
 
 Jim. It carn't be did — I tell you, boys, it carn't be did. You 
 see, I've get a pooty gal waiting for me, way back in the 
 States, and she wears jist sich a thing as thart ar ; so its no use 
 talking, boys. I tell you it carn't be did ; no money can buy 
 thart ar; so no use talking, boys. [Wraps up carefully, and 
 puts away the gaiter.] 
 
 Charles. Ha I ha 1 ha I think, Frank, you and I had better 
 go in the shoe business — send on East for a large supply of 
 ladies' gaiters, ha ! ha 1 ha ! 
 
 Frank. Yes, Charles, if we could be assured that present 
 prices would be maintained, ha ! ha ! ha ! Wonder what the 
 ladies East would say if they knew $150 was offered, and 
 refused, for a ladies' gaiter ? ha ! ha I ha ! 
 
 Charles. Think it would pay better than gold mining, ha ! 
 ha! ha I 
 
 Jim. Now, I will jist show you something thart will make 
 you stare ; but if any you boys can tell me whart it am, I will 
 be mighty glard to hear ; so, boys, jist look, and tell me whart 
 thart ar am {nnwraps, and holds up to their puzzled and aston- 
 ished gaze, a ladies' bustle of huge dimensions). 
 
 Harry. Guves it up, Jim. Whart you call it ? come, tell a 
 feller ; and whart are it for? 
 
 Jim. Wal, boys, you've got me thar sure — carn't guess ; 
 carn't any of you boys tell ? 
 
 Dan. No, not I, unless 'tis some new-fangled sort of life- 
 presarvar. 
 
 Jim. No, no, tain't thart — 'twouldn't float a drowned rat. 
 
 Bill. Wal, whart are it, then ? 
 
 Jim. Carn't say, less 'tis some new-fashioned saddle for the 
 gals to ride on, but tliarn taint quite big enough for thart. 
 Hallo ! Frank and Charley, whart is you two fellers snickering 
 
18 The Bevoted Wife 
 
 at ? Wal, now, you have a heap sight more laming than we 
 fellers ; carn't you tell us whart this ar thing am ? 
 
 Frank. Well, yes, boys ; that is something the ladies wear, 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ji7n. Whart ! something the gals wear ? 'Taint a bonnet, 
 are it ? 
 
 Charles. Ha ! ha ! ha ! certainly, that's a new-fashioned 
 bonnet, the latest style, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Harry. A gals' bonnet ! wal, now, dorg my cats if thart 
 don't get me. Here, boys, take ray hat, ha ! ha ! ha ! {Miners 
 all laugh) Try it on, Jim ; let a feller see how it looks. 
 
 Jim. Sartain, boys — here goes. Wal, boys, how do it look ? 
 say, is I pooty ? 
 
 Miners all. Yes, yes ; you bet, you bet ; ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Jim. Wal, I'se glad to hear on it ; but hold ; here, Bill, you 
 put it on, and let me take a look. Wal, now, if thart's the 
 kind of bonnets thart your fashionable gals wear, then no 
 fashionable gal for me, says I, ha! ha! ha! {Miners laugh.) 
 Wal, now, let me have it to put away ; shall be going down to 
 Frisco, one of these days, and will take it along — praps I can 
 sell it to one of them ar fashionable gals. [ Wraps up, and puts 
 away the pai'cel.] 
 
 Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! don't think that Bill will get quite so 
 high a bid from the ladies of San Francisco for his fashionable 
 bonnet as he had offered for that ladies' gaiter, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 ChaMes. I think not, ha ! ha ! ha ! would like to be within 
 hearing when he offers that bonnet for sale to the ladies of San 
 Francisco, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Frank. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 [Bill takes his violin, and commences playing. Dan Maliood 
 and Harry Hogan seat themselves at the table, and commence 
 a game of cards. Charles Raymond and Frank Sumner fill their 
 pipes and smoke. 
 
 Harry. Come, Dan, let's have a game. 
 Dan. All right, I'm your man. 
 
 [Enter two miners from adjoining cabin.] 
 
 Dan. Hallo, Joe, how do ? How is you, Sam ? 
 Sam. All right, boys. Come, Joe ; now for a jig. 
 Joe. I'm agreeable Give us something lively, Bill. Here 
 goes. 
 
 [When the dance ends, miners loudly applaud.] 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 19 
 
 Bill. Wal, now, boys, let's harve a song. 
 
 8am. All riglit, Bill ; drive ahead. 
 
 Jim. Whart shall we sing ? 
 
 GKarles. Let us have, boys, " The California Miners." 
 
 Joe. Well, now, altogether. 
 
 [All join in song, with exception of Frank.] 
 
 Cal-i-for-ni-a, Cal-i-for-ni a, 
 
 Where the miners, young and old, 
 
 In gulches and mountain canons, 
 Are searching for precious gold. 
 
 But dearer far than all the gold, 
 
 The gals we left behind us. 
 But dearer far than all the gold. 
 
 The gals we left behind us. 
 
 From early morn, throughout the day, 
 
 We miners, bold and robust. 
 Are searching all the gulches through, 
 
 In seeking for the gold dust. 
 
 But dearer far than all the gold, 
 The gals we left behind us, etc. 
 
 Now that we have a gaiter found — 
 
 Wal, boys, 'tis no use talking — 
 We'll dream that with our pooty gals 
 
 We've all been out a-walking. 
 
 For dearer far than all the gold. 
 The gals we left behind us, etc. 
 
 And how we do the nuggets scorn, 
 
 While viewing this new treasure. 
 And thinking of the pooty foot 
 
 Of which we have the measure. 
 
 For dearer far than all the gold. 
 The gals we left behind us, etc. 
 
 Sam. Whoop ! whoop ! hurrah ! boys, for the gals we left 
 beliind us. 
 
 Miners all. Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Sam. Ah, boys, if I only had my little Maggie here ! 
 
20 The Devoted Wife; • 
 
 Joe. And if my pooty little Sally was only here ! Wait till 
 I gets my pile, and if I don't show you boys jist the pootiest 
 gal you ever seed —yes sirree. 
 
 Bill. Wal, now, I reckon I knows one little gal that would 
 take the shine off your Maggie, and your Sally ; thart's so, 
 boys, no use talking. 
 
 Sam. Reckon, Jim, you're mighty mistaken thar. 
 
 Joe. And so does I; but you just wait and see, Jim; yes 
 sirree. 
 
 [Enter Doctor Erskine.] 
 
 Doctor. How do you do, boys ? 
 
 Miners. Bully ! bully ! how's yourself. Doctor ? 
 
 Doctor. All right, boys. Well, Frank, how do you feel this 
 evening ? you are looking better. 
 
 Frank. Yes, Doctor, I am improving. 
 
 Charles. Take a seat. Doctor. 
 
 Doctor. Thank you ; can't stay ; have a case five miles up 
 the canon ; j ust dropped in ; must be going, 
 
 Frank. Who is your patient, Doctor ? 
 
 Doctor. Mountain Tom. 
 
 Harry. Whart's thart, Doctor? Mountain Tom sick ? Never 
 knowed sich a thing of Tom afore — dorg my cats if I did ! 
 
 Doctor. Well, no, Harry, not exactly sick, but hurt — been 
 clawed by £r bear. 
 
 Harry. Ah ! thart sounds more reasonable ; never knowed 
 old Grizzly to be sick, and I've knowed him many a year. 
 
 Bill. Is he much hurt. Doctor ? 
 
 Doctor. Can't say ; pretty badly clawed, I understand. It 
 seems his rifle missed fire ; so, with his knife, he had a rough- 
 and-tumble fight with the bear. 
 
 Harry. And come out ahead, I bet. Will bet my pile on old 
 Grizzly in a bar fight every day. 
 
 Doctor. Yes, he killed the bear ; and then, badly as he was 
 hurt, took off and brought in the skin, for fear, as he said, 
 'twould spoil if he left it, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Harry. Ha ! ha ! ha ! {Miners all laugh) thart's old Grizzly 
 all over ; kotch him leaving a bar-skin to spile, long as he can 
 crawl, ha ! ha ! ha ! Dorg my cats, boys, but he's a trump ! 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Doctor. Well, boys, I must be going — but, there, if I didn't 
 come near forgetting that letter I stopped on purpose to 
 deliver. I was over to the tavern when the mail came in, and 
 heard your name called, Frank. As I was coming this way, I 
 brought it along. {Presents the letter.) 
 
 Frank. Thank you, Doctor. Ah ! 'tis from my wife. {Opens 
 and reads the letter.) 
 
Or, California m '49 and '50. 21 
 
 Doctor. Well, good night all. 
 
 Miners all. Good night ; good night, Doctor. 
 
 Harry, Hold on, Doctor ; jist you drop in on your way back, 
 and let us know consarning Tom. Old Grizzly and I'se old 
 friends — have fit the Indians, and lifted many a scalp together 
 — so, if he ar much hurt, must go and see him arly in the 
 morning. 
 
 Doctor. Yes. Harry, will call on my way back. 
 
 Frank. My God ! my God ! 
 
 [Rises from his seat, and staggers blindly around.] 
 
 Miners all (rising). What's up ? what's the trouble ? 
 
 Doctor. Bad news, Frank ? 
 
 Charley. What is it, my friend ? 
 
 Frank (wildly). My wife — my children — are starving — are 
 perishing of hunger ! Oh, God ! oh, my God ! 
 
 Doctor. Perhaps not so bad as that, Frank ; but you will 
 bring on a relapse if you — 
 
 Frank. Gracious Heaven ! My dear Ida, my loved wife, and 
 little ones, dying of starvation ! I must — will — go to them ! God 
 grant I may not be too late ! Ah, why did I leave you, darling ? 
 why did I not listen to your prayers, to remain or bring you 
 with me? Ah, how true, dear one, was your presentiment of 
 coming woe ! I will go now. Farewell, friends. Where can I 
 obtain a horse ? speak ! tell me ! 
 
 Doctor. You cannot go — you are too weak to travel. 
 
 Charles. Things may not be so bad. Wait till you regain 
 your strength. Recollect that Hamilton — 
 
 Frank. Speak of waiting when my loved ones are dying of 
 hunger? Go I will, and at once, though I perish on the way! 
 Don't hold me, Charley ! don't detain me, for Heaven's sake ! 
 let me go, or I shall go mad ! unhand me, I say ! I will, will go ! 
 
 [Struggles with his friends, Charles, the Doctor, and miners, 
 who prevent his departure. Falls exhausted into the arms of 
 Charles ] 
 
 Doctor. There — just as I expected. Carry him to his room, 
 and lay him on his bed ; he will not leave it again for months, 
 if ever. 
 
 Jake. Poor Frank ! to think of thart pooty little wife of his'n 
 dying, for a little of the gold thart we tread under feet. 
 
 Harry. Dorg my cats ! but it makes me feel like a womq,n, 
 boys. 
 
 Jim. It's a mighty hard case, boys ; no use talking. 
 
22 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 Bill. To think of thart pooty little woman back in the 
 States ! Ah, if it would help him, he'd be welcome to half my 
 pile. 
 
 Miners. And mine. And mine. And mine, 
 
 [Frank being supported by Charles and the Doctor. Miners 
 showing great sympathy.] 
 
 Frank (faintly). My wife ! my children ! 
 
 Curtain Falls. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Place: Wasldngton City, D. C. 
 
 [Scene : Small, plainly-furnislied room in common lodging- 
 house. Present : Mrs. Sumner and children, very poorly 
 dressed.] 
 
 Ida. Oh! oh! how faint I feel! Oh! how hard to bear 
 these gnawing pains of hunger ! Ah, dear Frank, dear hus- 
 band, could you but view now your loved Ida, behold your 
 cherished ones ; know what from very shame I have not 
 written — that I have been expelled with insults from house after 
 house ! Oh, merciful Heaven ! what have I done ? what have I 
 done to deserve such treatment ? No friends to console me in 
 my sorrow — none to appeal to in my great distress ! Oh ! oh ! 
 Grace, dear Grace, can it be that you too have listened to the 
 voice of detraction ? given credit to the vile falsehoods ? Oh, 
 no, no, no, Grace ; and yet, why have I not heard from you ? 
 why have you not written ? Oh ! oh ! what can I think ? Ah, 
 dear husband, are these the comforts, the luxurious surround- 
 ings, your going to California were to procure me ? but I will 
 not reproach you, dearest, for well I know you had only my 
 happiness in view. Oh ! oh ! I fear you are dead ! were you 
 living, surely I would have received some letters — some reply 
 to the many I have written. Ah, yes, dear husband ; but 'twill 
 not be long ere we meet again — famine has nigh done its work. 
 Ah, little did I dream I should ever crave bread, and obtain it 
 
Ok, California in '49 and '50. 23 
 
 not. Two days have passed since a morsel has passed my lips ; 
 I cannot touch the few remaining crusts I have put aside for my 
 little darlings, so soon to feel as I, now, the cruel pangs of 
 hunger. How ! how — hear their cries for bread, and have none 
 to give. Oh, Heavenly Father ! spare, oh ! spare me this ! 
 {Wee2)S.) 
 
 Oracle. Mamma, please give me some bread ? I am so 
 hungry, mamma. 
 
 Agnes. I'se hungry, mamma ; give me some bread, mamma ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, darlings. 
 
 [Gives to each a small piece of dry bread.] 
 
 Oracle. Oh, mamma, this is not good bread — 'tis too dry — so 
 hard, 
 
 Agnes. This no good bread, mamma ; give me some good 
 bread. 
 
 Ida. 'Tis all that poor mamma has to give, darlings ; take, 
 and try to eat, loves. Oh, God ! oh, God ! Jittle do they know 
 how I hunger for the crusts of which they complain, dear little 
 ones. Oh, Lord ! oh, Lord ! have pity — have mercy on us ! oh ! 
 send us assistance ere 'tis too late ! Ah ! ah ! some one comes 
 — perhaps my prayer is heard. 
 
 [Enter Redington.] 
 
 Ida. Ah, Mr. Redington, my husband's friend, have you 
 come to save us ? 
 
 Redington. Yes, fair Ida, if you accept my terms. 
 
 Ida. What mean you, sir? Do you, Mr. Redington, propose 
 terms to the starving, to the dying? and — and what means your 
 form of address ? how presume, sir, to call me Ida ? 
 
 Redington. Charming Ida, you are now in my power. 
 
 Ida. How dare you, s:ir, address me thus? Leave me! your 
 very looks are insulting. 
 
 Redington. Insulting, ^ja! ha! ha! What will you then 
 term the sweet kisses I shall now proceed to ravish from those 
 rosebud lips? 
 
 Ida (retreating). Wretch ! villain ! approach me not ! 
 
 Redington. Resistance is in vain, my sweet charmer ; so 
 yield with grace. 
 
 Ida (showing a stiletto). You are mistaken, cowardly villain ; 
 approach me, and you die. 
 
 Redington (recoiling). A dagger ! what ! armed ? 
 
 Ida. Leave me, villain ! go ! go ! 
 
 Redington. Well, sweet Ida, expect I shall have to forego for 
 the present those blissful kisses ; but know that ere three days 
 
24 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 have elapsed, I shall have you in the cottap^e I am having 
 arranged for your accommodation — the cage I have provided for 
 my pretty bird. Those who will bear you there, where my 
 fond arms await you, will little heed your dirk, ha ! ha! ha! 
 Think of it — love in a cottage, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! basest of villains ! never ! oh ! never ! 
 
 Redingion. Wait and see, my charmer ; and that you may 
 in the meantime enjoy pleasant dreams, listen to what I have 
 to say, fair Ida. Do you not recollect the time when Harry 
 Redington, the millionaire, knelt a suitor at the feet of Ida 
 Horton, the belle, the beauty, the heiress, and knelt in vain ? 
 Thinking if you were somewhat humbled it might assist his 
 suit, he led your father, the wealthy Mr. Horton, into wild 
 speculations, that swept away his fortune. Then the adoring 
 lover showed his disinterestedness by again begging your 
 acceptance of his hand and fortune. You scorned the offer, and 
 turning from him, bestowed your fair hand on a beggarly Gov- 
 ernment clerk — a nobody — Frank Sum — 
 
 Ida. Silence, basest of villains 1 take not upon your vile lips 
 the name of my noble husband ! 
 
 Redington. Do not interrupt me, beauteous Ida ; spare me 
 further compliments, please^ till I am through. 'Twas then 
 that I, Harry Redington, swore revenge. How well I have 
 kept that oath, you, Ida Sumner, now shall know. Yes, fair 
 Ida, it was I that helped fan the gold lever raging in your 
 husband's breast ; I that had him discharged from his clerk- 
 ship, that succeeded in starting him for California, that by 
 depriving of her lawful protector, I might have in my power 
 his beautiful, charming wife. 
 
 Ida. Monster ! 
 
 Redington. Wait, sweetest, till you have heard all. Know 
 then when, to eke out your scanty means of subsistence, you 
 commenced giving lessons in music, 'twas I, yes, I, your rejected 
 suitor, Harry Redington, that, by setting afloat certain rumors, 
 blasted your fair fame, and lost you your pupils. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! are you a man ? are you human ? or are you 
 not in truth a fiend — a demon ? 
 
 Redington. Don't become excited, fair Ida, ha ! ha ! ha ! but 
 listen to me. Know then it was anonymous letters that have 
 caused you to be expelled from boarding and lodging houses as 
 not a fit inmate, till I find you in these mean lodgings, and 
 that— 
 
 Ida. Oh I oh ! infamous, heartless wretch ! and do you come 
 here to boast of your villainies ? to gloat over the misery you 
 have caused? to exult at your triumph over a poor, weak, 
 defenceless woman, that you have driven to starvation ? to — 
 
Or, California in ^49 and '50. 25 
 
 Redington. Ha ! ha ! lia ! you are perfectly correct, sweet 
 and beautiful Ida; you have truly named the purpose of my 
 visit. Ah, yes, revenge is sweet ; it almost repays the suffer- 
 ings you caused me when I knelt. and implored in vain your 
 pity, your mercy, as you shall mine in time not distant, my 
 charmer, ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, I have but one more pleasant 
 piece of information to impart. Know, Ida Sumner, that a 
 woman in my employ personated you, and took from the office 
 all letters directed to you, and so prevented you from receiving 
 the means of support that would have defeated my plans ? I 
 have here a letter of your husband's that was taken from the 
 office, containing quite a sum. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! then my husband lives ! Oh ! thank God I 
 thank God ! 
 
 Redington (aside). Ah ! what the devil — guess 'twould have 
 been as well to have kept that last piece of information. — 
 Why don't you weep, sweet Ida? I thought to regale myself 
 •with the sight of beauty in tears. Hope you are not going to 
 disappoint me after all I have done for, you. Say! why don't 
 you weep, and wring those lily white hands in wild despair? 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. My husband lives ! 
 
 Redington. Well, don't console yourself quite so much with 
 that thought ; what though he lives when you will soon be 
 enfolded in these fond arms? ha! ha ! ha! 
 
 Ida. Never ! never ! monster ! villain ! wretch ! sooner 
 would I be encircled by the bony arms of Death, than suffer for 
 one moment your foul, abhorred embrace ! 
 
 Redington Ha! ha! ha! not very complimentary, cer- 
 tainly; but just please to bear in mind, sweet Ida, that prefer- 
 erence has nothing to do with the question, and that to my 
 arms, and that soon, you will come, however unwillingly. I 
 have sworn it; and you can judge by the past whether I am 
 likely to keep that oath. You cannot escape my toils ; you are 
 entirely in my power ; so think not to escape me — you have 
 none to protect — 
 
 Ida. 'Tis false ! the God in whom I trust will protect — will 
 deliver me from your power. Of husband, friends, and com- 
 forts, you have bereft me ; honor and virtue alone are left ; of 
 these, vile wretch, you shall never, never rob me. Heaven will 
 protect ; my God will — 
 
 Redington. Ha ! ha ! ha I talk not to me of your God ; I 
 know him not ; gold alone is God, is Almighty. The power of 
 this god has placed you where you are, and will soon place you 
 in my cottage. 
 
26 The Devoted Wife 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! blasphemous wretch ! I wonder Heaven^a 
 lightnings do not strike you dead ! Deliver me of your vile, 
 abhorred presence ! Go ! go ! monster ! demon ! leave me ! 
 
 Redington. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well, for the present, I will take 
 my departure, but shall dream of the beauteous one so soon to 
 share my cottage, ha ! ha ! ha ! So farewell, dearest. Au 
 revoir. {Exit) 
 
 [At the departure of Redington, Ida throws herself upon a 
 chair and weeps, wildly.] 
 
 Ida. Oh ! can it be he speaks the truth ? am I indeed in his 
 power ? Ah ! is there no escape ? is death my sole refuge ? 
 Oh, God, the protector of the weak, the friendless, come to my 
 assistance ; have pity on me ; succor me and these little ones 
 {weeps). {Rises) And to think dear Frank supposed him his best 
 friend ! Ah, treacherous, false-hearted, depraved villain ! Oh ! 
 oh ! but my dear husband is alive. Shall I live to see him ? am 
 I not starving ? will not myself and darlings be in our graves 
 ere his return ? 
 
 [Enter Landlady.] 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins. Mrs. Sumner — if that is your name — the week 
 you've paid for in advance is up at sundown. Yoa've jist two 
 hours to git other lodgings. 
 
 Ida. Oh 1 oh ! what mean you ? why do you thus address 
 me? 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins. It means, madam, or miss — whichever you 
 are — that I've a letter, signed a friend ov the house, tellin' me 
 consarnin' your true karacter. Now, let me tell you that I 
 keeps a 'spectable house, and don't let no lodgins to sich like as 
 you. So, see you git out by sundown, or you'll be put out the 
 house. Just to think you had the impe'rriance to come here, 
 passing yourself off as a married woman ! 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! I am not — indeed I am not — what you name ! 
 Oh ! oh ! do not turn us in the street to die ! You are a woman 
 — are a mother — so have pity on us ! Oh ! oh ! at your feet I 
 implore pity, mercy, for these my children. Ah, think of your 
 own loved children ! think of — 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins. My children ! Dare you name my children 
 in the same breath with such brats as yours ? 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! have you no pity, no mercy ? 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins. Why don't you go to the poor-house ? shure 
 that's the proper place for sich like as you. Do you think I 
 keeps a house for beggars, and wus? no, indeed! I have no 
 time to waste on you ; so jist see that you are out of — 
 
Or, California in '49 and '60. 27 
 
 Ida (rises). Oh ! oh ! have you no heart — no feeling ? {Exit 
 Mrs. Hopkins.) Ah, poor me ! is this the end — turned with my 
 little ones in the street to die ? Oh, Heaven ! pity me — have 
 mercy ! Oh ! ah ! what is this feeling — this faintness ? is it 
 death? Oh, God! my children! oh, Frank! husband! Oh! 
 oh! ah! 
 
 [Swoons, and lies prostrate upon the floor. Children go to 
 her.] 
 
 Grade. Oh ! oh ! mamma is sick ! Oh ! speak to Gracie, 
 mamma ! Oh ! oh ! dear mamma ! ( Weeps.) 
 Mamma ! mamma ! dear mamma ! 
 
 [Enter George and Grace Wentworth.J 
 
 Grace. Oh, gracious Heaven ! Ida ! Ida ! dear Ida ! are we 
 too late ? Oh ! are you dead, my friend ? Oh ! oh ! — 
 
 [Kneels by her side ; takes her hands ; raises her head.] 
 
 George. Is she alive, sister ? Great Heaven ! that we should 
 have found her thus. Can it be she is dead? 
 
 Grace. Oh, George, she lives, she breathes. Thank Heaven ! 
 thank Heaven ! Ah, yes, she revives ; quick ! raise her, brother. 
 {Is raised to her feet hy George.) Oh, Ida, dear Ida, 'tis me, 'tis 
 Grace ! Speak, sweet love ; do you not know me, dearest ? 
 
 Ida. Oh, Grace, Grace, have you come ? has Heaven sent you 
 to oar assistance? Oh, dear, dear, Grace ! 
 
 [She stands, leaning upon the bosom of her friend, enclosed 
 by her arms.] 
 
 Grace. Oh, Ida, dearest Ida, how is it we find you in this 
 distressed condition ? How — 
 
 Ida. Oh, Grace, I cannot tell you now ; I am so weak, so 
 faint ; some other time, Grace ; I am famishing ; oh ! oh ! I am 
 so hungry, Grace. ( Weeps) 
 
 Grace. Oh, my God ! hear her, George ; she is starving ; and 
 look at little Gracie and little Agnes trying to eat those hard 
 crusts of bread. Oh, George, quick, quick ; get her to the 
 carriage, to the house ; support her, George ; I will take charge 
 of the dear little ones. 
 
 George. Let me place my arm around you, Mrs. Sumner, to 
 support your steps ; you will soon be where you will receive 
 nourishment and care ; lean your weight on me, please. 
 
28 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 Ida. Oh, thank you, bless you, my friends ! 
 Grace. Come, my poor little darlings. 
 
 [Exit all.] 
 
 Scene Second: Pleasure grounds of Mr. Wentworth ; trees, 
 shrvJbs, arhors. 
 
 [Enter James Hamilton.] 
 
 Hamilton. How familiar the scene — these groves, shrubs 
 and bowers — these shaded walks, where I have wandered oft' 
 with dear Grace — how dear, she never knew, for I was poor — 
 yes, poor and proud, and could not confess my love to the fair 
 heiress. Now, Fortune has smiled upon me ; the gold-fields of 
 California have enriched me. I started on my way home laden 
 not only with riches, but bright hopes— hopes, ah, where are 
 they now ? gone — all gone. The wealth so eagerly sought for, 
 toiled for, ah, how little valued now ; for she, the idol of my 
 heart, for whom it was achieved, is lost to me forever, and 
 dreams not the one she welcomed as friend, aspired to a nearer, 
 dearer title ; and yet, when I left her, I thought, yes, felt, she 
 was not indifferent to me, and had I declared to her the love 
 that brimmed my heart, believe she would not have scorned the 
 offering. But 'tis passed ; I must not dwell upon it, but en- 
 deavor to conceal from all my heart's deep affection. Oh, 
 Grace, Grace, 'tis hard to think it might have been. Ah ! 
 hither comes her respected mother, and my friend. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Wentworth.] 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Ah, Mr. Hamilton — 
 
 Hamilton. Good morning, Mrs. Wentworth. I was informed 
 at the house I would find you somewhere in these pleasant 
 grounds. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Most happy to see you, Mr. Hamilton I 
 am alone, as you see. Grace and George left two hours ago, to 
 renew their search for our dear friend, Mrs. Sumner. 
 
 Hamilton. Have you no news of Mrs. Sumner ? 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. None, whatever. Grace and George were 
 driving all over the city, yesterday, inquiring, but in vain. 
 To-day they will search more in the suburbs, thinking necessity 
 may have driven her to some obscure boarding-house. Dear 
 child I we shall know no peace till we discover her. 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 29 
 
 Mr. Hamilton. Ali ! sad news this for my friend Frank ; but 
 she must be discovered. Good morning, Mrs. Went worth. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. What is your hurry, Mr. Hamilton ? 
 
 Hamilton. I, too, Mrs. Wentworth, am engaged in this 
 search for Mrs. Sumner ; so please excuse me. Good morning. 
 
 Mrs. Wentioorth. Good morning. Call again. {Exit Hainilton.) 
 
 [Enter Mr. Wentworth.] 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. Who, dear wife, was the gentleman that 
 just left you? 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Our friend, Hamilton. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. Ah, indeed ; I should like to have seen him. 
 Has he heard anything of Mrs. Sumner? 
 
 Mrs. WentiDorth Nothing ; he is engaged in searching for — 
 
 [Enter Sarah.l 
 
 Sarah. Oh, missus, deys come ; yas, missus, deys come, sar- 
 tin, shure. Miss Grace and Massa George is got back, and 
 Missus Sumner and de leetle chiluns wid 'em;" yas, missus, 
 sartin, shure. 
 
 Mrs. Wentioorth. Oh, Sarah, is it so ? Oh, thank Heaven ! 
 Where are they, Sarah? 
 
 Sarah. I seed 'em gettin' out de carriage, missus, and den I 
 run to tell you. Deys in de house now, sartin, shure. 
 
 Mrs. WentiDorth. Oh, the dear, dear child. 
 
 Mr. Wentioorth. Let us hasten to meet and welcome them. 
 
 [Exit Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth and servant,] 
 
 Scene Third: A grove, in pleasure grounds of Henry 
 Redington. 
 
 [Enter Redington.] 
 
 Redington. The hour of my final triumph is close at hand ; 
 the cherished vengeance of years will soon be accomplished ; 
 yes, I shall soon have in my power the once haughty Ida 
 Horton. Ah, to think of her as she was, the belle and heiress, 
 and as I beheld her within the hour, and know it was my ven- 
 geance that placed her in her present position, ha ! ha ! ha ! So 
 it appears that you carry a dagger, my pretty one. Well, it 
 
30 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 will not be for long. When I have placed you in my secluded 
 cottage, I shall see that your pretty hand holds no more 
 daggers, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Enter Ike Tompkins, a ruffian, tool of Redington.] 
 
 Ike Tompkins. Wal, squire, what's wanted? came just as 
 soon as I got your message. 
 
 Redington. Tell me, sirrah, where were you within the hour ? 
 
 Ike. Wal, squire, I was at my post — was watching that ar 
 house. 
 
 Redington. None of your lies. 
 
 Ike. I isn't lying, squire ; I was opposite the house ; I seed 
 you when you went in. 
 
 Redington. Ah, indeed ; but tell me, sirrah, where were you 
 when I came out ? now, none of your lies. I looked for you, 
 and you were nowhere in the vicinity — a pretty watch you are 
 keeping. 
 
 Ike. Wal, squire, I seed you go in the house, so thought 
 'twas all right, so just stepped round the corner to take a drink. 
 Didn't think you'd be in a hurry to leave that pretty woman, 
 and so — 
 
 Redington. Silence, you scamp ! how dare you to comment 
 on my doings, or relate to me your suppositions ? keep your 
 opinions to yourself. 
 
 Ike. Wal, squire, didn't mean no offence. 
 
 Redington. Well, hasten b ck to your post, and see that you 
 swallow no more liquor to-day — you are half drunk now. Be 
 watchful ; that lady will leave the house before, sundown, so 
 keep a close watch ; see that you are able to report her where- 
 abouts on the morrow. I shall need your services in this 
 matter but a few days longer ; be vigilant, and I will make your 
 reward $300, in place of the $200 I promised. 
 
 Ike. Thank you, squire ; don't you fear ; shall keep a close 
 watch ; no danger she 'scaping me ; hain't I tracked her close 
 every time ? 
 
 Redington. Yes, yes, you have done well so far ; but go, 
 now ; she may leave the house while you are here talking. So 
 away — begone. 
 
 Ike. She won't give me the slip ; no fear ; good day, squire. 
 {Exit)^ 
 
 Redington. *A useful scamp — a convenient tool. So Mr. 
 Wentworth and family have returned from Europe — arrived 
 three days ago, during my visit to Baltimore. Must call 
 to-day, or Grace will think I am neglecting her ; she will be 
 delighted to see me. She will be sure to inquire after her 
 friend, Ida. Shall tell her that Mrs. Sumner has gone to join 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 3l 
 
 her husband in California, ha ! ha ! ha ! but I must get Ida out 
 of the city, to my cottage, as soon as possible. If Grace should 
 discover her, the devil would be to pay. Think I — 
 
 [Enter Servant^ Sir, a lady at the house wishes to know if 
 you can spare her a few moments. 
 
 Eedington. A lady? certainly. Do you know who she is? 
 
 Servant. No, sir. 
 
 Eedington. What does she look like— young or old, ugly or 
 pretty ? 
 
 Servant. Can't say, sir; appears young; has her veil down, 
 sir. 
 
 Redington. I will be at the house presently. ^ Exit servant.] 
 Some fair petitioner, I presume — another subscription list — fans 
 for the Esquimaux, or woolen socks and overcoats for tlie Hot- 
 tentots, ha ! ha ! ha ! Another hundred out of my pocket, I 
 expect ; well, can't help it ; never refuse the ladies, especially 
 the pretty ones, ha ! ha ! ha ! Shall see published the good 
 deed of Henry Redington, Esq., millionaire, the great philan- 
 thropist, the benefactor of mankind, ha! ha! ha! Well, I go 
 in for charities that pay, ha ! ha ! ha ! [Exit.] 
 
 Scene Fourth : Draicing-room, residence of Mr. Wentworth. 
 [Enter Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.] 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Oh, Fred, it makes my heart ache to look at 
 that dear child. Why, she and her little ones were nearly 
 starved. Grace ^ays she discovered her in a most miserable 
 lodging-house, lying prostrate and senseless. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. To think the daughter of my late and es- 
 teemed friend, Horton, should ever be in such straits. Do you 
 know how it happened she was reduced to such distress? 
 
 Mrs.Wentworth. No; Grace has not informed me. Oh, oh, 
 how fortunate the arrival of Mr. Hamilton, from California, 
 with that letter for dear Ida. You know Grace inquired for her 
 friend the first day of our return from abroad, and could obtain 
 no information of her, but was told it was rumored she had 
 gone to join her husband in California. Had it not l^een for 
 Mr. Hamilton's opportune arrival, we should not have known 
 to the contrary. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. To think that Mr. Sumner is now wealthy 
 (his share in the mine, as Mr. Hamilton tells me, is worth at 
 least two hundred thousand dollars), and his lovely wife here 
 suffering the extremes of poverty. Hamilton told me that her 
 husband has sent letter after letter, containing remittances, 
 
32 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 which, it appears, she has never received. Strange — very 
 strange ! 
 
 Mrs. Wentioorth. Yes, indeed ; perfectly unaccountable. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. Where is Mrs. Sumner? has she finished 
 her repast ? I would like to hear some explanation from her . 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Grace has taken her to her room, to change 
 her dress ; the dear child has no clothes, only the poor dress 
 she had on at her arrival ; so Grace will share her wardrobe 
 with her until she can have dresses made. Oh, here she comes. 
 
 [Enter Grace, with Ida.] 
 
 Orace. Oh, mother ! what do you think ? dear Ida says she 
 is going to start immediately for California, and she hardly able 
 to stand on her feet for weakness. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Why, Ida, dear child, you cannot travel for 
 the present. Wait till you recover some strength ; we cannot 
 part with you so soon ; so do not think of — 
 
 Ida. Thank you, dear friend; but I must go at once — my 
 husband is sick. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. And you, Mrs. Sumner, are indisposed. If 
 you attempt the journey in your present condition, you will not 
 live to reach California. Wait till you have recovered your 
 health. 
 
 [Enter George Wentworth.] 
 
 Ida. Oh, dear sir, I cannot wait ; I must go. When does 
 the next steamer leave? can you tell me, George ? 
 
 George. In one week, Mrs. Sumner ; but surely you will not 
 start for California in your present condition ? 
 
 Ida. Yes ; I must leave by the next steamer. Ah, that it 
 but left to-morrow. 
 
 Grace (places her arm around Ida). Oh, oh, Ida, dear ; must 
 I lose you again, and so soon? 
 
 Ida. Frank is sick ; so I must go to him, dear Grace. 
 
 Mrs. Wentioorth. Indeed, dear child, you will not be fit to 
 travel for a month ; but now tell me, dear Ida, how you came 
 in such a distressed condition ? why, you never replied to our 
 letters. Do you know, Grace? 
 
 Grace. She has told me nothing, only that she had received 
 no letters — has been too weak to explain. Drar Ida, just sit 
 here ; rest your dear head upon my shoulder, and tell me — tell 
 us — how you came in such a distressed condition. 
 
 Ida. Yes, dear friends. I cannot relate the particulars now : 
 
 . I can only say, dear Frank lost his oflBce, and was induced to 
 
 leave me, through the instruraentalitv of a false friend, who has 
 
Oe, California in '49 and '50. 33 
 
 alio intercepted all his letters, so that I have received no money 
 from my husband, and by means ol defamation, deprived me of 
 my scholars, when I was attempting* to support myself by 
 giving lessons in music ; and by means of anonymous letters, 
 had me expelled from house after house, till I arrived at the 
 miserable lodgings in which you found me. But a few 
 moments before your arrival, I had been ordered from the house 
 to go forth with my children, to die upon the streets, and oh ! 
 oh ! — [ Weeps upon the shoulder of her friend.] 
 
 Mrs. WentiDorth. Oh, my dear, dear child ! oh ! oh ! 
 
 Grace. Oh, dearest, what demon in human form could have 
 treated thus my sweet, gentle Ida ? Tell me, dearest ; do I 
 know him ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, Grace. 
 
 Grace. His name, Ida ? Ah, tell the name of this wretch, 
 this villain. 
 
 Ida. Oh, Grace, darling, if what I suspect is true, 'twill pain 
 you to hear ; but I feel it a duty to inform you. Grace, dear, 
 whose ring is that upon your finger ? 
 
 Grace. I have no secrets from you, dearest Ida ; 'tis the ring 
 placed there by my betrothed — my futurr husband. 
 
 Ida. His name ? let me hear his name, dear Grace. 
 
 Grace. Yes, sweet Ida — Mr. Redington. 
 
 Ida. Oh, gracious Heaven I 'tis as I feared. 
 
 Grace. Oh, Ida, dear ; what mean you ? 
 
 Ida. It pains me, dear friend, to tell you ; but your future 
 happiness depends upon your knowledge of the truth. He you 
 name, whose ring you wear, is the one who has so wronged me, 
 who brought such misery upon me and my dear ones. 
 
 Grace. Oh ! oh ! Ida, dearest, it cannot be true ; you must be 
 mistaken, darling. 
 
 Ida. Ah, dear, dear Grace, there is no room for mistake ; I, 
 myself, never suspected the author of my misery, until half an 
 hour prior to your arrival. He entered my presence, and 
 stated — yes, boasted — of iiis villainies, aud mocked at my 
 wretched, stiarving condition, and attempted an outrage, from 
 which my dirk alone saved me, and left, saying in three days' 
 time I would be entirely in his power. 
 
 Grace (rising). Oh ! oh ! the vile, the abominable wretch ! 
 and I his affianced! his — his ring upon my finger! Oh! ah! 
 it scorches ! burns! stings ! [Draws from her finger the ring ; 
 crushes it with her foot.] 
 
 George. Ah, dear Grace, dear sister, 'tis well to know the 
 truth in time. 
 
 Mr.Wentworth. Grace, dear daughter, this must be painful 
 
 Mrs. Wenticorth Yes, dear child, you must sufter. 
 
S4 The Devoted Wife; • 
 
 Grace. No, no, dear mother, dear father, you are mistaken ; 
 I know now I never loved him, otherwise other feelings than 
 scorn and abhorrence would fill my heart. I see now it was his 
 high position, his great wealth that dazzled me. Thank 
 Heaven my heart was never his. Ah, the humiliation of this 
 hour is a mete punishment lor my folly. 
 
 Ida (placing round Grace her arms). Dear Grace, I am sorry 
 to have griev'ed you. 
 
 Grace. Oh, Ida, darling, how can I ever thank you ? but for 
 you, what a miserable fate would have been mine. 
 
 [Enter servant girl, with the children.] 
 
 Mrs. WentiDorth. Come here, Gracie ; come here, little Agnes. 
 [She places her arms around, and kisses them ] 
 
 Grace. Dear Ida, come now to my room ; I will show you 
 some nice things I purchased in Paris, and some presents for 
 you, and Gracie, and Agnes. Sarah, bring the children to my 
 room. Oh, I have such pretty things for you, Gracie and Agnes. 
 
 Id:f'. Oh, how kind of you, dear Grace. 
 
 [Exit Grace, Ida, children and servant.] 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. What a fortunate escape for our darling 
 daiighter. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Fortunate, indeed. 
 
 George. I feel like caning him at sight. Never have I 
 heard of a baser villain, a viler wretch. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth Don't think of him ; he is too low for a 
 thought. 
 
 [Exit George ] 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Dear husband, now that Grace is free, who 
 knows but Grace and Mr. Hamilton may — 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. There you are; no sooner is one match at 
 an end, than you must be planning for another, ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 Mrs.WentiDorth. Oh, Fred! 
 
 [Exit Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.] 
 
 Enter Redington. Grace will be delighted to see me — she 
 idolizes me. 
 
 Enter Grace. You here ? 
 Redington. Yes, my dear (rrace ; I — 
 Grace. Dare you thus address me, sir ? 
 Redington. Why, Grace ! What — 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 85 
 
 Grace. Don't you call me Grace ! 
 
 Redington. This seems a cool reception — strange treatment ! 
 
 Grace. Oh ! oh ! most contemptible of villains. 
 
 Bedington. Strange language to address to a gentleman ! 
 
 Grace. A gentleman ? 
 
 Bedington. Yes, Miss Wentworth ; a gentleman. 
 
 Grace. Say rather a scoundrel — a wretch. 
 
 Bedington. Will you, Miss Wentworth, please explain ? this 
 extraordin ary — 
 
 Grace. Ah ! you seek for an explanation. 
 
 Bedington. I do. Please explain. 
 
 Grace. You wish me to explain ? then look — behold ! 
 [Points loith her hand to Ida und her children as they enter the 
 room.] 
 
 Bedington (recoiling) Hell and damnation ! foiled ! 
 
 Grace. Ah, yes ; foiled — foiled, villain ! 
 
 Bedington. For the time, perhaps ; but the end is not yet. 
 For your part, Grace Wentworth, in this, and your treatment of 
 me, to-day, I shall have ample satisfaction. I have, in revenge 
 for the past, caused the once proud Ida Horton to drain to the 
 dregs the bitter cup of poverty ; and now you, Grace Went- 
 worth, shall be humiliated ; I have it in my power to beggar 
 you, and will. 
 
 Grace. Ah ! dare you ? dare you threaten me ? 
 
 Bedington. Yes, proud, haughty girl ; and more than 
 threaten, as you soon will know. Your father, Mr. Wentworth, 
 is in my power ; I can bankrupt, crush him, and will. 
 
 [Enter Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.] 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. Ah ! what is that you say, Mr. Redington ? 
 Not so fast ; perhaps you are mistaken. To satisfy your 
 demands may take the greater portion of my property, but will 
 come far from ruining me. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth Perhaps, basest of men, you do not know 
 that I have fift^ thousand dollars of my own. So, think not to 
 beggar us, as you did this dear child. [Places her arms around 
 Idal] Oh ! oh ! you unmanly wretch ! 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. After satisfying your demands, I shall have 
 remaining more than the amount my wife has named as her 
 own. 
 
 Bedington. The devil ! foiled again ! 
 
 Grace. Ah, yes ; foiled, foiled ; and now, monster of creation, 
 incarnate fiend, demon, leave us ; you pollute with your vile 
 presence the air we breathe. Go, wretch ! go, begone I [Points 
 mth ?ier hand to the door.] 
 
36 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 Redington. I go, but go to be revenged. Yes, Grace Went- 
 worth, you will hear from me sooe, as also your father, I will — 
 
 Enter George Wenticorth. Ah, miscreant, villain! here? and 
 threatening my father and my sister? Begone, vile cur! 
 but first take that, and that, and — {Lays over his shoulders a 
 cane. Mr. Wentworth sounds violently the hell. Enter two colored 
 servants.'] 
 
 Mr. Wentwoi'th (to servants). See Mr. Redington to the door. 
 
 Redington (struggling in George's grasp). Dare you ? dare 
 you? By all the fiends in hell ! you will suffer for — 
 
 George. Begone, despicable villain ! you are not dealing now 
 with a weak, defenceless woman. Out of the door I [Hurls him 
 toward the door. As he is rising, servants advance^ 
 
 Curtain Falls. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene : California. Mountain canon ; rocky cliffs, zcith evergreen 
 trees on sides and summit ; a waterfall ; peaks of mountains, 
 covered loith snoic. 
 
 [Enter two miners, driving a donkey laden with supplies — 
 sacks of flour, sugar, small keg, etc. Miners with blankets on 
 their shoulders ; they converse as they move on in direction of 
 camp.] 
 
 Charles. Well, Harry, we are pretty near home, now — only 
 three miles to camp ; feel better after that rest and smoke. I 
 think they will be glad to see us at the cabin ; should not be 
 surprised if they were short of provisions. 
 
 Harry. Yes ; I recon grub is gettin' scarce. {To donkey) 
 Get alang — get — get. 
 
 Charles. We ought to have been back two days ago ; so let 
 us hurry on. 
 
 Harry. Thart's so, Charley. {To donkey) Get — get alang. 
 Dorg my cats ! if this hare isn't jist the laziest donkey I ever 
 seed yet. Get alang [Exit miners.] 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 37 
 
 [As soon as tliey have disappeared from view on their way up 
 the canon, the shrieks of a woman are heard, and Ida Sumner, 
 with her two children, appear, fleeing and screaming, closely 
 pursued by Redington, dressed as a policeman, who overtakes, 
 and seizes her in his arms.] 
 
 Ida {Qeemg). Help! help! 
 
 Redington. Ah ! I have you now, my little charmer, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! unhand me, ruffian ! Oh ! oh ! let me go ! 
 Help! oh! help! 
 
 Redington. Ha ! ha ! ha ! scream as loud as you please, my 
 pretty one Thought you had escaped me, did you? Thought 
 me thousands of miles away, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! wretch ! villain ! let me go ! let me go ! Help ! 
 help! 
 
 Redington. Ha! ha! ha! no help for you now, my sweet 
 Ida. You see, I am an officer, ha ! ha ! ha ! you are my pris- 
 oner ; must take you back to San Francisco, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. Never ! never ! Oh ! oh ! merciful Heaven ! help me ! 
 save me ! Oh ! oh ! {struggling). 
 
 Redington Ah ! you struggle in vain, my pretty bird. Did 
 I not tell you these fond arms would enfold you ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. dh ! oh ! are there none to help — to save me ? Murder ! 
 murder ! 
 
 [The children cry and scream in alarm. Charles and Harry 
 appear, revolvers in hand, running from the direction they dis- 
 appeared, Charles in advance.] 
 
 Charles. Unhand that lady, scoundrel ! 
 
 Harry. You jist let go that ar gal, or I'll blow the top of 
 your head off! dorg my cats if I doesn't ! 
 
 Ida (escaping Irom the grasp of Redington, and running 
 toward Charles and Harry). Oh ! oh ! gentlemen, protect me — 
 save me ! Oh ! oh ! protect — 
 
 Charles. With our lives, fair lady. 
 
 Harry. Protect ? wal I recon we sharl. Dorg my — 
 
 Charles. What means this unmanly assault upon a lady ? 
 
 Redington. She has robbed her husband, at t^an Francisco, 
 and then left him, carrying the children with her. I am an 
 officer, sent in pursuit ; have just arrested her, and intend 
 taking her back with me to the city, and warn you both, in the 
 name of the law, against interfering with an officer in the per- 
 formance of his duty. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! indeed, sir — indeed, gentlemen — 'tis false — 
 tis false what he says. He is no officer, but a villain. Oh ! 
 
3B The Devoted Wife; 
 
 oil ! sir ; credit not his statements ; I — I am not what he says — 
 believe me. 
 
 Charles. Certainly, lady ; we believe your statement. And 
 now, sir, you can leave. 
 
 Harry. Yas ; you'd better be a traveling, shure, if you 
 knows wharfs good fur your health — dorg my cats if you 
 haint. 
 
 Redingtoji. I tell you I am an officer, and that woman is my 
 prisoner. So, go about your business, and don't — 
 
 Charles. Show your warra t, Mr. Officer. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! indeed, sir, he is no officer ; he is — 
 
 Redington. I am ready to show my warrant to the proper 
 authorities. You see my star — that is sufficient. So, stand 
 aside, and let me have my prisoner. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! protect me ! Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Charles. Be not alarmed ; you are safe. {Pointing his pistol.) 
 Stand where you are, villain. ! 
 
 Redington. I tell you I am — 
 
 Harry. Now you jist dry up and git ! git ! I tell you, or I 
 will lift your har, shure — dorg my cats if I doesn't ! {Points his 
 pistol.) Git — git — varmous — preramulate ! 
 
 Redington. You have the advantage of me, so I will leave, 
 but will cause you to regret interfering with the execution of 
 the law. You will hear from me again, and soon. {Exit 
 Redington.) 
 
 Charles. Now, lady, will you please inform us how you came 
 to be traveling, without a protector, in these wild parts, and 
 who the man that molested you ? and — 
 
 Ida. Oh ! yes, sir ; he is a villian that has followed me all the 
 way from the States. I was on the way to the mines to see my 
 husband, who I heard was sick, and — 
 
 [Re enter Redington, and fires three shots in quick succes- 
 sion at Charles and Harry, who are standing with their backs 
 towards him. One of the shots wound Charles in the left arm ; 
 they turn and fire two or three shots at Redington, who falls 
 senseless. Ida screams ; children cry in alarm.] 
 
 Harry. Thar, now, you sneaking varmint ; recon we harve 
 done for you ; dorg my cats if I dosen't 
 
 Charles. Yes, Harry ; think we have cheated the gallows. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! sir ; you are blneding — are wounded ; oh ! oh ! 
 
 Harry. So you is, Charley ; now, recon tharts a judgment 
 ])on us for not shooting thart varmint at sight; never will be 
 guilty of no sich foolishness agin ; dorg my my cats if I does. 
 
 Chmies. 'Tis nothing ; here, Harry, bind this handkerchief 
 round my arm to stop the bleeding. 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 39 
 
 Ida. Oh, sir ; let me, please? 
 
 Charles. Thank you ; but Harry will attend to it. 
 
 Harry Ah, this aint northin. (Binds up the arm.) Thar, 
 Charley ; you is all right. 
 
 Ida. Oh sir ! Oh gentlemen ! how can I ever repay your 
 kindness — the service you have rendered me ? 
 
 Charles. Don't speak of it, lady ; but please inform us who 
 we have the happiness of serving ? 
 
 Ida Oh yes, sir ; my name is Ida Sumner, and my hus- 
 hand's — 
 
 Charles. What? is it possible I have the pleasure of ad- 
 dressing Mrs. Sumner? 
 
 Harry Whart ? is you Frank Sumner's wife ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, yes — Oh ! then you know my husband ? 
 
 Harry. Whart ? knows Frank ? recon we does, shure, ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Charles. Your husband is one of our partners in the mine. 
 
 Ida. Oh, I am so glad ! How is my husband ? Let me go 
 to him. 
 
 Charles. I am happy to inform you he is now quite well. I 
 am your husband's friend, Charles Raymond. 
 
 Ida. Oh, Mr. Raymond, how can I ever repay you for the ser- 
 vices you have rendered me. Your kindness to my husband in 
 his sickness — 
 
 Charles. Speak not of it, Mrs. Sumner. Ah ! here comes Jake 
 from the camp ; think — 
 
 {From the direction of mines a horseman appears.) 
 
 Jake. Hallo, boys ! Wharfs up ?— come to meet and hurry 
 you up ; nearly out of grub at the cabin ; seed the donkey with 
 provisions just above, then hearn the shooting — wharfs the 
 row ? who is thart feller you've laid out ? and who is — 
 
 Harry. Out of grub is you ? Wal I war reconing — 
 
 Charles. Never mind Jake; we will tell you all about it as 
 we go along. You're just the man we wanted to see, so just dis- 
 mount. Want that horse for this lady. 
 
 Jake. {Dismounting.) Sartainly, she's welcome sure, but 
 who is you, Miss ? 
 
 Harry. She ar' Frank's wife ; tharf s who she am. 
 
 Jake. Frank's wife ? wal now, mighty glard to see you Miss, 
 and recon Frank warnt be sorry. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ida. Thank you, sir. 
 
 Charles Permit me, Mrs. Sumner, {tieats her oil the horse.) 
 Harry, Jake, you carry the children ; 1 will walk by your side, 
 Mrs. Sumner ; that gentleman's saddle is not a very secure seat 
 for a lady— 
 
40 The Devoted Wife 
 
 Ida. Oh, thank you, sir ! How kind you are. 
 
 Charles. Speak not of it, Mrs. Sumner. Ah ! my friend 
 Frank little dreams of the happiness for him so close at hand 
 
 Harry to Grade. Come, pooty little gal, don't be feard of 
 Harry. Reckon you'll soon see daddy now, ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Jake. Come, little gal {Harry and Jake lift the children in 
 their arms.) 
 
 Charley. Ready boys ; move on. {Exit all.) 
 
 {Enter two miners on their way up the canon, picks and shovels 
 on their shoulders.) 
 
 Steve. Hallo ! what have we here. Bob ? a man killed ? 
 Bob. Looks like it, Steve, let us see if he is dead ; no, he 
 breathes. 
 
 Steve. A constable, too, it appears ; see his star. Unbutton 
 his coat Bob ; 'twill help revive him. 
 
 Bob. Yes, Steve {Unbuttons Redington's Coat.) Hallo! 
 look here Steve, see this watch and chain worth five hundred 
 dollars at least, and that diamond breast-pin, worth at least as 
 much more. See his linen, too, don't look much like an officer 
 on duty. Guess there's some shinnanigan here. 
 
 Steve. Looks like sailing under false colors ; Ah ! he is com- 
 ing too; we will question him. Well stranger, what's the 
 trouble ? How came you in your present position ? If that bul- 
 let had varied half an inch it would have entered your brain 
 Who shot you, and why? {Bedington sitting tip and qazina 
 round.) ^ 
 
 Bedington. Robbers, sir ; I was traveling, and 
 
 Bob. Robbers — hold on stranger, that story won't pass don't 
 think you would be sporting that watch, chain, and diamond 
 breast-pin — 
 
 Bedington. {Bising.) I meant to say I was an officer— was 
 trying to arrest some desperadoes ; they resisted, and one of 
 them shot me, as you see ; and — 
 
 Steve. Well, that story appears somewhat more probable • 
 pity you did not think of it sooner ; to be plain with you, I think 
 you are just as much an officer as myself, and no more.' 
 
 Bedington. Believe what you please, I have stated facts 
 
 Bob. Come, Steve, let us be going. Well, good-day strano-er 
 All I have to say, if you are not a villian, your looks sadly^e- 
 lie you ; and I advise you not to show that ugly-lookino- phiz 
 up at the camp, as the Vigilants there have a good supply of 
 hemp ; so, stranger, better get out of these diggins soon • better 
 take the back track. 
 
 Steve. That's so. Good-day stranger. {Exit miners.) 
 
Or, California in '49 and '60. 41 
 
 Redington. Confound these infernal miners ; curses on them 
 all. Had it not been for them I should now have been on the 
 way to San Francisco with my prisoner ; yes, Ida Sumner, soon 
 had you in private lodgings. And have I followed you all the 
 way here to lose you at last? Have you indeed escaped me? 
 Ah, if so, I can at least obtain my revenge. I will follow you 
 to the camp, and send a bullet through Frank Sumner's heart, 
 if I am hanged for it. Yes, fair Ida, your triumph will be 
 short, ha I ha I ha ! {Exit, on way up the canon) 
 
 Scene Second : Miners' Cabin. 
 
 [Enter from outside door. Bill and Jim; from adjoining room, 
 Frank Sumner.] 
 
 Frank. Why, boys, what have you done with the stools? 
 and — 
 
 Bill. Wal, Frank, you see wee's been scrubbing the floor, 
 and so we tooked the stools and all the furniture to the tother 
 room. 
 
 Jim. rie fotch in the stools, Frank. {Ooes and brings in the 
 stools.) 
 
 Bill. You raley is goin to lave us to-morrow, Frank ? 
 
 Frank. Yes, Bill; I am well enough to travel now, and 
 must go on East to see my family, and perhaps bring them 
 back with me ; I can wait no longer. 
 
 Jm. Wonder whart keeps Charley and Harry so long? 
 Mighty poor feeding— no coffee, no sugar, no bacon, nor northin, 
 only pertatoes and slap-jacks, and no 'lasses to eat on 'em. 
 
 Bill. Mighty poor grub, no use talking; wornder whart 
 keeps them 8 ?. 
 
 Enter Harry. How is you, boys ? 
 
 Jim. Wal, so you're back at larst ; glard to see you, Harry. 
 
 Frank. How are you, Harry ? Where is Charley ? 
 
 Harry. He will be along ; don't worry about him. So grub 
 war gettin scarce, war it ?. 
 
 Bill. Thart's so, you bet ; northin but 'taters and slap-jacks, 
 and no 'lasses to eat on 'em ; hope you didn't forget the 'lasses! 
 
 Harry. The 'lasses— ha ! ha ! ha !— tell you, boys, wees 
 fotch ed along jist the sweetest kind of 'lasses ; recon Frank 
 thar will think so ; dorg my cats if I don't, ha ! ha I ha ! 
 
 Jim. Whart's yous talking about ? 
 
 Bill. Why, Harry, whart kind of 'lasses ar thart ? 
 
 Harry. You will know arter awhile; but say, whart you 
 think we sawed down at the mouth of the canon ? 
 
42 The Devotep Wife; • 
 
 Jim. Oarn't say. 
 
 Bill. A grizzly, p'raps. 
 
 Harry. No; twarn't no bar; but Frank, you jist guess 
 wliart we seed. 
 
 Frank. Was it a deer ? 
 
 Harry. A dear? — lia ! ha ! ha ! Dorg my cats if you diden't 
 hit the nail right square on the head the furst time. Yes 
 recon, Frank, you'd called it a dear, shure, ha ! ha ! — 
 
 Bill. Wal, did you phoot it ? A little vanson would — 
 
 Harry. Whart ? shoot thart ar dear ? — ha ! ha ! Wal, recon 
 ef I hard, Frank thar would harve lifted my har, shure, ha ! 
 ha ! ha I 
 
 Frank. What are you driving at, Harry ? I don't under- 
 stand. 
 
 Harry. Wal recon you will arter a while. Now I tell you 
 thart ar dear was awful pooty to look art. and could talk too, and 
 said as how she war Frank Sumner's dear, and, dorg my cats ef 
 here dosen't come thart ar dear and the two little dears. Ha, 
 ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 {Fnter Ida S^imner, the Uco children, folloiced by Charles and 
 Jake.) 
 
 Ida. Oh, Frank! dear Frank I Dear husband ! {Frank Sum- 
 ner enfolds her in his arins.) 
 
 Frank. Good Heavens! my wife! Ida — Ida — dearest! Ah! 
 how came you here, my darling ? Have angels borne you on 
 their wings ? 
 
 Ida. I came, dearest, because I heard you were sick, and I 
 wanted to see you, oh, so much ! 
 
 Frank. How pale you are looking, dearest ! You have suf- 
 fered — 
 
 Ida. Never mind Frank ; oh, I have indeed suffered much, 
 but that is ot the past ; speak not of it, love. 
 
 Frank. And my little ones, come to my arms, darlings ; papa 
 is so happy to see again his little pets, Gracie and Agnes. 
 
 Grade. Oh, dear papa! dear papa! don't go away any more, 
 papa! 
 
 Frank. No, pet, no more separations. Little Agnes, have 
 you nothing to say to papa ? 
 
 Agjies. Papa ! dear papa ! 
 
 Frank. But, dear Ida, how did you come ? and tell me, dear 
 wife — 
 
 Ida. I will tell you all, dear Frank, when I am — 
 
 Frank. Yes, dear Ida, wait till you are rested. Excuse me, 
 Charles, for not addressing you sooner, but what is the matter 
 with your arm ? 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 43 
 
 Charles. A trifling wound, not worth speaking of; I will 
 inform you after awhile. 
 
 Ida. Oh, dear husband, it was on my account he was wounded. 
 
 Frank. Explain, Ida, dear. 
 
 Ida. Yes, jes — 
 
 Charles. Don't explain at present, Mrs. Sumner; wait till 
 you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey. 
 
 [Enter Mountain Tom ; also a number of miners.] 
 
 Harry. Wal, now, dorg my cats if hare don't come old Griz- 
 aly. How is you, old hoss ? 
 
 Mountaiii Tom. Harty, harty ; how's yourself, Harry? How 
 are ye, boys ? How does you do, Frank"? come to take look at 
 thart ar leetle woman of yourn. 
 
 Frank. Glad to see you, Tom. Ida, this is a friend of mine, 
 Mountain Tom. 
 
 Tom. Thart's so, you bet ; and of thart little wife of yourn, 
 too. Wal, now, if she 'aint awful pooty ; dog goned if she ain't. 
 Must shake hands, pooty one, must shake hands with Frank's 
 wife; think a heap of Frank, I does. Wal, wal ; now, if thart 
 thar ain't jist the pootiest leetle hand thart old Tom ever did 
 saw ; and jist as soft as mashed pertaters; dorg goned if 'taint, 
 boys. 
 
 Miners. Ha ! ha ! ha ! bully for yoa, Tom. Go it, old Griz- 
 zly ! go it ! go it while you are young ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! so you see, Ida, you have not escaped 
 compliments by coming to California, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Tom. 'Spect, Miss, you think me a mighty rough old block ; 
 but my heart is in the right place ; thart's so, ain't it. boys? 
 
 Miners. Thart's so, Tom, thart's so — yes sirree ; you bet, 
 you bet. 
 
 Tom. Yes, thart's so, pooty one; and if ever you wants a 
 friend, jist you call on old Tom ; if ever you is in trouble, jist 
 gin a yell, and old Tom will be thar shure — dorg-goned if he 
 wont. 
 
 Ida. I am happy to see you, sir, and thank you, sir, for your 
 kind regard. 
 
 Tom. Wal, don't see 'zactly whart you've got to tharnk me 
 for jist now ; but jist bare in mind, old Tom is your friend, and 
 will be on hand when he's wanted— dorg- goned if he wont. 
 
 [While Mountain Tom is talking, some of the miners, past 
 middle age, who entered with him, have caught up in their 
 arms the two children, and tossing them about, say to one an- 
 other : " Whart that put you in mind of, say ? — of the little 
 ones at home, hey ?" "Ain't she a buty ?" etc.] 
 
44 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 Charles. Well, boys, I think we had better adjourn to the 
 tavern ; think our friend Frank would like a little private con- 
 versatioi; with his fair wife, after their long separation. 
 
 Miners. Thart's so — thart's so. 
 
 Bill. Wal, boys, let's ajoin to the tavern. 
 
 Harry. Yes, yes, boys, and drink to the health of Frank 
 Sumner and his pooty little wife. 
 
 Tom. I'm with you thar — dorg-goned if I isn't. Wal, good 
 bye, FranK ; good bye, pooty one. [^Exit Miners.'] 
 
 Frank. And now, dear Ida, explain your miraculous appear- 
 ance here, and how you came to be in such a distressed condi- 
 tion. Where were your friends ? where my friend, Redington ? 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! Frank, dear ; stop, please ; but tell me, when 
 can you send for my trunk at the hotel below ? 
 
 Frank Your trunk ? Why, dearest, look around you ; is 
 this a fit place of abode, think you, for my sweet wife? No, no. 
 Wait till you are rested, and then I will get a wagon, to con- 
 vey you back to the tavern. I shall remain there with you for 
 a few weeks, till I have arranged some business here. We will 
 then go to San Francisco, and there make our home. We are 
 no longer poor, but rich, dear wife. One of the partners of the 
 mine must reside in San Francisco, and, out of consideration for 
 my fair wife, I have been appointed to that position. 
 
 Ida. How kind of them ! Oh, I am so glad ! 
 
 Frank. But tell me, Ida, how came you in such — 
 
 Ida. Yes, yes, dear husband, as soon as I am rested. But 
 where will I find some water, and a mirror? Where is your 
 toiler set ? 
 
 Frank. Toilet-set? ha! ha! ha! Mine is very primitive, 
 certainly — consists of a tin basin. As for the mirror, I gener- 
 ally carry it in my pocket, ha ! ha ! ha ! 'tis at present in the 
 other room, by side of said basin. Come with me, dear ; come, 
 my little darlings. {Exit all.'] 
 
 Scene Third : Interior of miners' tavern — har-room. Present, 
 landlord, behind the bar, smoking a pipe; four miners seated 
 around pine table, playing cards ; two or three standing look- 
 ing on ; near the bar stand Mountain Tom, Bill and Jim. 
 
 Mountain Tom. Whar's Charley and Harry ? 
 
 Jim. Oh, recon they will be along. As we war coming, they 
 seed a man goin' in the saloon jist below, tliart they said they 
 wanted to get a closer look art, so they followed him in, 
 
 BUI. Whart they want of him ? 
 
Ob, Califobnia in '49 and '50. 45 
 
 Jim. Said as how he looked mighty like ' the man they 
 dropped down near the mouth of the canon ; recon, if it are 
 him, he will think he has come to the wrong place when the 
 Vigilance get hold on him. {Elxit of miners looking on at card- 
 table.) 
 
 Tom. Wharfs he done, Jim ? 
 
 Jim. If it are him, he's done 'nough to hang him, shure. 
 Wal, I will tell you : Charley and Harry was coming 'long, 
 when — 
 
 [Miners at card-table.J 
 
 Will. Hallo, Dave ; no cheating thar ! 
 
 Dave. Do you say thart I'm cheating ? 
 
 Will. Wal, Dave, whart I seed, I seed ; and whart I seed, I 
 isn't afeard to say. 
 
 Dave (rising). Now, Will Brown, if you says as how I 
 cheated, you lie. 
 
 Will (rising, pistol in hand). Dare you tells me thart I lies ? 
 
 Bill. Wal, now, boys, dry up ; stop your fooling. 
 
 Jim. Yes, boys ; put up your shooting-irons ; you is both 
 drunk, and dou'i know whart you is saying ; so — 
 
 Will. I knows whart I am saying. 1 seed Dave a-cheating, 
 and — 
 
 Dave. You lie ! 
 
 [Both fire two or three shots each. Miners endeavor to get 
 their pistols away. Mountain Tom hurls one of them back- 
 ward, and places himself between them.l 
 
 Torn. Stop thart ! no sich foolin' hare ! put up your pop-guns I 
 If you warnt for to shoot, come along with old Tom to the 
 woods, and shoot bars, wolves, Injuns, and sich like varmints, 
 aud don't go for to be a-shooting one tother. 
 
 Bill. Boys, you is both got too much licker down — thart's 
 wharfs the marter. 
 
 Dave. No one sharl say I's cheated. 
 
 Will. Nor thart I lies. 
 
 Tom. Now, boys, jist shake hands; you is both friends; 
 wharfs the use of quaraling over a pack of keards. Now, Will, 
 be a man ; jist takes back whart you said ; rekon 'twar the 
 licker whart made you seed double. 
 
 Bill. Yes, Will ; 'twar so, shijre — bet my hat on it. 
 
 Will. Wal, boys, recon you isn't far from the mark. So, 
 come, Dave, let's shake hands ; I takes it back — thinks it war 
 the licker, shure. [Thei/ shake hands.] 
 
 Dave. All right. Will, Come, boys, let's take a drink. [All 
 walk up to t/ie bar.] 
 
^6 The Devoted Wife; ^ 
 
 Landlord. Well, boys ; what will you have? 
 
 Dave. Whiskey for me — none of your manufactured pisen 
 you calls brandy. 
 
 Landlord. Dry up, Dave ; 1 have some of as good brandy as 
 ever was brought to California. 
 
 Will. Thart may all be ; recon, howsoever, you keeps it all 
 for your own private and particular use ; hain't seen none sich 
 brandy hare myself, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Miners. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Landlord. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you are sharp this morning, Will — 
 comes from drinking good liquor, you see, ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Dave. Bully for you, Landlord ! ha ! ha ! ha ! so, come, let 
 us harve some of thart good licker, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Landlord. There you are — brandy or whiskey, as you 
 choose. {^Miners pour out, and drink.'\ 
 
 Bill. Hare's luck. 
 
 Mountain Tom. Now, thart's whart I calls good licker, boys 
 — dorg-goned if 'taint. 
 
 Bill. You bet — yes sirree. 
 
 Jim. Thart's so, boys — no use talking. 
 
 Landlord. I knew you would say so, boys. But what is the 
 row outside ? \Noi8c heard without.'] 
 
 Jim. Recon the Vigilance has got hold of thart ar chap 
 Charley and Harry war talkin' 'bout. Yes ; hare they comes 
 \^Loud shouts are heard outside.] 
 
 Miners. Hang him ! hang him ! No ! no ! take him in the 
 tavern ! let's have all of the evidence. All right, boys ; fotch 
 him along ! 
 
 [Enter an excited crowd of miners, Redington in their midst, 
 a rope around his neck.] 
 
 Harry. Yes, Jim ; it war him, shure ; rekon we'll fix him 
 this time — dorg my cats if we don't. 
 
 Tom. Wharfs he did ? 
 
 Harry. You'll hear — enough to hang him, shure. 
 
 Ghai'les. Now, Henry Redington, you are about to receive the 
 mete reward for your villainies. Your time is brief; so, if you 
 have anything to say, the Committee will hear your statements. 
 
 Redington. If you expect me to speak, take from off my neck 
 this conf unded rope. How am I to talk while half choked ? 
 
 Doctor. Well, boys, take off the rope ; no danger of his 
 escaping. [Miners take off Redington'' s neck the rope.] 
 
 Charles. Now, sir ; wliat have you to say ? 
 
 Redington. I have much to say. This is an unlawful pro 
 ceeding. I deny your authority to try me. I have committed 
 no murder, or other crime, to which is attached the death pen- 
 alty ; and — 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 47 
 
 Charles. Enough of that. You have heard, boys, at the 
 saloon, Harry's evidence, and my own, concerning what 
 occurred this morning near the mouth of the canon ; and it is 
 plain that his purpose in coming here was to injure still more 
 Frank Sumner, or his gentle wife. Say, scoundrel ; tell us why 
 you are here. 
 
 Redington. I deny your right to question me. 
 
 Doctor. Ah, indeed. Well, boys, let us proceed. I tliink 
 best to have all the evidence in this case, so propose that Mr. 
 and Mrs. Sumner be summoned, to state what they know of the 
 prisoner. 
 
 Harry. Wal, now, Doctor, whart's the use of bothering 
 Frank and his wife 'bout it ? we knows 'nough of tbart ar var- 
 mint to hang him, and we can jist as wal git particulars of 
 Frank and his little woman some totlier day. 
 
 Ta7n. Say, boys, whart's he did? and w^iart's Frank and his 
 pooty little woman got to do 'bout it ? 
 
 Harry. You will hare arter awhile, Tom. 
 
 Charles As you say. Doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Sumner ought to 
 be summoned. Think Harry's proposition, to hang the prisoner, 
 and hear the evidence afterward, must be considered decidedly 
 irregular ; so will go and bring Frank and — 
 
 Redington. Never mind going for them ; but listen to me. 
 I am wealthy — am possessed of millions in gold ; so, gentle- 
 men, liberate me, and I will give you one-half I am worth — a 
 million in gold to divide among you ; think of it — a million 
 of gold ! 
 
 Miners. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! offer gold to the miners of Cali- 
 fornia ! bring your coals to Newcastle ! ha ! ha I — 
 
 Charles. Your gold will not save you, Henry Redington. 
 
 Miners. Thart's so — thart's so. 
 ■ Harry. Yes, thart's so— dorg my cats if 'tisn't. 
 
 Charles. I will be back in a few minutes, boys. [Exit.]. 
 
 Steve. Recon you begin to wish you had taken our advice, 
 and followed the back track. Didn't we warn you that your 
 ugly looking phiz would get you in trouble if you came to 
 these diggins ; and say, where is your star ? thought that game 
 played out, hey ? 
 
 Boh. Say, did we not tell you the Vigilance at this camp 
 had a plentiful supply of hemp on hand? • 
 
 2hm. But whart's this all about, boys? whart's thart ar 
 man did ? 
 
 Harry. You will hare, Tom, soon as Frank and his leetle 
 woman gets hare— and hare they come. 
 
 [Enter Charles, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Sumner, and 
 children.] 
 
48 The DeVoted Wife; • 
 
 Frank. Make way, boys ; let me blast tlie villain witli my 
 looks. Say, false friend, perfidious scoundrel, demonical wretch, 
 is deatli — is death upon the gallows a mete reward for such 
 villainies as yours ? Ah, were it not for cheating the g allows, 
 I would now send a bullet through your false, depraved heart ! 
 
 Ida. Oh, Frank ! dear husband ! oh, gentlemen ! perhaps he 
 will promise not to trouble or harm us more if you let him go. 
 
 Charles. Undoubtedly the villain would promise anything; 
 but I could not advise his liberation, as I am confident, Mrs. 
 Sumner, your life, or that of your husband, would be forfeited 
 by our so doing. 
 
 Harry. Thart's so, thart's so ; I sees the devil in his eyes ; 
 so hang him, I say, to make sure. 
 
 Miners. Yes, yes ; hang him ! hang him ! 
 
 Tom. Now, leetle pooty one, jist tell me ef thart ar man has 
 did you harm. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! don't ask me, sir, please. 
 
 Doctor. Will you, Mrs. Sumner, please state to the Commit- 
 tee what you know of the prisoner, Henry Redington ? 
 
 Ida. Oh ! no, no ; please don't ask me, sir ; please don't 
 question me, gentlemen. 
 
 Frank. Well, gentlemen, as my gentle wife is not disposed 
 to testify against the prisoner, Harry Redington, though I 
 know it is irregular, I will state briefly what she told me with- 
 in the hour. You can receive my second-hand statement for 
 what it is worth. Gentlemen of the Committee : Harry Red- 
 ington, while professing to be my friend, obtained, by his influ- 
 ence, my discharge from Government employ ; under the guise 
 of friendship, advised my coming to California, and leaving, in 
 Washington City, my wife. When deprived of her protector, 
 he sought to carry out his fiendish intentions in regard to her ; 
 by means of defamation and anonymous letters, he deprived her 
 of all means of support, and had her expelled from various 
 lodging-houses, to starve upon the street ; by watching the 
 mails, he stole all of my letters to her, containing money for her 
 and my children's support ; and — 
 
 Miners all. Enough — enough. Death to the scoundrel ! 
 Death to the villain ! Hang him ! hang him ! Up with him ! 
 up with the wretch ! 
 
 Harry. Dorg my cats! whar's thart rope, boys? pass it 
 along, boys. 
 
 Mou7itain Tom. Jist let old Tom harve hold on the end of 
 thart ar rope ; if I's don't hist him lively — dorg-goned if I don't, 
 boys. Fetch him along, boys. 
 
 Redington. Hold on a moment! hear me I Take all my 
 wealth, bat spare my life ! Two millions of gold — of gold ! 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! don't hang him, gentlemen ! he is not fit to 
 die! 
 
Or, Calefoenia in '49 and '50. 49 
 
 Charles. True, Mrs. Sumner ; but neither is so base a wretch 
 fit to live. 
 
 Miners. Thart's so — thart's so, Charley. Death to the 
 hound ! hang him ! hang the varmint ! 
 
 Ida. But — but, gentlemen, if you will not spare his life, 
 give him time —at least a day — to prepare for death. Oh, 
 gentlemen ! f©r my sake, please. 
 
 Charles. Well, boys — well, gentlemen — I don't think we 
 can resist that last appeal. All in favor of granting this lady's 
 request, signify it by saying Aye. 
 
 Miners all. Aye ! aye ! aye ! 
 
 Charles. Contrary, No. Carried unanimously. So, Henry 
 Redington, you see, what your gold could not purchase, is 
 granted by the request of the gentle being you have so cruelly 
 wronged. You have one day more to live. 
 
 Fi-ank. My dear Ida, my gentle wife, your sympathies are 
 wasted here. The infamous scoundrel standing there is inca- 
 pable of feeling — either gratitude for your intercession in his 
 behalf, or the least compunction for his misdeeds. So, dearest — 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! Frank ; but 'tis so terrible to die so unpre- 
 pared. 
 
 Doctor. The time is brief, Henry Redington, for at this hour 
 to-morrow you will die. 
 
 Redington. Then, if die I must, I will die avenged ! 
 
 [Draws from his bosom a dirk, and rushes toward Frank 
 Sumner. Ida, shrieking, throws herself upon her husband's 
 bosom, to shield him from the knife. The miners send up 
 shouts' of warning. Mountain Tom, who is standing near, 
 springs before them, and receives in his left arm the knife, and 
 plunges liis own into the side of Redington.] 
 
 Mountain Tarn. Old Grizzly's thar ! Ah-ha ! 
 
 [Redington staggers wildly back ; but, ere he falls, receives 
 the contents of some half a dozen pistols in the hands of the 
 excited miners.] 
 
 Ea/rry. Thar, now ! rekon we's settled your hash this time, 
 sure, you infarnal varmint ! rekon you won't play possum this 
 time — dorg my cats if you does 1 
 Doctor. The villain has cheated the gallows after all 1 
 Miners. Thart's so — thart's so — no use talking — thart's so. 
 
 [Several miners carry Redinglion to adjoining room, then 
 Teturn.] 
 
 8 
 
60 The Devoted Wipe; 
 
 Frank. Good Heaven ! loved Ida ; why did you thus venture 
 your precious life ? 
 
 Ida. To save yours, dear, dear Frank. Oh ! oh ! if he had 
 killed you ! 
 
 Frank. And yourself, dear one? Do you not know, my 
 darling, your life is far more precious to me than my own ? 
 
 Ida. But not to me, dear Frank ; and — Oh ! oh ! you, dear 
 eir, are wounded ! You saved my husband's life, also my own ! 
 oh ! how can we thank you, sir ? — how hope ever to repay ? 
 
 Mountain Tom. By jist not saying nothing more 'bout it, 
 pooty one. Didn't old Tom tell you, when you wanted a friend 
 — when you war in trouble — jist to gin a yell, and old Grizzly 
 would be thar, shure ? And so, you see, he war — dorg-goned if 
 he wasn't ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Miners. Thart's so — thart's so, Tom — you bet — you bet — 
 dorg my cats if he warn't ! 
 
 Frank. Thank you, Tom, my noble-hearted friend ; you 
 have saved a life far more precious than my own. But, 
 my friend, you are bleeding ; have your wound attended to at 
 once. 
 
 Doctor. I will attend to Tom. For the present, a hanker- 
 chief will do. 
 
 Tom. Thart ain't nothing ; the bars harve clawed old Tom 
 W088 than thart, many a time. 
 
 diaries. Gentlemen, I have seen women, in time of peril, 
 flee to their husbands' arms for protection ; but this is the first 
 time I have seen a woman throw herself upon her husband's 
 bosom to shield him from the assassin's knife. This, I think, 
 may well be termed a wife's devotion. 
 
 Doctor. I propose, boys, three cheers for l<"rank Sumner's 
 devoted wife. 
 
 Mountain Tom. Three times three, boys. 
 
 Miners all. Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! — 
 
 Curtain Falls. 
 
 [At the close, the miners have taken in their arms the 
 children, and are seen tossing them about. Ida stands, leaning 
 upon her husband's bosom, encircled by his arms, they in 
 front. — When Ida enters miners' tavern, she has on her head 
 a shawl, in place of a hat,] 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 61 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene : Public parlor of hotel, San Francisco. Present: Mr. 
 and Mrs. Wentworth. 
 
 [Enter George Wentworth.] 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. Well, dear wife, I am glad to find myself 
 once more on terra firma; think I have seen enough of life on 
 the ocean wave to suffice me for the remainder of my existence. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. I am quite positive that I have. Oh 1 oh ! 
 those horrid lines ! — a life on the rollincr deep ! Oh ! oh ! 
 
 George. As for me, I enjoyed the trip, especially after leav- 
 ing Panama. But where is Grace ? 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Grace and James are in their room, unpack- 
 ing their trunks. 
 
 [Enter Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton.] 
 
 Grace. Mother, dear, how do you like San Francisco? 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. I have seen too little of the city to give an 
 opinion ; everything seems so strange. 
 
 Grace. I am sure I shall like California ; the climate is 8o„ 
 mild, and this mid-winter. Think of it — sleighing in the States, 
 and here, verdant hills, blooming roses, and fragrant flowers of 
 every variety. And , as for the city, I think it so delightfully 
 odd. But, dear husband, I thought everybody in California 
 rich ; and yet, the houses are in great part mere shanties — some 
 built of wood, some of iron, and some even covered with cloth — 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! what an idea ! — and the surrounding hills covered 
 with tents. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. As Grace says, this is at present an odd- 
 appearing city ; but then its position promises much. When 
 the mines have become fully developed, and the wealth of gold, 
 flowing as it will to this destined metropolitan city of the 
 Pacific Coast, great changes will be witnessed : these sandhills, 
 dotted with tents, will be levelled, and fine streets, with stately 
 buildings, will occupy their place. 
 
 Hamilton. Yes, truly, Mr. Wentworth, and sooner than 
 many imagine. We may all of us live to see this unrivalled 
 harbor floating the commerce of the world ; the extensive 
 plains and numerous valleys of California waving with golden 
 grain ; her thousand hills covered with bleating flocks — thus 
 furnishing both bread for distant nations, and material for their 
 factories, as well as for those we shall erect. 
 
62 The Devoted Wipe; 
 
 George. You seem, sirs, to be in a prophetic strain. Let me 
 add to the pleasing picture, the good time coming, and now so 
 close at hand, when California will take her place among the 
 fair Sisterhood of States, and her golden star shine resplendent 
 amid the bright constellation of our Union. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. I agree with you in what you say relative 
 to the future of San Francisco ; but I hardly think the good 
 times you speak of so close at hand. You, our children, may 
 live to see your anticipations fulfilled ; but husband and myself 
 can scarce expect it. 
 
 Hamilton. Dear madam, I not only hope, but truly believe, 
 you will both be witnesses of what we have portrayed. 
 
 Grace. Oh, well, gentlemen, just let the future take care of 
 itself, and come back to the present, if you please. So, tell me, 
 dear James, why so many men on the streets wear red flannel 
 shirts ; are they all firemen ? 
 
 Hamilton. Firemen ? ha ! ha ! ha ! No, dear wife, they are 
 the miners of whom you speak. 
 
 Grace. What! miners? — gold-miners? — and can't afford to 
 wear coats ? 
 
 Hamilton. Ha ! ha ! ha ! it is not poverty, dear Grace, but a 
 matter of choice, with them. 
 
 George. I presume their occupation determines their choice 
 of costume. 
 
 Grace. Oh ! I would so like to go to the mines, and pick up 
 some gold. And, oh ! tell me ! how far is it to the mines 
 where Mr. and Mrs. Sumner are residing ? Oh, dear, dear Ida ! 
 how surprised she will be to hear that I am in California — and 
 married, too! ha I ha! ha! Oh! tell me, dear, how far they 
 are from here. 
 
 Hamilton. About two hundred miles. 
 
 Grace. I will write dear Ida to-day. How I do wish I could 
 see her ! Can't we go, soon, and pay her a visit ? 
 
 Hamilton. Yes, dear Grace ; as soon as I have arranged some 
 business matters. 
 
 Grace. Oh ! I am so glad ! 
 
 [Enter Ida Sumner, and children, accompanied as far as the 
 door by her husband.] 
 
 Frank. Walk in the parlor, dear Ida, and take a seat ; I will 
 come for you as soon as I have secured a room, and had our 
 l^a,ggage taken up. 
 
 Ida. Don't be long, Frank. * 
 
 ChroAie. Frank — Ida! Oh! can it be? Ah, yes, 'tis! Oh, 
 Ida I dear, dear Ida ! 
 
Oe, California in '49 and '50. 53 
 
 Ida. Grace, Grace ! dearest Grace 1 {They kiss and embrace.) 
 Why, dear Grace, how — how came you here ? Oh, what 
 happiness to meet you, Grace ! 
 
 Grace. Oh, Ida, Ida, my sweet friend, husband and I were 
 just — 
 
 Ida. Husband ? 
 
 Grace. Ah, yes, ha ! ha ! ha! Permit me to introduce my 
 husband — Mr, Hamilton. 
 
 Ida. I am so glad ! oh, I am so happy to hear — Receive 
 my heartfelt congratulations. 
 
 Grace. Thanks, dear Ida. 
 
 Hamilton. Thank you, Mrs. Sumner ; most happy to see you, 
 
 Mrs Wentworth. Dear, dear child ; have you no words of 
 welcome for me ? 
 
 Ida. Oh ! Mrs, Wentworth, dear friend, you hear too ? and 
 — and Mr, Wentworth, and — and George ? Oh ! oh ! I am so 
 happy to see you all ! ah, what an agreeable surprise ! Oh ! oh I 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. 'Tis indeed a joyful meeting. I am so 
 happy to see you, dear Ida ; and the dear children looking so 
 well. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. Well now, I think, ladies, it is about time 
 the gentlemen were permitted to speak. Ida, child, permit 
 your father's friend to express his happiness at meeting again 
 his sweet daughter. 
 
 Ida. Dear sir, I am so happy — so delighted — to see you. 
 
 George. And permit your husband's friend, and yours, to 
 express his pleasure at seeing you. Mr. Sumner is well, I pre- 
 sume, as I heard his voice at the door. 
 
 Ida. Thank you, quite well ; and, oh ! how surprised and 
 pleased he will be to see you all here. 
 
 Grace. My dear little pets, little darlings, come here ; ain't 
 you glad to see me? (Kisses them.) Say, little Gracie, my 
 namesake ? {Takes her in her arms.) 
 
 Gracie. Oh, yes ; so glad ! Oh ! look, mamma, what pretty 
 ear-rings ! 
 
 Ida. Yes, darling ; but don't touch ; you might break them. 
 
 Grace. Oh, no ; she won't hurt them. But, dear Ida, tell us 
 something of what has occurred since your arrival in California. 
 We have all been so anxious on your account, for that wretch, 
 Redington, took passage on the steamer that left but three days 
 after the one on which you were passenger, and, as it was said 
 to be the swiftest steamer of the line, we have been fearful he 
 might have overtaken you before you could have reached your 
 husband. Have you seen or heard aught of the villain ? 
 
 Ida. Oh, yes, dear Grace, He did indeed overtake me, when 
 but a short distance from the mines where my husband was. 
 Disguised as a policeman, he was on the driver's seat of the 
 3* 
 
54 The Devoted Wipe; • 
 
 stage, thougli I did not recognize him till the next day, when, 
 there being no conveyance to be had, I attemped to walk from 
 the tavern, where I had stayed over night, to the mining camp, 
 four miles distant. While traversing with my children the 
 mountain canon, he overtook and seized me in his arms, and 
 then — 
 
 Grace. Oh ! oh ! the vile wretch ! And then, dear Ida ? 
 
 Hamilton. The execrable scoundrel ! 
 
 Oeorge. The unmitigated villain ! But pardon me ; proceed, 
 Mrs. Sumner. 
 
 Ida. Oh, dear friends, I cannot relate all at present. I can 
 only add that I was rescued by two miners, the friends and 
 partners of my husband, and that, meeting at the camp my dear 
 husband, we were shortly after summoned by the Vigilance 
 Committee, who had taken Mr. Redington a prisoner, to give 
 our evidence concerning him, and that Redington drew a knife 
 to stab dear Frank, and that, to prevent him, I threw myself 
 upon Frank's bosom, and — and then, one they called Mountain 
 Tom placed himself before us, and we s stabbed in the arm, and 
 plunged his knife in Redington's heart, and the miners fired at 
 and shot him, and he fell dead. 
 
 Oeoi'ge. So the villain cheated the gallows after all ! 
 
 Grace. Oh ! oh ! dear, dear Ida, what a narrow escape ! So, 
 the wretch was killed. And, oh! that dear man you called 
 Mountain Tom ! how I would like to see, and thank him, for 
 saving your precious life ! 
 
 Ida. Thank you, dear Grace. But tell me, dear, do you 
 intend to make the city your home ? 
 
 Grace. Yes, dear ; we all intend to reside in this city ; and 
 if your home was only here, instead of so far away, I should be 
 so happy, love. 
 
 Ida. Oh, Grace, I am so glad I for we, too, have come here 
 to live, and — 
 
 Grace. Oh, darling, what happiness ! Oh! how — 
 
 Enter Frank. What ! is it possible I have the pleasure of 
 greeting Miss Wentworth ? 
 
 Grace. No, sir ; utterly impossible, I assure you, Mr. Sum- 
 ner — Mrs. Hamilton, if you please, sir, ha I ha ! ha ! 
 
 Frank. Ah ! is that so ? Most happy to see you, Mrs. Ham- 
 ilton, as also your husband. Receive my congratulations. 
 How is it I have the pleasure of seeing you here, Grace ? come 
 to pick up those fifty-thousand-dollar nuggets, I suppose, 
 ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Grace. Now, Mr. Sumner, you need not laugh at me ; but 
 just please inform me if you paid two dollars for that hat of 
 dear Ida's ? ha ! ha I ha 1 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 65 
 
 Frank. Ha I ha I ha ! spare me, please ; let's call it quits 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Idn. Why, Grace, when we arrived at Sacramento, on our 
 way down, Frank wanted to buy out the merchants, ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 Gra^e. Ah, indeed— the sensible fellow— improving, I see 
 Now, James, dear, just take a lesson, please. 
 
 Frank. I hope. Miss Went— excuse me— Mrs. Hamilton 
 you left your father and mother both well. 
 
 Grace. Father and mother will speak for themselves, sir. 
 Say, mother, father, are you both well ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Frank. Is it possible ? {shaking hands) 
 
 Mrs. Wentwarth. Quite possible, Mr. Sumner. 
 
 Frank. This is indeed a day of pleasant surprises. Most 
 happy to see you, Mrs. Wentworth— and looking well. Happy 
 to see you, Mr. Wentworth— and you, George. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. And you, Frank, are looking well— much 
 better than I expected to see you. 
 
 F-ank. Thank you ; am quite well now. 
 
 George. We little thought, when we parted, one year ago 
 we were all to meet at San Francisco, and as Californians' 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Frank. I am truly happy to see you all here, and to know 
 you have chosen the Golden City for your homes. But that is 
 old Grizzly's voice— can't be mistaken. 
 
 Grace. Old Grizzly ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, oh ! yes. Frank, I am so glad ! 'Tis Mountain 
 Tom, Grace, who saved my life and dear Frank's. He goes by 
 the name of Old Grizzly, because he is a great hunter, and kills 
 so many grizzly bears. Ah ! here he is. 
 
 [Runs up to Mountain Tom as he enters ; takes both his 
 hands in her own.] 
 
 Ida. Oh, dear Mountain Tom ! I am so glad to s-ee you. 
 
 Mountain Tom. Wal, now, pooty one, I knowed it ; shure 
 you'd be glard to see old Tom. Thart ar chap down below, 
 with store-clothes on, tried to stop me coming up hare ; said as 
 how my fixins warn't zactly the thing for the parlor, and 
 presence of ladies. Just told him to dry up, and stand aside, or 
 I'd lift his har, shure. Reconed whar little pooty one and 
 Frank war, thar I war welcome— dorg-goned if I didn't, ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Ida. Certainly, Tom ; ever welcome — most heartily welcome. 
 
 Frank. You were right, Tom ; none more welcome than 
 yourself. 
 
 Tom. I knowed it, Frank ; yet am glard to hear you and 
 pooty one say so. But who bees these folki— thart are tother 
 pooty gal, and them old folks, thar? 
 
56 The Devoted Wife; 
 
 Ida. Ha! ha! ha! — friends, Tom. This is my dear friend, 
 Grace ; and — 
 
 Tom. Your friend ? tharn I's must shake hands with she, 
 shure Glard to see you, Miss ; dorg-goned if you isn't real 
 pooty, too — not quite so pooty as Frank's leetle woman ; but 
 real good looking, tho' — dorg-goned if you isn't. 
 
 Orace. Thanks — ha ! ha ! ha ! — but, oh ! you dear, dear man ! 
 how I — 
 
 Tom. Thart's so, Miss ; your head's level thar — dorg-goned 
 if 'tain't ! It is as you say, Miss : I's a deer man, and no mis- 
 take ; harve shot a powerful sight of deer in my day, and bars, 
 too. Yes, thart's so ; I's a deer man, shure. 
 
 Orace. Oh ! oh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! but I don't think you under- 
 stand me, sir ; I mean — 
 
 Tom. Wal, Miss, p'raps not zactly ; but, you see, old Tom 
 hain't got no laming ; was fotched up in the woods and moun- 
 tains, and never went to no schule. Once, thar war a chap up 
 the mountains, said as how he'd larn me hows to read. Wal, 
 he fotched a little book, showed me whart he called the — the 
 Al-you-bet — yes, thart's it — the Alyoubet. Wal, he showed I's 
 a letter, ars he called it, art the top, and said it war A ; tharn, 
 arter awhile, he showed I tliart same letter, only turned bottom 
 side up, and said it war V. I jist told him 'twarn't so — if 'twar 
 A right side up, in course it war A bottom side up — thart turn- 
 ing it over didn't make no sorter difference — thart 'twar A all 
 the same. He said it warn't. Tharn I told him didn't warnt to 
 hear nothin' more 'bout thart ar Alyoubet. Tharn he said he 
 would show me anoder Alyoubet. He pointed to a letter at the 
 top. Told him I hard enough 'bout A — to go on. Then he 
 showed me anoder letter ; said it war b ; tharn, a leetle furder, 
 showed me thart same letter, only 'twar hind side for, and said 
 it war d ; and tharn, arter awhile, showed me thart ar same 
 letter, only 'twar turned tother end up, and said it war a p ; and 
 tharn, wharn I hern thart, jist told him to go to thunder with 
 his Alyoubet — didn't warnt to hare nothin' more of no sich 
 foolishness — dorg-goned if I did. So, thart's the only time old 
 Tom ever tried to get any larning. Never seed the use on it, 
 nohow. Kin shoot jist zactly ars wal ars tho' I knowed the 
 Alyoubet from top to bottom — dorg-goned if I karn't, {AU 
 laugh ) 
 
 Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! So, Tom, it appears you did not make 
 progress in the Alyoubet ; did not take kindly to learning, ha ! 
 ha ! But, Tom, where have you been the last month ? 
 
 Tom. In the mountains, Frank, worrying the grizzlies, till 
 'bout a week ago, I's started for Frisco. Hern a feller down in 
 the bar-room tell anoder chap to take Mr. Frank Sumner's 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50, 57 
 
 trunks upstars ; so, soon's I hard yous and pooty one war up 
 hare, I's puts right straight for hare — dorg-goned if I's didn't. 
 
 Frank. That was right, Tom ; always glad to see you. 
 
 Enter Servant. Mr. Sumner, your room is ready, sir ; the 
 trunks carried up. Here is the key to the room, sir. 
 
 Frank Thank you. {Ekit Servant.) 
 
 Tom. Wal, now, who did you say these tother folks is ? 
 
 Grace. My parents, sir. This is my mother, and — 
 
 Tom. Whart ! the old woman ? Wal, now, I's glard to see 
 you {shaking heartily her hand); rale spritely-looking for an old 
 woman. How is you? how does you like Californy? 
 
 Mrs.Wentworth. .Ha! ha! ha! I am quite well, sir, thank 
 you, and most happy to make the acquaintance of the preserver 
 of the lives of my cherished friends. 
 
 Tom. Don't zactly knows whart you is talking about ; recon 
 it's all right. 'Spects this ar the old man. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! my husband, sir — Mr. Went- 
 worth. 
 
 Tom (slapping Mr. Wentworth on the back, then shaking 
 heartily his hand). Wal, now, how is you, old feller ? — looking 
 hearty. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. Quite well, sir; happy to make your 
 acquaintance. Mountain Tom, make you acquainted with my 
 son, George Wentworth. 
 
 Tom. Glard to see you, George. How is you ? Looks some 
 like the old woman. 
 
 George. Ha ! ha ! pleased to make your acquaintance. Moun- 
 tain Tom. Should like to join you in some of your mountain 
 trips, and try my rifle on those grizzly bears. 
 
 Tom. All right, George ; glard to hear on it. Wal, old 
 man, smart chap thart of yourn ; got grit ; wants to tackle the 
 grizzlies right off, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Grace. And now, sir, permit me to introduce my husband — 
 Mr. James Ham — 
 
 Tom. Glard to see you, Jim. Mighty pooty leetle woman 
 you's got, and no mistake — dorg-goned if she ain't. But whart 
 in thunderation am thart? {The sound of a gong is heard, as 
 from beloic — 7iot too loud.) Recon all the plates and dishes in 
 the house gone to tarnal smash. {All laugh.) 
 
 Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! No, Tom, guess the crockery is all 
 safe, ha ! ha ! ha ! that, Tom, is the gong. 
 
 Tom. A gorng ? whart you calls thart ? 
 
 George. Have you never seen a gong, sir ? 
 
 Tom. No ; never seen no sich — But, thunderation ! if thar 
 'tain't a-goin' it wusser and wusser. {The gong is heard on the 
 same floor, as approaching the door — very loud) 
 
58 Thb Devoted Wife; 
 
 Frank. Ha I ha ! ha ! that, Tom, is the first call to dinner ; 
 hear it again in half an hour. 
 
 Tom. Never warnt to hear thart ar thing 'gin long ars I 
 lives; it ar wusser tharn Injuns' war whoops. Injuns' yells 
 ain't no whar ; rather, a heap site, hare wolves howl and pan- 
 thers scream — dorg-goned if I hadn't. Sharl jist git right 
 straight back to the mountains, whar I can eat my grub with 
 out no sicli 'farnal racket and tarnal foolishness. If you warnt 
 to see anything more of old Tom, will harve to come to the 
 mountains ; I's done with your city of Frisco — dorg-goned if I 
 isn't. 
 
 Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! don't leave us, Tom ; you will soon 
 get used to the sound of the gong. 
 
 Ida. Oh, Tom, please don't go. 
 
 Tom . No, Frank ; no, pooty one ; don't ax me to stay hare ; 
 thought old Tom could stand anything, but thart ar gorng gets 
 me. So, good bye ; must be off 'fore it starts on anoder roar. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! I am so sorry. Good bye — good bye, Mountain 
 Tom. 
 
 Tom. Good bye, pooty one. Good bye, Frank. 
 
 Frank. Good bye, Tom, We shall be up to the mines occa- 
 sionally ; so hope to see you soon. 
 
 Grace. I shall visit, with my friends, the mines ; so hope 
 soon to have the pleasure of seeing you. 
 
 Hamilton. Yes, Mountain Tom ; hope we shall soon meet 
 again. 
 
 Oeorge. Shall certainly come up to the mountains to join 
 you in some of your hunting excursions. 
 
 Tom. All right, George ; be glard to see you all ; carn't 
 starnd your city ways, nohow. I's off. Good bye, all. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth. Good bye. Mountain Tom ; good 
 bye, sir. 
 
 All. Good bye. Good bye. {Exit Mountain Tom.) 
 
 Ida. Oh ! oh ! I am so sorry he left us. 
 
 Orace. And 1. Oh ! the dear, brave man ! to think he saved 
 your so precious life, darling ! {Places her arm around Ida.) 
 
 Ida. And dear Frank's. May Heaven bless him ever ! 
 
 Frank. Yes ; may good fortune ever be his ! We can never 
 hope to cancel our indebtedness to him. 
 
 Mrs. WenUcorth. We must ever bear him in grateful remem- 
 brance. But, oh ! oh ! he was so odd — so amusing, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. Uncouth in his ways, certainly ; the beau 
 ideal of a backwoodsman, ha ! ha ! ha! 
 
 Hamilton. A veritable Leatherstocking, ha ! ha ! ha 1 
 
 Oeorge. A true mountaineer. 
 
 Grace. Oh ! I do think he was splendid ; indeed I do. Were 
 it not too late, I think I should have lost my heart, ha 1 ha 1 ha ! 
 
Or, California in '49 and '50. 59 
 
 Frank. As you observed, Mr. Wentworth, Mountain Tom is 
 rude in manner and speech — the casket is rough, but the gem 
 within is bright. No truer man, or stauncher friend, is to be 
 found, than my friend Tom of the Mountains. 
 
 Ida. True, true, dear Frank. 
 
 Grace. Dear, dear Ida ! how happy we shall be in our new 
 homes — together every day. Oh ! we will have such pleasant 
 sails on this delightful bay ; such nice rides and drives among 
 the hills ; and — 
 
 Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! what are we gentlemen to do ? it 
 appears we are left out of those pleasant excursions. 
 
 Grace. Oh, no, sirs ; we shall make you useful ; have you to 
 manage the boat, and drive for us, sirs. 
 
 Hamilton. Shall be pleased, fair ladies, to render the re- 
 quired service. 
 
 Ida. Thanks, sir. {Goes to the side of her husband.) 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth. We may hope this so pleasant reunion is 
 an omen of happy days. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth. I doubt not we shall all enjoy residing in the 
 city of San Francisco. You, fair Ida, the devoted wife, and you, 
 Frank, my young friend, have experienced many troubles and 
 tribulations ; but the past year of gloom is now succeeded by 
 bright promises of the future. Let us hope you have left, on 
 the shores of the stormy Atlantic, the dark clouds of adversity 
 and sorrow ; and that here, on these Pacific shores, only bright 
 and pleasant days may dawn upon your future ; and that this 
 Golden City, our chosen home, may prove for you and us all, a 
 true Elysium. 
 
 [At close, Ida is leaning upon the bosom of her husband, one 
 of his arms encircling her waist ; the children near them. 
 Grace leans upon the arm of her husband. All to the front.] 
 
 Curtain Falls. 
 
ERRATA : 
 
 Page of Costumes. — For Harry Logan, read Hakry Hogan. 
 
 Page 18 (ninth paragraph from top). — In place of " Ha ! ha I 
 ha ! don't think that Bill will get — " read " don't think that 
 Jim will get — " 
 
 Page 20 (second paragraph from top). — For name of speaker, 
 at margin, in place of Bill, read, Jim. 
 
.LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 016 102 463 3 ^