^4 b'b 5* PS 635 .Z9 D532 Copy 1 W v ;AURENCE, OR NOT Ail iiiiprokiWc IilokIcjvL of the Civil W in America. Frederick Laurence, OR NOT: An Improbable Incident of the Civil War in America. <&\& v^ IPP92-0090S5 Editorial Introduction. I have observed no real facts; I have adhered -to no actual rule, further than that of telling a simple tale as my thoughts have led me to express the sentiments of a wandering mind. The plot is one that, while I must acknowledge it is uncommon, is yet so uncomplicated that it may be prac- ticed by the most inexperienced trickster to the great misfortune of a good man. When I was writing the curse of the hero upon the head of his enemy, some of the well known lines of Dante's Works occurred to me, and, with a slight change (not enough to spoil the real merit of the same, but to suit my purpose better), I have taken the liberty to use them. Trusting that from the first this Drama will take its place amongst that class of comedy that tinds a welcome reception in the hearts of the loving dramatic public upon its own merits, 1 am, most respectfully, THE AUTHOR. Persons of the Drama. Frederick Mensor (Frederick Laurence), a Southerner, and a banished son. William Hubert, a Sergeant of United States Volun- teers, and chief conspirator. Cardinal Boon, a native of Australia, a Corporal of same Volunteers as Hubert, and in Ids confidence. Isa.m Hoffendime, a German- American, and a saloon- keeper. Jack Lee, a Southerner, and keeper of a tavern. MAJOR FresHMONGER, a friend of F. Mensor, and a lawyer. Charley Mensor, a son of F. and A. Mensor. ARABELLA MENSOR, wife of F. Mensor, and a South- erner. BARBARA SHINWELL, a widow lady, and a friend of A. Men soi'. MOLLIE GIBBONS, a maid in the employ of A. Mensor. Frederick Laurekce, OR NOT: AN IMPROBABLE INCIDENT OF THE CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA. ACT I. [First day. — Afternoon.] Scene I. — A saloon in a village in New York State. Isam Hoffendime, the proprietor, standing behind the bar, engaged in wiping a glass. I. H. Veil, ef de government authorities vill permid de troops from dis section to centralize here in town und-til our new combena is ready to take oop its line of march for de seat of war, mine gr-r-a-cious ef I doant make me fame and fortune long before de last sound of de trumpet shall haf died avay upon de distant horizon, und de forms of de gallant blue-coats shall haf faded und- to oblivion, eh, vat ? you bet Isam Hoffendime, you make lots uf pisness. Enter Cardinal Boon, r. /. H. [Aside.] I guess dis is now one uf Uncle Sam's tramps. I dinks I will speak to him. [Aloud.] Halloa ! C. B. Halloa, yerself. /. H. Veil, I dinks I'm hallow und-nough already. G FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. C. B. Hallow : ha, ha, ha ! — Who iver heard ov a bar- tender wid a bow-window loike yours who carried it empty ; so me merry friend, Fill the bowl wid yer richest treasure, An let us drink while we hev leisure. [Hoffendime places upon the bar bottle and two glasses. Boon helps himself ; Hoffendime does likewise.] C. B. This is the charm that gives to man, whin all else in this world fails — consolation — I. H. Mine God ! stranger, ef you vasn't an authentic philosopher. C. B. A what ? /. H. [Laughing.] Veil, ef you doan't take de bre- mium. C. B. Burst my slugs ; uf there is anything in this corporation world that compels me to display the nobler part ov me manhood, it is whin a Dutch galloot calls me by sum nickname. /. H. I vas simply comblementing you on de bright- ness uf your wit. C. B. [Taking oft* his coat.] I haint got no toime to hear any emotional apology, fer oi've only a couple ov hours to spare an ye will need at least ten minutes ov it, in which to dispose ov yer worldly treasures, and it will take all ov the balance fer me to pound ye to jelly in. /. H. Veil, stranger, I must confess dot I aint had dis floor decently wipe-oop since de last dragoon was in here ; und by mine life I swear dot I swung dot fellow around dis room und-til he ceased to murmur. C. B. Wuz that coon a bigger man thin me ? /. H. Veil, I should snicker ef he wasn't [stretching his arms out their full breadth] just so much bigger. G. B. Whew I An ye wiped up the floor wid hym? /. H. Ya ; und it vas like child's play. C. B. Ye don't say so ? /. H. Exactly so [coming from behind bar] ; und ef you vill come vid me, I'll show you de stains of blood FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 7 dot come from dot dragoon's head when I throwed him out de window. C. B. [Starting towards the door.] I — I prefer to gaze upon it at some future toime, fer jist now oi'm in a bit of a hurry to go. /. H. Veil, just wait und-til I call mine wife to tend bar, und I'll go outside wid ye. C. B. [Frightened.] Oh, don't trouble yerself, fer oi'm quite able to foind me way out alone. 1. H. I want to show you dot dragoon's hide. For I've got it hanging oop on de fence outside. G. B. Many thanks ; but I guess I won't wait ; oi'll see ye in the next gineration. I. H. Hold on. Doan't you dink dot you could shtand a drink before you go ? C. B. [Perplexed.] • Well— yes. I feel as though I cou'd chew sum thin' — I mean — - /. H. Eh ! vat is dot you say ? C. B. I say, that I mean I would rather drink wid ye thin the President or Hail Columbia. [Hoffendime places upon the bar, bottle and two glasses. Boon helps him- self; Hoffendime does likewise.] /. //. When friendts would quarrel und fight, dis is de juice dot brings them together in joyful unionship. C. B. Yer quite rite ; for I must say meself, that from me experience oi've found this to be the balm that heals all wounds, save those o' love. [Both drink.] Enter William Hubert, r. W. H. By George ! Cardinal, you here ? C. B. So appearances indicate. W. H. I must admit that I am late, and I'm sorry that it so should happen. C. B. Sorry ? W. H. Yes ; I had expected that at this meeting we could have arranoed all — 8 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. G. B. Sargeant, ye ken't be more sorry thin I, fer 1 hed also hoped that to-night all could hev been settled, cos the few hours I would obtain from off duty during the rest o' me stay in town, I wanted to devote to me darlin' Betsy Jane. W. H. The affairs of business come before those of love ; so tell me, is this a safe place for us to discuss our enterprise ? ( '. B. Ha, ha, ha, no fear me f rind. Let no foolish thought tempt thy mind to doubt, fer to no better walls could we confide the secret o' our enterprise thin these that surround us here. [Aside.] And oi'm told that there lives no truer man to the knave thin that man [points to Hoffendime], for he lived so long in the old country in the very nest o' plots that he knows full well that a wise man heareth a great deal, but speaketh little. W. H. 'Tis not him that I fear. 0. B. Uf 'tis I whom thou fearest would entrap thee into a foul den for some base end, thou shalt live to regret thy mistake. W. H. According to thy own confession thy early life was — G. B. Perchance vile, but nevertheless my deeds were performed wid some reference to honor. W. II. [Aside.] 'Tis so difficult to tell where his blackguardism stops and his honor begins, that a gentle- man of my position in the ladies' society circles can never be too careful in any dealings with men of the class of this subject ; still, it will never do for me to let him think aught else but that I trust him. [Aloud.] Fear you, no ! for to court such a sentiment would be to break a begotten faith in thy honesty ; but perchance I do show one sign of fear, 'tis cause of my ignorance, of where the door of this den leads to, and on what the windows look upon, for fancy doth -make me fear that some one may be lurking near us who would betray our secret ; therefore I wish to be careful. FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 9 C. B. It cost sich a lot ov trouble to be careful ; There is a devilish lot ov more fun in getting half-full. So uf you will, let yer confidence in me repose, Loike that ov the bee in the rose, Ye will ne'er need to ax the why or wherefore. W. H. Confidence in you, why, of course ; for you're a brick ; and if I owned the wide world, I would not fear to intrust it to thy care. C. B. Thanks, me most noble sor, for yer flatterin' sentiments. W. H. Now, then, to proceed to business : Yesterday, I received a letter from Australia confirming your report of the death of Clarence Laurence, who leaves a legacy of several millions to his son, Frederick Lau- rence. C. B. Yes ; glory be to God ! The old man has gone to roost upon that pole, That will ne'er let hym out ov Satan's hold. W. H. You should have more respect for the dead. C. B. Respect for Clarence Laurence ! Why, dog my buttons, ov he wuzn't the profoundest stinker ov a miser that the world e'er produced, an' the way in which he accumulated his millions is a marvel of that luck fer which the devil kin only account. W. H. You then knew him quite well ? G B. Yes, so, so ; but still, he knew me betther. W. H. How's that ? G. B. He knows me so well that he wouldn't permit me to stay in the colony. W. H. You were then quite young, I believe ? C. B. Yes, sor ; sweet twenty-five ; but a head ful ov ideas, fer I thought the toime hed come whin I shud loose meself from me mother's apron strings an' show me dear father that it wuz above the dignity ov me immortal heart to e'er allow him to give me any lip, and wid an expression that broke loose to crack a smile, an' actions that would crush the fairest maiden's heart, I plunged 10 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. forth into the world, to do somethin' that would win fer me the richest gems ov manual labor. Sargeant, I won them [puts his hand to the back of his neck] ; an' rite there, fer not long afther I hed quit me mother's fire-side, Clarence Laurence wuz pursuing me with a load of buckshot that hed it iver hit me would undoubtedly hev broke me all up. W. H. Why, man ; he didn't want to kill you. C. B. Ye would have thought different had he been afther ye. W. H. What was the cause of all this ? C. B. Whin I left me parent's roof I went to work for Clarence Laurence, and soon became his confidential de- pository ; one day he took very ill, an thinkin' that he wuz goin to die, he call'd me to his bedside an' told me that in Alabama, America, he hed secretly lived wid a woman who bore hym a son. The mother dying ere the child wuz a month old, five years later, he married a widow an' took the child by the former woman to live wid hym, introducin' the boy to the neighbors as an adopted son. As the boy grew up to manhood he became anxious to unravel the mystery of his birth ; the old man, fearin' the disgrace, fastened upon his son a crime that drove hym out of the State. Shortly afterwards the old man's wife died; then he went to Australia. After he hed been sick about a month, an everybody thought that he would die, one noight I drove some ov his stock to a neighborin' village an sold thim fer wot I could get. About a week later I saw posted on a fence a reward fer me capture, an while I wuz contemplatin' wot I would do, I spied the old cuss, whom, moind ye, I'd left in bed dyin', mak- in' a bee-line fer me. Great huricane ! uf I didn't git up and git. I came to America, an' went straight to Ala- bama a lookin' fer the old man's son determined to make trouble fer the old codger. About four months ago I came here, hevin' traced the son to this place, an' wuz on the FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 11 still hunt fer hym here whin I received a letter from me folks in Australia, informin' me ov the death ov Clarence Laurence, which knocked all my ideas ov revenge plum to the devil. Just about that toime my money gave out. I hed no friends upon whom I cou'd sponge, so I enlisted, got acquainted wid ye, told ye wot brought me out here, show'd ye the photograph ov Frederick Laurence, an ye at once recognized it as the face ov a frind ov yours, an beseeched ov me to keep the secret to meself that ye moight rob hym ov his inheritance. W. H. What was the crime that drove Fred. Mensor from home ? C. B. Ye mean Frederick Laurence. W. H. As you like, for Frederick Laurence and Fred. Mensor are one an' the same. C. B. I believe the old man accused hym ov forgin' a check. But, say boss, accordin' to promise, don't ye think that its about toime that we proceeded to make sum provision fer me welfare ? W. H. If we are successful in this enterprise, why bless your heart old fellow, you'll never know the hour whence you can make a wish that shall not be gratified. G. B. Excuse me, but as this is a mather o' bizness I shud loike to hev it conducted upon bizness principles. W. H. What would you have me do ? G. B. Give me five hundred dollars cash, an' yer promissory note fer ten thousand uf ye are successful. W. H. You shall have both ; but listen, an' I'll tell you how I mean to make the thing work. I shall first get Mensor out of the way, have him reported dead, then after making love to his widow, I will marry her. Men- sor's son, who is now but a mere babe in the arms, will naturally become my step-child, and I what ? its kindly benefactor ? No ; for from the hour that the law confers upon me the honor'd title of step-father, the moments of the child's lifehood shall be numbered ; for not long after 12 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. Mrs. Monsor has become Mrs. Hubert, thou shalt read if thou cans't perform such an act, " Died, Charles Mensor, of suffocation;" and the same shadow of death that ushers his soul into eternity removes the last barrier to the prize of me heart, as the entire fortune will thus fall to my wife, and to grasp it from her hands, and wear the crown of a lord of millions upon this [puts his hand to his forehead] noble brow, she, though my wife, dare not oppose. Ha, ha, ha, — and you, Cardinal, why God bless you, I'll make you Governor of New York State. G B. [Flourishing a knife.] Out o' the way wid him, is it ? Ha, ha, ha, — Ye kin depend upon it that o'im the man to do the deed. But boss, allow me to state sum- thin' that is well f er ye to bear in mind,— it is that the collar niver fits the murderer so well as the instigator. W. H. Tush, — tush, — you're off, man; you miscon- strue my manner of acting, which is to remove Fred Mensor in that manner as to make it appear the direct consequence of accidental circumstances ; but indirectly it is the consequence of a premeditated murder. G. B. Direct or indirect, oi'm the man who will take a part in the dialect. W. H. The part that you shall play in this drama you shall be informed of it in time to learn it so well that your hand cannot fail in its purpose. C. B. Thin, begorra, ye don't want Mensor to commit suicide jist at present. W. H. For Heaven sake, no ! But I do want you, above all other things, to disclose our secret to no living mortal. G. B. Ahem ! But I say, Sargeant, how about the mortals that are dead ? W. H. The dead that can speak ; speak not to them, either. G. B. Many thanks ; I will observe it. W. H. [Looks at his watch.] Time bids me now depart ; but, before I go, let us have a social drink. FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 13 C. B. Sargeant, I hain't a drinking man ; Yet, I niver let the chance go by To wish a partin' frind good luck, An' wet the sentiment in a glass o' rye. Waiter, — whisky, an' gin. W. H. For me, a toddy. [Hoffendine hands each a glass, and they drink.] IT. H. Before I return to camp I'll manage to see Mensor, and if possible prevail upon him to enlist, and once in the army we can devise a racket that will seal his fate forever. C. B. But suppose he wont enlist. W. H. Then, By God! I'll have a drafting game put up that will fetch him, though it should cost me ten, nay more, twenty thousand dollars. C. B. Twenty thousand ! Whew ! W. H. Half my fortune ! but what care I, if I should lose all, so long as I can win the girl of my heart, and her millions. C. B. At wot toiine do you report for duty ( W. H. At seven o'clock, and you ? C. B. Noine o'clock ; five minutes grace; sober and clean. W. H. Then let us now appoint a time and place where we may meet and fix the preliminary plans of our enterprise. C. B. Name the place, and state the hour. W. H. To-morrow, at midnight, at the turnpike under the drooping-willow ; you know the one. G. B. Yes ; and I will be there. W. H. And, for God sake! make sure that no one follows you, for all might thus be lost. C. B. No fear, me friend, but wot I'll play me hand so well that uf ye hold the winning card, why then we shall win. ]4 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. W. H. By the strength of me arm, and the energy of me spirit, our expectations shall not be foiled ; sogood-by until we meet a^ain. [Starts to go.] ( '. B. Hold on, Sargeant. W. H. Well, C. B. Well, By Hocky ! uf I hain't clean gone an' forgot wot I wuz going to remark. W. H. Are you dry ? C. B. Never wuz so dry in all my life. W. H. Will you take a drink ? C. B. Yes, I think I will. W. H. Then let us make haste, and have a drink, for Iv'e only about ten seconds to spare. C. B. Why, that's long enough for several straws, An' time enough to suck them all. Waiter, — whisky an' gin. W. II. And for me. a toddy. [Hoffendime hands each a glass and both drink. | W. II. My friend, by-by. C. B. Ta-ta. [Exit Hubert, R. C. />'. Bartender, oi'm a bit ov a stranger in these parts, and wuz recommended to this ere den by a friend ; but oi'll be gol-darned uf I was iver told your name ; so wat may that sacred inscription be, whin a fellah don't know it ? /. H. Isam Hoffendime. C. B. I presume an importation from Cork ( I. H. Ya, I dinks 1 comes from dot neighborhood. C. B. Iver since the first moment me eyes lit upon ye the expression ov yer face led me to think that possi- bly ye moight be sum blood to me old pard, Jim Dead- shot, fer ye look enough loike hym to hang ye fer his crime. /. II. I would like to see dot fellah dot looks like me, and doan't you forgot it, dot I would make him FREDERICK LAURENCE, < »R NOT. 15 [limping] walk R NOT. 27 A. M. But why hurry, you've had no supper ? F. M. I could not eat one morsel until I knew what my God bid me do. [Embraces his wife, who starts afresh to weep.] Weep not, sweet angel of my life, As no pen can ever attain to tell The passion of my love for thee, my wife, My darling Arabel. [Kisses his wife.] God bless you, and give you a brave heart. Good-by ; g-o-o-d-b-y. [Exit F. Mensor, l. A.M. He is gone; and my heart was so distressed that I could not say good-by; and he said, "be brave;" none know the task that sentiment implies, until one sees that magnanimous form of human blessedness, which by a constant affection has imbued into one's life each hour it lived, some new bright fancied dream, that in the hour of delight one grasped with all their soul, while there leaped from one's bosom, with each moment's breath, a vision of unwritten glory, an eager radiant bliss, that blossomed so sweetly, and glimmered so brightly, as to light the path in which one's feet must daily tread, to a realm that seemed to encircle the kingdom of a pure hope, pierced by an arrow of the sublimest faith, and with eyes looking up to a most gracious heaven, have I patiently waited for the granted aspiration of such adream; but to now realize that my most imploring prayers were in vain ; to see my ideal of hope vanishing down the stream of a nation's bloody turmoil, not only shatters the pride of a happy mortal, but makes it as well a mournful task for one to any longer have faith, much less to be brave. And when the seat of my affection is thus dealt with, It seems to me as though there Was no God; The starry sky, the mystic ocean, The boundless land upon which we trod, The twinkling stars, and man in all his motions, Had all by nature been wrought: Faith in luck, and hope in one's self-achievement, Was the lesson nature taught. 28 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OF NOT. If the provost-marshal tells my husband that he is qualified, baby and I will be left all alone : Oh, God ! what a world, full of shifting scenes ; have I not need of the patience of Job ? [Exit A. Mensor, R. END OF ACT II. ACT III. [Six months later. — ■ Midnight.] Scene I. — -I common in /A" State of Virginia ; F. Mensor s overcoat and canteen are lying on (he fop of a small bush. Enter H CHERT, I,. W. H. Not here; all then, perhaps, is safe; if so, then within my grasp is the hour when I ran strike the blow of my heart's desire. Not quite three years ago, Mrs. Mensor was a governess in the house of a wealthy family, and becoming acquainted with her, I was at once infatuated with her amorous face and form. I sought her love, and had apparently gained it : for the day of our marriage had been set, when Frederick Mensor appeared upon the scene; she claimed him as an old love, and cast me aside as though I were but a dog. This insult burst my heart's strings with indignation, while my bosom heaved to and fro with the vow of my revenge. My only thought at the time was to take Mensor's life: still I dare not openly murder him; as when I thought of the chances I took by such a ih~i't\, the penalty thereof rilled my heart with fear; cold sweat, in clammy drops, stood out upon my brow; while my limbs became as stiff as though 1 already stood upon the scaf- fold, and felt the grip of the rope around my neck. Bet- ter reason caused me to bide the time when I could exterminate him after that style, that I could defy the FREDERICK LAURENCE, <>K NOT. 2!) world, as big and wonderful as it is, to lay his death at my door; and glad am I that I did wait, for if I now win, I win the girl of my heart, — and three millions in the bargain ; and now haste prompts me to be quick, lest I should lost' the chance that night after night for the past six months have I watched for, and now is only mine by the cautious tread of my steps. When run- ning the gauntlet of sentinels, even to my breath did I fear to draw, when passing those trusted guards, lest the gentle sigh might betray my presence. None know so well as I 'tis the custom of Mensor to hang his overcoat and canteen upon some handy bush ; a custom, by the by, that I taught him to better serve my pur-pose. [Groping around he rinds Mensor's coat and canteen.] Hallo, here's his coat, and there's the canteen. [Taking a vial out of his pocket he empties its contents in canteen.] A drink from this canteen blasts forever the life of Men- sor, whilst mine, it makes a thing of eternal joy in this world. [Lays coat and canteen back on bush.] But, hark! I think I hear the sound of approaching footsteps; I presume 'tis Mensor; so I will return to my quarters and prepare for the rest of the drama. [Exit Hubert, L. Enter F. MENSOR, R. F. M. The night is growing cold ; so I think that I will put on my overcoat. [Puts coat on, takes canteen in his hand.] My loved one, but for thee, many a cold and cheerless night would I have spent. Ha, ha ; it would break the Colonel all up if he were to hear of the boys drinking whisky. I've only a few drops left, and it is about as good a thing as I know of to warm the inner part of man. So here goes. [Takes a drink.] Whew: it went down so fast that I didn't get a taste of it, so here goes again, a little slower and a little surer. [Drains the canteen.] Whew; but Great Christopher! what an unnatural taste this whisky has ! Well, I guess it's only an idle fancy of mine. ' Tis manv months since 30 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. last I heard from my wife; can she be sick, or could she have forgotten me ! No ! for no truer or fonder wife than she ever breathed nature's sweet air; but, still, 'tis very strange that I do not hear one word from her; vet, I will not think hard of her; for T have no doubt she is extremely busy in her efforts to make the farm pay. God bless her! But how strange my head feels : and my eyes are growing dim ; even to my legs, I feel funny. Oh, my God ! What have T done ! Drank too much of that darned whisky. No, impossible; for the little that I drank could not effect me in this man- ner. [He staggers.] Ah, slumber, get thee from mine eyes ; let not thy net of stupidness weave its web around me while thousands of innocent soldiers are slumbering under the Mag of freedom. Enter Hubert, Boon, << nd <>t/n and other soldiers. W. If. [Kicking the form of Mensor.] What's this, a man ' Soldiers. Yes, sir. FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 31 W. H. Advance Corporal, and ascertain if the man is dead '. C. B. [Examining form of Mensor.] An' begdra, he's not dead. W. H. He is then asleep. C. B. Yis, sor ; an' his breath smells ov lightning. W. H. You mean that he is drunk. C. B. Be jabers, uf that isn' jist wot I mean. W. H. Note that, comrades. Soldiers. Indeed we do. W. H. Corporal ; what sentinel is this \ C. B. Frederick Mensor. W. H. Note that, comrades. Soldiers, indeed we do. W. H. Then let not this incident fade from your memory ; for you all will be summoned as witnesses against this man. END OF ACT III. ACT I V . [Six months and one week later. — Evening.] Scene I. — Outside of prison, and viewofa cell inside, in the State of Virginia; moonlight occasionally ob- scured from window of cell. Enter Hubert, l. W. H. Soon will the inner walls of this magnificent structure contain Frederick Mensor, and from whence he walks, but to walk in front of his grave ; to sit upon his coffin, and be tumbled into it as ceremoniously as the tender affections of his loving comrades will permit. He made a hard fight to show that he had not drank suffi- cient whisky to make him drunk, and that his being sound asleep was the cause of natural debility, from the 32 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. inarch of the preceding day. Nevertheless, he was found guilty; the court, in pronouncing sentence, said : "The testimony of the prosecution plainly shows that he was so beastly drunk as to neglect a most important duty, affording the enemy a grand opportunity to steal a march upon our men, and murder hundreds of innocent beings ere they had time to draw their swords; therefore it was the rinding of the court that he was guilty of a misdemeanor, punishable only by death." Tweedledee, tweedledum; so far it is all I could wish. [Exit Hubert, L. Enter with drain guard, soldiers, F. Mensob as pris- oner, 11. Guard unlocks door of cell; enter Mensor ; exit soldiers, R. F. M. 1 have this day received the sentence of an earthly judge. Death is the penalty of my crime ; yet 1 cannot die ere 1 ask a kind heaven to bear witness of my innocence. 1 know full well 'tis the sad chance of war to die thus destitute of all friendly aid. All day lono" have I consumed in deep meditation. It now approaches night. Will it he a night like the previous one, full of fearful visions that seem to haunt me still ( I thought that I was led from out this dungeon-cell, tied fast to a stake, and there shot to death ; my carcass was rolled up in an old tent and cast into a ditch, while my spirit flew to the abode of my wife, and witnessed her sufferings of anguish upon learning of my fate; fast rolled the hot tears down her cheeks; she wrung her hands in grief; she cried out to God to comfort her wretched soul for the judgment he brought upon her head. 1 stood by, a witness to her agony, hut dumb as the ox to speak to her, as powerless as the humming bird to comfort her bleeding heart, I awoke from my dream with a start : and my heart brolcen with grief. <) God! hear this, my humble prayer; let not my mind he haunted still with that horrible sentence of FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 33 death ; that even now methinks I can feel death's cold and unmerciful hand upon my heart. Deprive me of my memory that I may no longer recall the faces of the loved ones at home. O God, I have striven hard to live according to nature's true intent; is my crime so beastly as to bring this judgment upon my head '. No, no; 'tis the curse of William Hubert, who told and swore to lies before a pretended court of justice. Standing here to-night, on the brink of eternity, knowing not whether the angels of heaven or hell greet me on the morrow, at that gate that obscures the unknown future of mys- ticism from the rye of the living, I launch upon Wil- liam Hubert, the curse of my heart; may the day lie not a distant one that shall bring to him a mishap that will spoil his beauty forever ; that will make him a crawl- ing cripple for the balance of his lifetime; and hence- forth may his vile conscience be to his heart of sin like the lighted torch to the Alpine forest; the flame of a living fire within his bosom ever burning with the blaz- ing heat of purgatory: shorn from the love of even a single being ; free from all that would lessen his anguish ; may he thus live, enjoying as well as he can the fierce, torturing agony of such a life until the day of judgment. When by warring winds the stormy blast of hell, With restless fury shall drive his spirit on, To that haven, where everlasting the fire for the worst of sinners dims. May there unceasing play his wretched hands, Now this way, now that way, glancing to shake oft The heat still falling fresh ; bends His form in anguish, that nothing can ever mar ; There, oh, God ! Ye have my curse to the living fiend • of my life. I am now ready to meet my fate. Enter Jailer, r. Jailer. Halloa! You old card monte. Guard. Ye rascal ; state yer bizness an' git. .S4 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. Jailer. If you are mad, cause of that little game, I'll write von a check for the amount you lost, Guard. I haintmad becos 1 lost ; but oi'm mad becos I know that ye an' that blarsted lieutenant enter'd into a conspiracy to rob me. Jailer. Get out, you old know-nothing: Ahem: attention ! [Saluting guard.] Paddy, I've come here to deliver a dispatch to Mensor, by order of the colonel. Guard. Well, proceed. [Jailer unlocking door of cell, enters, hands Mensor the dispatch, then exits from cell, locking the door after him.] Jailer. 1 have fulfilled me mission. Guard. Thin git. .hitler. Thank you ; I prefer to walk. [Exit Jailer, R.] F. M. A dispatch! From whom ' My wife — can she be sick? And it has been opened! By whom ; The colonel; for fear it might contain some deadly weapon, with which I might take my life. [Opening dispatch, reads.] Frederick Mensor, sir: Your foster-father is dead : be- fore dying he acknowledged you as his son, and stated that your mother was an octoroon, and that .she died shortly after your birth. He further states that the crime lie placed upon your head was his own fabrication) done to drive you from the State, he fearing that the public manner you pursued to ascertain who your par- ents were might lead to disclosures that would disgrace him. In his will he bequeathed his entire fortune to you, and in case of your death, it shall go to your family. — Your Attorney. Major Freshmonger. Great God! At the last hour of my life I learn who my parents were . just when I must forsake' life; a fortune and the proof of my innocence as a forger are thrown at my feet. Oh, God! Is this not mockery ; is this not taunting a poor mortal ? And the man, who. out of compassion, played the part of m\ foster-father, was my own parent ; he of whom I am FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 3o the flesh and blood, conceived a villainous deed to ruin his son, that his honor might be saved. 'Tis well for my family's sake that the mystery is solved : 'tis better still that they should inherit what I cannot, c-a-n-n-o-t — why not '. There might yet be a chance for me. [Glances around, then examines the wall.] Enter with drum, soldiers, R.; guard is exchanged ; soldiers exit, R. F. M. How I hate that drum's discordant sound, For without liberty, in its music There is only to be found — a cursed misery. If I stay here, to-morrow seals my doom ; the present moment is mine ; all depends upon the instant, and by yonder pale moon I swear to make one bold attempt to- night for the life that my heart beats for, and thou, O my God, knowest is rightly mine. [Takes off his shoe, taking from inside a spoon ; he puts the shoe on again, and digs around the window.] The mortar here is like a rock. Enter Messenger, apparently out of breath. Guard. [Raising gun to his shoulder.] Who goes there ? Mess. A friend. Guard. Friend, advance and exhibit your passport. Mess. [Giving guard passport.] He has not yet been shot ? Guard. No. • Mess. [Aside.] Thank God, that I am yet in time to save a life. [Aloud.] Show me at once to the head- quarters of the commanding officer. Guard, But begorra ; I dare not leave me post. Mess. But I'm the bearer of an important dispatch. Guard. I don't deny it ; but be jabers, its fer me to look out fer me interest ; an' me interest is to stick to :3(! FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. me post. But hark ! [Both listen.] Some one is com- ing. Enter Com. Officer and Hubert, l. Com. 0. I would not let him know that a pardon was being sought for him, lest it should raise a hope that should be crushed. W. H. Even though I received a pardon for him, I would not let him know it until I had tested the legality of the pardon. Guard. [To mess.] The foremost man is the kernel hymself. Mess. [Saluting officer.] I am the bearer of an im- portant dispatch. [Hands his dispatch.] Com. Of [Opening dispatch, glances over it.] Thank God [to Hubert], comrade, I have here a pardon for Frederick Mensor. W. H. [Aside.] Great thunder ! [Aloud.] I am real glad. [Aside.] This pardon may save him from the order of the court, but not from my vengeance. Com. Of. [To Guard.] Go with all speed and bring the Jailer. [Exit Guard, R. F. M. [Removing a stone from one side of window.] At last, I have that stone out, and oh, how it fills my heart with a joyful hope that leads me on To improve the fast fleeting hour, Ere it shall go by ; For life is but a flower. If I stay, alas ! I die ; too soon I die. [Removes more stones, making a hole large enough for him to pass out of.] Few have been the places of my abode that I would not return to, but of them all this is the worst. Now, for liberty, or death in my tracks. [Exit Mensor through opening. Knter Jailer arid Guard, r. Com. Of. Let the Jailer open the door of Frederick M elisor's cell. FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 37 [Jailer opens the door ; enter Com. Officer, Hubert and Mess. Com. Of. Great God ! but the man is gone ! W. H. What! Escaped? Mess. Yes, and through that opening. Com. Of. How can I bear this mortification ! W . M. [Aside.] And I am duped. END OF ACT FOURTH. ACT V. [Six months and two weeks later. — Evening.] Scene I. — Office of Jack Lees Tavern in the State of Virginia ; a desk, upon which rests the register of the tavern; tables, chairs etc. J. L. [Holding a bottle over a small glass.] Empty is the bottle, the whisky is all gone; Oh, what shall we do for something to drink before morn. Enter Dr. Wells, l. Dr. W. Have you no whisky in this house ? J. L. Not a drop. Br. W. Damn such a place as this. J. L. Wal, Doctor, thar ain't no use in yer damin' this ar place, fer I've always reckoned on keepin' a little of the oil of joy within the reach of every man that comes to this ar house ; but since those darn'd blue-coats have been around here the old blue-blooded gineral won't allow me to handle the stuff; for he says the Yanks are terrible beings to catch on to the j uice on the sly. Dr. W. Have you no neighbor near here from whom you could borrow a few drops ? J. L. Wal, I reckon I might, if I tried. 38 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. Dr. W. [Aside] What an exasperating old fool. [Aloud.] ■ My good friend, I've got a patient up stairs who is very weak ; I've got to get her out of this house to-night ; but I'm afraid I can't do it unless I can get a little whisky to stimulate her. ./. /,. Hark! [Both listen.] I hear some one com ing down the walk ; I guess it's that ar boy of mine, an' I'll send him out after some juice for you. Enter George Caldwell and Fred. Mensor, r. [Aside.] No, 'tis not him, but strangers. G. C. [Aside to Mensor.] Wal, I reckon you'll make the rest of it without much trouble. [Offers Mensor a purse and bottle.] In that ar purse you'll find some gold, which I reckon will come handy upon more than one occasion before that 'ar journey of yours is ended ; and that 'ar bottle is brim full of the best Kentucky juice that 'ar in this here country. F. M. [Aside.] The purse I'll accept with many thanks ; [Aloud.] but the whisky, never ; [Aside.] L for it is linked too sadly with my downfall, for me to ever dare touch it. Dr. W. [To Mensor.] Excuse me, stranger, for inter- rupting you ; but I heard you say something about whisky; if you have any of that liquid, for God's sake spare me a few drops of it to stimulate the heart of a sick woman. G. C. [Handing Dr. Wells the bottle.] Wal, if that are the case, I reckon that you are welcome to every drop that this 'ar bottle contains, with the wish of m y friend and me, that it will restore that 'ar creature to good health. Dr. W. Thanks to you both, gentlemen, for the whis- ky, as well as for your kind wishes for my patient's welfare. FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 39 G. C. and F. M. [Together.] You are very welcome. Exit Dr. Wells, bowing, l., followed by •/. Lee. G. C. Wal, my friend ; T reckon I will now have to leave you. F. M. I hate to have you go; for I know full well, that I never again shall meet a being so full of that un- ceasing manly friendship, as that which you have shown to me, a stranger. G. C. Wal, now, don't mention it ; just put your hand in mine, and let us have that good old sincere part- in' squeeze of the State of Virginia. [They shake hands.] Good-by. F. M. Good-by, my dear friend . g-o-o-d-b-y. Exit Caldwell, r. F. M. Am I left alone ? [Looking around.] Yes : and it seems like a dream ; but no, 'tis life's reality of the sad experience of an unfortunate mortal, who lives in constant fear of his dreaded pursuers. The more that I allow fancy to lead me on in thought, the more fully do I realize the desperate chances I took the night of my es- cape, for ere I'd left the camp, the enemy was upon our men; each moment I expected to be seized by sonic union or rebel soldiers, if by the former, to face the do from which I was fleeing; but if by the latter, to starve to death in Libby Prison. Filled with the fear that either might befall me, I crouched down low behind some bushes, until the roar of the cannon and the flash of the musket could only be seen and heard in the distant horizon ; when lo ! I heard the cry of a dying man for help ; approaching him, I asked, " is there anything that I can do for you, my comrade ? " Handing me a packet, he replied : " take this letter ; amongst other things, it will give you the address of my mother ; write, and tell her that her boy never forsook the dear old flag, and 40 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. that he died for freedom;" intense was the darkness, yet for all that I could see the form of a human being, ly- ing beside that of my comrade, raise itself to a sitting position, and, grasping his sabre, I saw him raise it in mid-air, while he remarked, " die, you Union devil — ere the sabre could descend I seized that of my comrade, and buried it deep into the villain's heart; God ! What a gasp he gave. I knew not what impulse inspired meat the time ; but seizing the body of my victim I dragged it along the ground, and had gone but a few yards when my prog- ress was impeded by a stone wall;-then, for the first time, the thought flashed upon my mind to change my clothes for those of the man whom I had murdered. This I at once did, leaving my private correspondence in my coat pockets. Thus, thought I, this man would be taken for me and my life would be no longer sought after ; no, no, not so ; the features would betray me, and without a i Loment's thought other than that of crushing the fea- tures of my victim beyond recogniton, I loosened a stone from the wall by which I stood, and as I raised it in mid-air, the moon ushered out from behind a cloud and shone for the first time in full blaze into the face of the man that I had murdered, and revealed to me the face of my foster-brother. I became dazed with astonishment ; the rock descended and crushed the skull of my boyhood mate, — my foster-mother's darling. <) God! that was more than I could bear : weeping, I turned away and staofffered I knew not where, until, overcome with grief, I sank to the ground in a trance. When I next awoke, I found myself upon rebel soil and in a rebel household. Enter Hubert, l. with his arm in a sling. W. H. Great God! 'Tis Fred. Mensor, and alive! F. M. You are not mistaken. \V. 11. But I thought that you were dead ! FREDERICK EAURENCE, OR NOT. 41 F. M. Does not your conscience tell you that you have so persecuted an innocent man to death, that God has brought that one back to life to seek revenge upon thy head ? W. H. No ; for I know no God, and fear no man. F. M. Because you now hold the upper card. You think you have the best of me, And so play the coward's meaner part ; All right; go ahead, base infidel, we'll see Who wins at last. W. H. Call me not a coward, as with the snap of my fingers I can have you arrested as a war criminal over whose head hangs the sentence of death. F. M. Why taunt me with such a threat ? W. H. Because I want your wife as mine. F. M. My wife as yours? Never, never; while there yet remains a spark of life within this form. W. H. But, by the devil, I will, or I'll see you inert the doom from which you now flee. F. M. My God as my witness, I flee from that which is not justice. W. H. No doubt you've learned the value of life which, if you would have, flee to some other country. F. M. What, go and leave you, base impostor, to carry out your vile design, no ! I prefer to remain and thwart your plans at the cost of my life. W. H. And you will not go ' F. M. No! I will remain to launch my curse upon thee, when man can meet man as man should meel man. W. H. [Drawing an army pistol] For all that I'm ready now ; but don't you dare to move or I'll blow your brains out. F. M. Ha, ha ! You coward. Enter Dr. Wells and J. Lee, l. 42 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. Dr. W. Well, what means all this ? IT. //. [Aside to Mensor.] I will give you one more show ; Leave the country to-night, to-morrow 'twill be too late. [Aloud.] I had a slight dispute with this man, during which he call'd me a liar, and at the point of my revolver 1 made him retract it. J. L. [Aside to Hubert.] Wal, I reckon the best thing I can do, is to kick that ar blackguard out. W. If. [Aside.] No, I would not have you do that ; for he's but a harmless crank. F. M. Gentlemen, the villain lies; and before God and man, I will yet make him pay dearly for those senti- ments. Dr. W. I fear there is something yet behind all this. W. II. Whether there is or not, it can never affed you, except — F. M. Except, to cause him to express some sentiment of surprise, that you so play the knave so well. [To Lee] Mine host, if supper is ready, pray take me to the room, wluie I may eat that goodly meal; this man [pointing to Hubert] I will see later. J. L. Just follow me, and I reckon I can seat you to a meal from whence you can replenish the inner man to your full satisfaction. Exit Mr uxor and Lee, L. Dr. \Y. A strange visitor; some old friend of yours '. W. H . No: a crank, whom I've often befriended out of pity. Dr. W. Your nets of pity seem to have made him ferocious. IF. //. Tis the way of such fools as he, who never know they have a friend until they lose one. But, Doctor, let us change the subject for another of more im- portance. How is your patient this eve ' Dr. W. She is so nervous that I fear to make the journey to-night. W. II. I tear not that so much as to stay here until FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 4:> to-morrow, for in all probability the rebels will surround this place before the dawn of day ; no doubt they would detain you for a week; and, to subject your patient for so long a time to the poor accommodations of this one-horse shanty, would not the result be more serious than the ride to-night ? Dr. W. You are right; and if you will excuse me, I will get the patient ready for the journey. W.H. Why, certainly. Exit Dr. Wells, L. W. H. If I can play my hand so well to-night as not to loose a single trick, why then, most assuredly, I shall win. Enter A. Mensor, sifj>i><>rtch ! des- tituted heart, wilt thou never cease to beat for him who first inspired thee with fondness Of woman for man, that when nature can no longer re- sist its flame, And that no dishonor shall be attached to his or her fair name ; Whilst they enjoy that pleasure That revolves the world upon its axis. And builds up nations of women and mankind. There is a law that forms two brains into one mind, And so our hearts, at the promptings of nature, And the laws of legislature, Were locked together as one — forever! No! One has crossed the river of Jordan, and the other lies broken upon a cold and cheerless world. Enter Barbara Shinwell, l. B. S. Cousin Arabella: Madam O'Brien and her im- pertinent maid have been waiting this last half hour to dress you for your marriage to-night. A. M. Like a hated doom, do 1 dread the coming of the hour, that will make me henceforth the wife of Wil- liam Hubert. B. S. I can assure you, that in after years you will recall this day, and thank kind Heaven with a most grateful heart, that you took the step over which you now hesitate. A.M. Dear cousin : Notwithstanding your kind as- surance, there beats within my bosom a thumping weight whose very echo tills my heart with the fear that this marriage will cloud my future in a veil full of remorse. B. S. You must think of him as one whom you marry for the sake of your child ; and as you love him, so will he love your child. 52 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. .4. ,1/. But then I do not love him, and so I have re- peatedly told him. B. S. True love comes after marriage. A.M. Yes, quite true ; but 'tis preceded by a vision, in which one worships their affianced with that grace that I have not. 11. S. For all that, it will be a most brilliant match, and the talk of many a day in army circles. He is both young and handsome ; has won honors in war : is a shrewd business manager; and I'm sure no one, much less you, can doubt but that his heart is actuated by the purest of motives; for you well know that he loved you quite as fondly when you were but a poor penniless orphan ; so, naturally, as your husband, he will become so deeply interested in your welfare, as to nobly defend you from that class of men who are ever ready to influence a woman to invest her money where they can steal the most. A. M. He seems to love my child so much, that I marry him, trusting that by little deeds of kindness, to so strengthen that affection, that in event of anything happening to me, my boy will find a sincere friend and manly protector in William Hubert. Ami, now, cousin Barbara, if you will excuse me, I will go and dress. B. 8. By all means, go and dress; for it would be awfully embarrassing if you were to he late. [Exit A. Mensor, r. B. S. After the wedding to-night, 1 want to live to attend but one more wedding, and that is my own. Enter Servant "•/<<> announces Major Freshmonger. />'. S. Show the Major in. [Exit Servant,- L. Enter Major Freshmonger, l. Maj. F. Voluptuous lightning and combustible brim- stone ! My dear Mrs. Shinwell, they have gone and done it FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 53 B. S. [Stiffly.] Good-evening, Major. Maj. F, Ah, yes; you're quite right; 'tis a good evening. B. S. Major Freshmonger, lias anything serious happened ? Maj. F. Enough to ruin my reputation for the balance of my natural life. B. S. What, so alarming '. Maj. F. Yes ; quite alarming ? B. S. And, pray, what is it that is so alarming ? Maj. F. Why, the mess that that holy-Moses Parson Jeremiah, blabber-lip Deacon Buckshot, suffering Metho- dist fire-eater Elder Sniffles, petticoat brother John Smith, and the rest of their sacred gang have got me into. Why, my dear madam, in spite of all my pleada- ble sentiments, they have gone to work and nominated me for District Judge. B. S. Why, Major, I should deem it an honor. Maj. F. Honor, be damned ; a good lawyer would at any time rather pack the jury-box than sentence a thief to pulverize rock; or a murderer to stretch hemp. T can do the former, with all the grace of my profession [aside], because there is millions in it [aloud]; but the latter I could never do ; for I am too charitable a man to do anything to oppress the poor unfortunate beings of ill-luck. B. 8. Your charity is unquestionably as noble and pure a trait in your life of many virtues, as bawling in an infant ; and, by-the-by, Major, won't you buy a ticket of me for the Charity Ball ? Maj. F. When does it take place ' B. S. < m the tenth of next month. Maj. F. 1 shan't be in town. B. S. At any rate, you might buy one and give it to one of your numerous friends. Maj. F. My friends don't accept that kind of a ticket. 54 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. B. S. T-h-e-y don't ! Maj. F. No ! they want a ticket, that will admit bearer to ©ne drink.' B. S. What horrid friends you must have. Maj. F. No ; they are men full of joy. Who once in a while get to much of the old boy. B. S. They, then, must be full of the devil. Maj. F. Well— so— so. But— B. S. Yes, but, you needn't try to change the subject, for I won't allow it until you buy a ticket. Maj. F. Now, my dear madam, Is there anything in my bearing, Or about my manner, Or even about my handling. That indicates that I am a syndicate ? B. S. No ; for if there were, I would not have to beg you to buy a ticket. Maj. F. My dear Mrs. Shinwell, the fact of the matter is, that since the demise of my dear wife, I have not permitted myself to engage in anything appertain- ing to parties or balls. B. S. And, sir, allow me to inform you, that out of respect to the memory of my dead husband, I have not taken part in any of the gay scenes of this world, until the present occasion ; which, bring one of charity, I felt, that as one of the creatures of this world, I was in duty bound to those of my fellow-creatures, who had met with misfortune, to do something to alleviate their sufferings; therefore, I have put my shoulder to the wheel, and I now ask you in the name of common humanity, to likewise cast aside your veil of grief and show to the world that while your heai t was dumb to the saintly voices of nobs' society, it is full of vigor towards the poor mortals of charity. Oh, do not falter, for 1 can assure you that your beloved better half, and my dead -FREDERICK LAURENCE, OE NOT. 55 old man, will smilingly look clown upon us from their cradle on the bluff of that great historic rock of ages, and forgive us, for charity's sake, that we so soon remove the sign of our distress at their demise. Maj. F. [Sneeringly.] Give me a ticket. B. S. No, sir ; not until you say, if you please ? Maj. F. Madam ! if I must construe My sentiments to suit you, Why, then, I'm but a slave to your way. B. S. It will teach you, that woman commands and man obeys. Maj. F. [Aside.] Just like the rest of her sex ; she lays down the law, and for the sake of peace, the man has got to toe it. [Aloud.] Mrs. Shinwell, will you please be so good looking as to sell me a couple of tickets ? B. S. [Handing him tickets.] Major, you are a brick. Maj. F. Twist the sentiment so as to make it femi- nine, and to you I wish the same compliment [putting both hands in his vest pockets]. But, thunderation, if I ain't broke ! B. S. What, so alarming ? Maj. F. Yes ; 'tis quite alarming [Taking a bill from out of his pocket]. No ; 'tis not so alarming ; for here's a fifty-dollar note. B. 8. Whew ! but you're no small fry ! Maj. F. No, madam ; I am not that kind of a man ; for I'll be G. D. if any one ever knew me to clinch the polish from off of even a nickle ! B. S. Well, no ; T don't think you ever did. But, Major, what does G. D. stand for ? Maj. F. It stands for Golden Date. B. S. You mean Golden Gate. Maj. F. I observe — B. S. Indeed— 50* FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. Maj. F. That you do not comprehend ; so allow me to explain the difference in the two : Golden Gate, refers to the famous harbor of California ; whilst Golden Date is the nugget of «-old that is taken from Oct a the mines of that great State. But this explanation docs not pay you for the tickets. B. S. I cannot change so large a note ; so you can keep the tickets and pay me when you wish. Maj. F. The implicit confidence you place in me is only the more gratifying by your good looks. B. 8. And your sweet sentiments ring through my heart with gladness. Maj. F. Then if I told you the old story of love, what haven would I find in thy bosom ' B. 8. A place of rest until death. Maj. F. Then you will accept me, for better or worse, as your partner for life ? B. 8. Yes. [They embrace and kiss.] Maj. F. I am a happy man ! B. 8. And I, am a happy woman. Maj. F. Great Limbo ! But my dear madam, for you to be affected just like me is quite alarming ! B. 8. Alarming ! Why, gracious heavens ! I think it's just charming ; don't you ? Maj. F. Yes [aside]; damn it. B. S. Then let us go, — where undisturbed we may pursue our — Maj. F. Love-making. [Exit Freshmonger and Shinwell, arm in arm. Enter F. Mensor, r. F. M. At last ! I am here in the old house again ; there sits the old clock, in the same old place, as upon that fatal night nearly three years ago, when I bade the woman of my heart farewell; unconscious of my depart- ure or of my arrival, it pursues its work of time, unable FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 57 to catch the fast fleeting vehicle that long ago bore my wife and my enemy from the tavern whose roof had sheltered us at the one time. I tramped from town to town ; thus traveling for ten months, when footsore and heartbroken I reached the city of Baltimore ; two days after my arrival there, I was taken with the fever, and laid upon my back in the hospital for weeks before I was able to be upon my feet again ; when I returned thanks to those who cared for me, by assisting them to care for others ; from Baltimore I shipped to San Fran- cisco ; thence back to New York ; then overland I trav- eled to this dear old place. And my wife, I wonder if she will know me. Well, hardly, while thus disguised. Oh, how I long to see her ; to ask her to fly with me to some new r land, where I can rest in peace until the barrier that now dooms me to death is removed. Hark ! [Listens] ; I hear footsteps ; some one is coming ; I dare not wait to see who it is ; but go. [Exit F. Mensor, r. Enter Freshmostger and Shinwell, arm .in arm, followed by A. Hubert (formerly A. Mensor), and W. Hubert, arm in arm, and other guests, l. All exit R., except W. and A. Hibert. W. H. Calm yourself, my dear wife; for 'tis all over. A 77. [Aside.] Yes, 'tis done. [Aloud.] Forgive me if I've acted strange ; for 'tis the fault of my memory that brings back to my heart a time, though long ago, yet when I took the same vows I have taken to-night. W. H. Forgive you, with all my heart; for your sake, and the sake of him that is dear to the heart of both of us. A. H. He was, indeed, William, very dear to my heart. 11". H-. And I can assure you that you were no less so 58 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. to him ; for to me he invariably spoke of you as the blooming flower of his life. A. II. Surely, then, William, you must have occupied a very close seat to his heart, that he should reveal to you the secrets of his bosom. W. H. Such I did ; for we were like brothers ; and — when I last saw him — A. H. Well— W. H. When I last saw him — A. H. .Why do you hesitate ? W. H. Because I do not wish to speak of that which would till your heart with sorrow. A. H. But you must not mind me. W. H. But I do ; because I love you so much that ere you should shed one tear of sorrow, I would cut oft' my right hand. A. H. I promise you that I will calmly sit here and listen to your tale, without showing one visible sign of remorse. W. II. The last time I saw Fred. Mensor was in prison in Virginia; and after promising him to return to his cell before early morn, to join with him in prayer to God for thy welfare and the safety of his son, as well as receive his last and most gracious message of love to thee, I left him and sought my couch ; worn out with my da}'s' work, I soon fell asleep from which I was awakened two hours later by the loud crash of musketry; at the same moment into my tent rushed a messenger, who, in one breath, informed me of Mensor's pardon, — his escape, — and that the enemy were upon us ; in four hours thereafter we had repulsed the enemy ; then followed the search for Mensor, which resulted in our finding him, with his skull so crushed that the features were unrecognizable. A. H. Then how knew you that it was him ' W. H. We knew that it was him from the- clothes FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 59 and letters found in his pockets ; this furnished all the identity that was necessary. A. H. Strange that I never knew of this before ! W. H. Not at all ; for whenever, heretofore, I broache< I the subject, you would invariably turn me away with the answer, " tell me some other time ; " and then T don't see what difference it can make after all. ^4. H. Oh, none, whatever, — whatever — W. H. But, dear, is it not time that you changed your dress for your traveling-suit. A. H. Why not wait until to-morrow '. Give me yet a few more hours in this dear old home, that I leave to-night forever. W. H. Dearest, that is quite impossible ; for to-morrow 'twould be too late to make the connections. A. H. Then come with me, while I bid my boy a last adieu. W. H. No ; you go alone, and I will follow soon. A. H. William, perhaps you are angry because I have acted so strange : but you'll forgive me? W. H. [Embracing her.] Why, my dear, there is nothing for me to forgive. [Kisses her.] AH. Thank you. [Exit A. Hubert, L. W. H. I've now the woman, but not the fortune ; the child stands in my way; if I were to choke him to death, then leave him lay in his trundle-bed, he would be found there to-morrow, at which time his mother and I would be upon the steamer an voyage for Australia; the coroner's jury's verdict would be suffocation, and place the crime upon the head of one of the servants. Enter C. Mensor, l. W. H. Why, Charley, I thought that you were in lied! C. M. So I was ; but then after mamma kissed me good-bv, and said that after awhile cousin Barbara and I would o-o to Australia, I waited until she left the 6() FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. room ; then I put on my dressing-gown and came down here to ask you if I couldn't go with you now; 'cause I know mamma wouldn't care, if you wouldn't, 'cause she said so. W. H. Charley, you sit there on the sofa ; and when I've put the lights out, why, then, we will go and see mamma, and just as she says we will do. [Hubert puts out the lights.] C. M. Oh, goody ! but isn't it dark ! W. H. Yes; but come to me and we'll go and see mamma. [C. Mensor, hesitating, approaches him, when Hubert seizes him by the throat.] W. H. Now will I rid me of him, once for all. Enter F. Mensor, who seizes Hubert; the latter loos- ens his hold of C. Mensor, who falls to the floor stunned. For a moment Hubert and F. Mensor struggle together; the former 'pulls a revolver; it is wrenched from him by the latter, who with one push throws Hubert to the floor, and points revolver at him. F. M. If you were not such a villain, I would give you a better show for your life. [Shoots once, twice, and three times.] \Y. H. [Falling over on his back.] Oh, my God ! I am shot. Enter Freshmonger, Shinwell, A. KuBERTand Serv- ants, l.; the loiter make same lights. B. S. Oh, horrors ! A. H. [Bending over the body of her son.] Oh, my boy, my boy; speak! tell me dearest, — speak, and tell mother, darling, what befell her pet ! Maj. F. [To servant.] Go, with all speed, for a doctor! [Bending over W. Hubert.] I fear he cannot lon£ survive. - FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. (il B. S. [Pointing to F. Mensor.] And there's the man who did the shooting '. F. M. [Throwing off his disguise.] I do not deny it. Maj. F. Great God! 'tis Frederick Mensor! B. S. Or his ghost. A. H. What does this all mean ? Am I dreaming, or do my eyes deceive me. F. M. No, 'tis not a dream, but a sad reality. Yet, Arabella, my wife, my dear wife, have you not one word of welcome for me ? A. H. One word of welcome for you, sir, upon whom has been lavished a woman's fondest devotion; who filled my heart for days, yea, years, with the bitter anguish of that one, whom by death is robbed of all thai, made life a thing of joy ; a something that makes the soul of mortal to yearn ; for thus was my heart filled with a love for you, that ne'er a breath escaped from my bosom, that did not contain a prayer begging my God to hasten the day that would bear me to that shore where under the bright sunlight of heaven for the sorrow I had known here, I might there in that palace of crystal, enjoy with you everlasting happiness ; but to now learn that the tears of anguish that I shed, and the sorrow that I endured, was but for a sham death, that you caused to be reported, is alone enough to fill my heart with a bitter hatred for the man, whom, under the cover of love and the shadow of death, has thus mocked me ; but when I also realize that you return to this threshold and murder my son and my husband, the former begot by you, and the latter the man in whom was centered my future happiness, every nerve within me burns with the passion of that vengeance that can only satisfy my bleed- ing heart by taking the law within my own hands and murder you as cruelly as you have murdered these inno- cent beings. [Exit Freshmonger, L., carrying C. M< ns<>r In. his arms. 62 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. F. M. If for you to take the law within your hands would afford your heart one moment's pleasure, I would most willingly relinquish life; die with my lips sealed. B. M. It would, indeed ! F. M. [Handing A. Hubert a revolver.] Then, fair lady, take this weapon and perform the deed that thy heart craves for. A.H. I will : Enter Frexhmonger, l. W. H. Arabella, my dear, I beseech of you, do not kill an innocent man. A. M. Innocent ! F. j\I. Speak, man, ere it is too late. W. H. Then listen to my confession: Arabella, my wife, I loved you when you were but a poor orphanless maiden ; but to me you were false ; for, after you had given me your heart, you stole it back for another's sake ; tli is tilled my bosom full of vengeance against the man whohad robbed me of my treasure; and when I learned that his father died and left him a large fortune, I plotted for his life, your hand, Arabella, and the fortune ; I prevailed upon Mensor to go to war ; I laid the trap that caused him to be sentenced to death ; I saw, and spoke to him at the tavern, where you, Arabella, laid so ill ; I then bade him go to some new country, or I would hand him over to those from whom he was fleeing ; and whilst I spoke to him, I had within my pocket a copy of the pardon that had been granted him ; and to-night, scarce one hour after you, Arabella, and I had been made one, I attempted to choke your boy to death, because I wanted no one to have the benefit of a single thought of yours but me; thus thought I, with me alone to influence you, what would there lie to keep me from so twisting you around my ringer as to swindle you out of FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. Go your fortune ? And while the grip of my hands were tightening around your boy's neck, Fred. Mensor entered the room unseen by me until he had seized me ; together we struggled ; I drew my revolver, but ere I had time to use it he had wrested it from me and shot me as though I were but a dog. A. H. [To F. Mensor.] And you were then but the victim of this man's vengeance ? F. M. Yes ; and while I knew that he was my enemy, there was no way left me to prove him such, unless I could so cower him that but a confession would save his life. A. H. How strange all this seems. F. M. Yes, this seems very strange ; but 'tis righted now, that yonder villain has run the full length of the rope ; and I thank God that I have lived to see him do it. A. M. And from you, dear Frederick, I ask forgive- ness for the harsh words I used to you when first we met this evening. F. M. [Seizing both his wife's hands.] Forgive you, for what you did not mean, why not? [Draws her towards him.] No ; I dare not, dare not embrace you, much less kiss you, whilst that villain holds the last title to your person. A. H. Your claims shall be first, and as such will I recognize them against the law of court and country. F. M. [Embracing his wife.] Upon those sentiments will I take my stand. [Kisses her.] Enter Servant, l. Servant. The doctor is in attendance upon Master Charley [to A. Hubert], and wished me to inform ye that the bye is more frighten' than hurt. 64 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. Enter Doctor, l. A. H. Oh, Doctor, how is my boy ? Doctor. Quite out of danger. A. H. Then I will go and see him. Doctor. No ; that I would not have you do ; for he is resting so comfortably that it is better that he should be left alone [pointing to W. Hubert]; and is this the other patient ? Maj. F. Yes, sir. W. II. Oh, dear, Doctor, save me! Save me ! Doctor. [Examining W. Hubert's wounds.] The wounds are not fatal ; but there is no doubt but that they will disfigure and cripple you for the rest of your life. W. H. I am thus then doomed to live a poor wretch, a disfigured cripple ; and as such a harmless creature, can you not forgive me, Frederick Mensor ? F. M. Ha, ha ! You, who courted my death, and when you failed in that preferred to see me endure the suffer- ings of that poor mortal who friendless flees from a sup- posed doom rather than save me, then married my wife, and even tried to murder my son ; but when foiled in your plans, when unrobed of your evil power, when dismantled of the cloak under the cover of which you perpetrated you fiendish acts, you then plead for mercy ( Ha, ha, ha ! you villain ; there is none in my heart for you ; for its curse is still as of yore, — that your beauty may be spoiled forever ; that you may be a crawling cripple for the rest of your lifetime ; and henceforth may your vile conscience be to your heart of sin like the lighted torch to the Alpine forest ; the flames of a living fire within your bosom ever burning with the blazing heat of purgatory ; shorn from the love of even FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 65 a single being; free from all that would lessen your anguish ; may you thus live, enjoying as well as you can the fierce, torturing agony of such a life until the day of judgment. When by warring winds The stormy blasts of hell, With restless fury shall drive thy spirit on To that haven where everlasting the fire for The worst of sinners dims ; May there unceasing play thy wretched hands Now thisway, now that way, glancing to shake off The heat still falling fresh, bends Your form in anguish, that nothing can ever mar. Ha, ha, ha! This is my mercy, and the same curse I launched upon thy head long ago, and thank God that I have lived to see the best of it come to pass. E 3