kv= 
 
'^ y 6 '^ 
 
 y J*kl*K r^k 
 
 ^ flag in ^h ^tfs. 
 
 BY ROBERT RAE. 
 
 A MEMBER OF THE CHICAGO BAR, 
 
 •-•••••«*«iS%*^i^^:^;pia:s^s^*<<i)^ 
 
 CHICAGO : 
 
 HAZLITT & REED, PRINTERS, 1 72 AND I74 CLARK STREET. 
 1877. 
 
NE\^^PORT: 
 
 A PLAY IN SIX ACTS. 
 
 / 
 
 BY ROBERT R^E, 
 
 ^A MEMBER OF THE CHICAGO BAR. 
 
 CHICAGO : 
 
 HAZLITT & REED, PRINTERS, 1 72 AND 1 74 CLARK STREET. 
 1877. 
 
3^ 
 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, 
 
 By ROBERT RAE, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 T.MP96-0075C8 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Old Wiloughby, Father of Julia. 
 
 Mr. Roseallen, Father of Matilda. 
 
 Col. Alex.\ndeii Montrose, in love with Matilda. 
 
 Dr. Frank Merrilies, in love with Julia. 
 
 Bob Summers}, in love with Kate. 
 
 Alfred Bartlett, Widower, in love with Mrs. Cummings 
 
 Charles, a Beau. 
 
 Clarence, a Beau. 
 
 Walter, a Beau. 
 
 Arthur, a Beau. 
 
 J. FiLBY, Tailor. 
 
 1st Bailiff. 
 
 2d Bailiff. 
 
 GEORGE TEMPLETON, Landscape Gardener. 
 
 Mrs. Roseallen, Mother of Matilda. 
 
 MATILDA ROSEALLEN. 
 
 Julia Willoughby. 
 
 Kate Spring.] 
 
 Violet, a Belle. 
 
 Nellie, a Belle. 
 
 Maria, a Belle. 
 
 Lizzie, a Belle. 
 
 Mrs. Cummings, a Widow. 
 
 Bertha, Governante to Matilda. 
 
 Footmen, Maids, et al. , 
 
 Scene — Newport, R. I. 
 
NEV/PORT. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — Newport. Kate, Lizzie, Nellie, Yiolet, Makia. 
 Young ladies in croquet costume/ archery. Eoseallen's 
 Garden/ lawn party. Band heard playing. 
 
 Kate. 1 declare, Newport is so stupid. It is made up 
 of fops and fossils — old gentlemen with glow-worm noses, 
 which have stood sentinel over many a glass of crusted port 
 and sherry, and old ladies full of pearls and perspiration, 
 and for eveiy wrinkle a ringlet. 
 
 Lizzie. Newport is breakfast, dinner, and wheels — foot- 
 man and butler; everything is a heavy swell except the surf. 
 What shall we light on, girls? {All sing, and wdltz as 
 they sing, 
 
 Oh, dear ! what will become of us ? 
 
 Oh, clear! what shall we do? 
 We'll die of the blue vapors, every one of us. 
 
 Unless we can find us a beau.) 
 
 The dinners are so solemn, that I do declare the champagne 
 corks look as though they would like to pop back, and save 
 the sparkle for more merry guests. 
 
 Nellie. Ma says "that it is so much more respectable " 
 to say that one spent the summer at Newport than at that 
 dashing, rollicking place, Saratoga, or that jockey, stunning, 
 delicious place. Long Branch; and so it is, if one is supposed 
 to be good only when she's asleep. "Oh, solitude! where 
 are thy charms?" But I don't come to Newport to look 
 after the charms of solitude, but to display my own. I 
 don't want to blush unseen. 
 
6 
 
 Lizzie. I wish I could see something or somebody to 
 bhish at or with. Why, I think the gardens of Newport 
 must have had women planted in them before men, and a 
 long time, too. I don't wonder at Eve's looking into the 
 stream to find something; and if she had not discovered 
 her Adam tending his sheep in the distance, I fear she 
 would be fishing at its banks 'til now. I am bound to find 
 a beau, by hook or by crook. I wonder if Adam was as old 
 a man when Eve first saw him as the pater families we 
 have to ride with here, and moon over at whist, when we 
 might be spinning like tops in those beautiful new waltzes 
 , that Clara Saltare writes about from Saratoga, if we only 
 had the boys to spin us. 
 
 Maria. Spinsters are no ver}^ great favorites with the 
 boys, you know; and that's the reason, I fear, that they are 
 not here to spin us. What benevolent statesmen those 
 Spartans were who condemned to death all people too old 
 to dance or to be useful. By the bye, girls, let's see if we 
 can't find something to talk about, if we can't find some- 
 thing to do. 
 
 Kate. Let's talk about what all New York talked about 
 last winter, and sighed about, too, at least so far as the male 
 population were concerned. 
 
 Lizzie. You mean Matilda Roseallen, of course. Let's 
 talk of something else. As men are said to be wolves to 
 each other, one pretty woman is a mold to another. 
 
 Nellie. You know she is here at her father's cottage, or 
 castle, for it is not only the loveliest spot on earth, but it is 
 the most magnificent. 
 
 Yioi.ET. Then look out for the king bees; where both 
 sweetness and summer are, there will you find them, too. 
 
 Enter Julia, r. c. 
 
 Julia. Girls, good news! Who do you think pa saw 
 this morning, dressed like an English sportsman, with that 
 little dog of his? Who but Dr. Frank Merrilie, the Achates 
 
to that wittj young lawyer, Kobert Summer. What do 
 you think of that, Kate? 
 
 (All, Oh, Julia! Julia!) 
 Kate. / should say that Dr. Frank Merrilie is a hand- 
 some dandy, with an honest heart — knight of the pestle 
 and mortar, and cavalier to Miss Julia Willoughby, if you 
 please. 
 
 Nellie. Now, here's a chance for you, Julia, to send for 
 Frank, and ask him to feel your pulse and look at your lips, 
 and tell you how salt water and sea air and solitary confine- 
 ment agree with you at Newport. 
 
 Julia. Bob Summer is a lawyer of repute, and I heard 
 him tell Kate that it took two or more to agree. I can't 
 see, then, how the sea can agree with me. Old Neptune is 
 already married — Amphitrite w^ill give us a ducking if we 
 flirt with her goose. But that is not all ; he told pa that 
 Bob Summer was with him, and that they were expecting a 
 jolly time on the bay (in a jolly boat, no doubt). Pa asked 
 them where they were staying; Frank said that Bob was 
 not satisfied with the quarters at the hotel, and would take 
 up more suitable accommodations, as he was now admitted 
 to the practice of law. 
 
 Lizzie. Well, Bob must now be able to raise the wind, 
 since he has become a dedicated beggar to the air. 
 
 Julia. As the boys are new practitioners, and have 
 nothing except "great expectations" from their talents, 
 they are not regarded by pa as good catches, although I 
 should think that they might be so accepted, as they will 
 catch at almost anything. Pa has not invited them to come 
 to the house; but we can get up a little picnic, and invite 
 them to meet us hy chance at the trysting place. 
 
 (All, Agreed ! agreed !) 
 Nellie. Who will write the note ; ym^, Julia? 
 Kate. You're used to it. You know it comes so natural 
 to say "Dear Frank." 
 
Julia. That's easily done. Jeems, fetch me paper and 
 pencil. {Footman hrings articles to Jiilia, who writes.) 
 
 Violet. What do you say, young ladies, to these grounds 
 near the little cottage of Mrs. Cummings, the garden in 
 rear of Roseallen's place, it is so private? You know it is 
 so full of romance and mystery about the young cavalier — 
 the Southern Hotspur and Ronieo — who is beautifying the 
 grounds. 
 
 Nellie. This is indeed a lovely place, since his spade 
 has carved from the face of nature the sweetest features that 
 ever smiled among the perfume of flowers or grew glad at 
 the song of birds. If we could get up a flirtation with him, 
 it would make something to talk about, and perhaps sigh 
 about, for the next twenty-four hours. Well, as you make 
 no objections, these garden grounds shall be the place. 
 
 Julia. Well, here's the note, girls; and now let's go and 
 practice some rustic songs for our picnic. 
 
 Exeunt, r. 
 
 Enter Bertha, governante to Matilda ; Col. Alexander 
 Montrose, ex-officer U. S. A., and gambler, in love ^witTi 
 Matilda, r. c. 
 
 Bertha. Well, Colonel, I have made every effort to 
 excite some feeling of attachment on the part of Matilda for 
 you. I fear my praises go for nothing. She is so gentle 
 in her nature that she always listens with respect, and some- 
 times when I tell her of some fancied act of yours, of either 
 generosity or courage, she seems to pity you for a moment; 
 but I fear her heart is entirely fancy free, and that no praises 
 of mine will ever awaken any softer chord in her heart. It 
 was easier for me to teach her the French verb arnier than 
 to teach her qui amier — whom to love ; besides, I fear she 
 is too pure and innocent for a wicked man like you. Some 
 angel guards her, and drives away each thing of sin and 
 guilt. Her father, too, knows of your vice of gambling, 
 and has forbidden Matilda to ever see you more, and never 
 
9 
 
 to listen to your professions of love. She is a dutiful 
 daughter, and would rather die than not honor her father 
 and mother. 
 
 Montrose. Yes, Bertha, I feel that she is not only 
 indifferent, but feels something like an active aversion to 
 me. Guarded as I have been in my speech, I fear that now 
 and then I drop some word that smells to heaven, for she at 
 times suddenly withdraws herself, and her eyes flash as if 
 she were indignant. She's not proud, but yet at such times 
 her blood bounds through her veins into her cheek, and her 
 lip curls, as if she were the proudest she alive. The more 
 she rejects my passion, the wilder and fiercer it ra|es, 'til 
 in the madness of desperation I almost resolve to gain by' 
 fraud and guile w4iat her gentle heart denies to my persua- 
 sion and most earnest supplication. 
 
 Bertha. Well, I'll do what I can; but I fear that my 
 commendations of you fall upon my young mistress' ears 
 like the tuneless notes of the birds that, unfitted to be of 
 the choir of the forest, perch upon the porch of her lattice. 
 
 Montrose. The most provoking thing is, I cannot get a 
 personal interview with her, else I might invent some story 
 which would touch and melt her to pity me; and after that 
 the road to love is smooth and easy. She seems to avoid 
 me. Can you tell. Bertha, how I can flush this coy dove? 
 
 Bertha. You know the rustic bridge that spans the 
 little brook that babbles by the foot of the meadow in the 
 rear of her father's hall? Beyond, you perceive, there 
 stands a group of tall and graceful elms, surrounded by a 
 fragrant thicket of low shrubbeiy and roses. Amid this 
 cluster of trees is a small bower, which was built for the 
 sake of Matilda, and in which she often sits, listening to 
 the songs of the birds, caressing her spaniel, or reading her 
 favorite authors, Tennyson and Shelley. You might manage 
 to surprise her there, and then plead your cause with such 
 sorcery as best will move her. 
 2 
 
10 
 
 Montrose. Thanks, Bertha, for this hint; it may be 
 useful to me. Here's a present of a collar — never mind 
 looking at it noio — and here's a purse, the contents of 
 which may interest you. I will go, to act upon your hint. 
 
 Bertha. And / to Matilda, to practice upon her my 
 arts. Exit^ Montrose r., Bertha l. 
 
 Enter J. Filby, with Stitch, the footman^ carrying clothes^ 
 R.j Bailiffs l. 
 
 1st Baiijff. "Well, we got the judgment against Summer, 
 and the affidavy that he is not a citizen of Ehody; you can 
 arrest him, you know, and make him give bail. You do not 
 mean to incarcerate him? 
 
 Yihwi {tailor). Surely! surely! Don't give him a minute 
 beyond his time. These limbs of the law sometimes must 
 be shot by an arrow from their own quiver. Let me see, 
 what were the articles charged ? {Zooks at hill from side 
 pocket.) Yes, " an extra superfine saxony, blue, richly 
 bound, etc., frock coat, etc., etc., |i65, due June 1st;" and it 
 is now July — a month past due. Nab him, Mr. Bailiff, 
 nab the villain, and we will give him six months of the 
 cage, at any rate, and that will be some satisfaction. 
 
 1st Bailiff. I only saw him once. 
 
 FiLBT. Oh, that's easily suited, although you don't know 
 the frock coat. Here, Stitch {takes coat off Stitch's arm); 
 see, here is the neighbor to it. La, it is one of a thousand ! 
 The only one of the same cut and fashion in the city; that 
 I know. I could pick it out blind fi-om among a million. 
 Here is his address — Sleeps at No. 60 Turo street, and 
 gets free lunches, as a light diner out.. 
 
 1st Bailiff. All right, sir. As soon as the bird is caged 
 I will send you word. 
 
 Exeunt, Filby and Stitch l.. Bailiffs r. 
 
 Enter Frank Merrilie, l., dressed smartly. 
 
 Frank. Well, I have studied pretty hard all winter 
 
11 
 
 over nasty names and nasty tasting things, and its some 
 relief to find a contrast. Mermaids and dolphins! what a 
 lucky thing to run across old "Willoughby yesterday. Old 
 fellow's very cordial in the street — very glad to see me in 
 the street; wonder, if it makes him so glad to see me in the 
 street, with what bewildering feelings of delight he would 
 be seized if he saw me in his parlor? The ancient is pretty 
 stout about the neck and thorax. Afraid to ask me, no 
 doubt, for fear that the delirium of rapture at seeing me 
 there might bring on a spell of apoplexy. Good livers 
 must take good care of themselves; and if they are rich, 
 they think that they must .take deuced good care of their 
 daughters, too. By the bye, Julia is worth taking care of. 
 If the old gent is not equal to the task, I wish he would 
 put her in my hands, as a physician, you know; medicine 
 mild, but effective. Sweet spirits of nit-er! I will make the 
 application myself, and often. {Taking out a photograph 
 and looking at it.) She is peerless! She must -know that 
 I love her; yet she gives me no assurance that these tender 
 feelings are reciprocated. Nothing but the ordinary cour- 
 tesies have as yet passed between us; yet she is a sensible 
 girl, and as such can't be entirely indifferent to what 
 "charms and drugs" — bon bons — I have sought to win 
 
 his daughter wi th {Jeems enters with a note.) What's 
 
 here? Good morning, Jeems; how is your young mistress? 
 
 Jeems. Very well. She sent me with this note to you. 
 
 Fkank. a note, and from Julia! {Reads.) 
 
 " Deak Mr, Merrilie: Would you make one of a party 
 to a picnic to-morrow? I should be happy if you could. 
 There will be several young ladies of my acquaintance with 
 us; and we hope one or two gentlemen may stroll there ' by 
 chance' (?). We purpose meeting at widow Cummings' at 
 twelve o'clock precisely. It will particularly gratify me if 
 you can make it convenient to make one of the party, etc., 
 etc. [Julia Willoughby." 
 
12 
 
 Dear, delightful creature! {Kissing the note.) Make it 
 convenient? Ay, that I will, adored and beloved Julia, 
 although ten thousand difficulties M^ere in my way. All 
 engagements, all considerations, all duties, light of my life, 
 idol of my adoration, must give way to thy slightest wish. 
 "It will particularly gratify me." {Iri ecstacy.) Will it! 
 will it! Oh, will it! Then I am a happy man indeed. 
 ( Waltzing up and doion. At last his eyes fall on his coat 
 sleeve.) Ha! getting scuffy, by all that's annoying. Had 
 no idea! Won't do, won't do, that's clear. Can never go 
 over hill and dale with Julia and her fair bevy of acquaint- 
 ances in such a coat as this;. never, never, never. {Sits 
 down and clasps his head, in his hands., and then remem,- 
 l)e7's.) There is a tide, in the aifairs of men, which, when 
 taken at the flood, leads on to fortune and to Julia, and that 
 flood is a new coat. How vexatiously strange that I should 
 have thought of a breakfast coat, a walking coat and a dress 
 coat; but a frock coat comme il faut for Sifete chaonpctre 
 is entirely overlooked. No time to telegrapli to Sheers and 
 get a coat in reply. It is past surgery. A nimble surgical 
 operation might cut the coat, but it requires time to stitch 
 it. It is a sheer case of necessity, and I must borrow. I 
 have it ! I'll borrow Bob's new coat, A little i)ronotincc\ 
 tis true, but still stylish. Ha, Ha ! Borrowed plumage; 
 but, as Bob would say, although not the owner in presenti, 
 I'll be a tenant m tail. False colors, what of it ? Men, 
 and women too, wear false hair, teeth, eyes and complexions, 
 hearts and manners. And why should not I, a new-born 
 son of Esculapius, wear a friend's coat? It is all for the 
 fair, and not a coat to conceal fraud. For Julia's sake I 
 would wear any fashionable new coat with resignation, 
 unless it be a present from Julia of a sack. I will then 
 apply to Bob, not as a lawyer for a whole suit, but as a 
 friend, to furnish the desiderated garment. ( Writes.^ and 
 reads as he writes.) 
 
13 
 
 " Dear Bob: Being invited for to-morrow to a party, in 
 which there is a large infusion of the fair sex, and iinding, 
 after a careful inspection, that mj^ coat is not in the most 
 healthy condition, might I request the favor of your lend- 
 ing me a corresponding piece of toggery for tlie occasion, 
 if you have such an article to spare, and said article be of 
 a kind creditable to the wearer. We are about of a size, 1 
 think, and I can therefore calculate on a fit. 
 " Yours, truly, 
 
 " Frank Merrilie." 
 
 " N. B. It must be, of course, a frock coat, half dress and 
 half promenade costume." {Seals the letter^) 
 
 Jeems, are you waiting for an answer ? 
 
 Jeems. Yes, sir. 
 
 Frank. Say to her, Jeems, that I shall be most happy 
 to be one of the party. Jeems, stay a moment, would you 
 {feeling for a gratuity) oblige me, Jeems, by being the 
 bearer of this note to Robert Summer — you know Summer — 
 {Jeems hows) and fetch me back an answer, say in half an 
 hour ? 
 
 Jeems. With all my heart, doctor. (Jeems takes note 
 and gift.) Exit, l. 
 
 Frank. And now for a short stroll over to the Ocean 
 and a peep at the wall-ilower hop. Band plays Ofienbach's 
 music, while grave and reverend seniors look serious and 
 respectable; nothing short of Moody and Sankey could stir 
 them up to hilarity. Exit, r. 
 
 Enter Landscape Gardener, with two suh -gardeners from 
 
 the R. c. 
 
 L. G. You will now go to the Italian garden. Your 
 work is there laid out for you. I shall follow presently, to 
 give you further directions. {.Exeunt sub-gardeners,!.. L 
 G. retires to the bridge, and, in passing vjood bower, dis- 
 
14 
 
 covers Matilda within^ sleeping^ What fair wonder is this ! 
 ' Have all the perfumes and zephyrs that haunt this garden 
 become a living thing, or waits she yet for life? What sun- 
 beam, kissing those lips, could quicken a soul so pure ? Has 
 beauty, enamored of its own loveliness, sculptured this 
 sleeping paragon, reversing the fate of the fabled Narcissus? 
 For this, Endymiou would have forsaken his couch, and Pan, 
 his pipes. I oft have dreamed of a maiden born of the sun 
 and ileecy cloud. A heavenly passion, made to be the bride- 
 groom of him who, maddened with genius, dies for a death- 
 less love. But never yet, in dream or vision, have my eyes 
 seen one so absolute in all perfection as this drowsy nymph. 
 My soul, stirred by an invisible spirit, leaps up to gaze upon 
 those eyes, whose glances must shoot forth radiant bliss. 
 Amid these flowers and buds, these humble peasantry of the 
 grass, whose weak lives I have fostered as a brother's, God 
 has sent his angel to me, to make my life one of love, as it 
 has been one of piety. She wakes and moves, and I must 
 fly. {Crosses stage and exit l. c.) 
 
 Matilda. {Coming out of the hoiver.) What face was 
 that I saw just now ? Could I have waked dreaming, and 
 the vision but the ripeness of my dream ! Oh, no ! The 
 vines did stir, and the hasty step of a retreating man, sound- 
 ing, did entertain my ears. But what a Godlike counte- 
 nance ! His glance darted through my ej'es, into my heart, 
 as leaps the lightning from the bosom of a cloud to strike a 
 mountain cedar. If I should live a thousand years, and 
 after death, if remembrance still may live, I never shall for- 
 get the sweetness and the manly beauty of him who gazed 
 just now. I am afraid, and yet I love to think on what I 
 tremble at. Weak heart, to be so foolish. It has found its 
 master, and to love him as its master shall be its dearest 
 duty; yet it flutters like a wounded dove, and when its 
 still, it will mourn for him like a widowed one, till it finds 
 its mate. 
 
15 
 
 Enter Bertha, r. c. 
 
 Bertha. What in the world is the matter, Matilda ? 
 You look bewildered. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, Bertha ! Don't ask me. \Pauses.) Ber- 
 tha, did you see a — {hesitates) any person pass this way ? 
 
 Bertha. When ? 
 \_^ Matilda. But a moment ago. 
 
 Bertha. {Supposing it to he the gambler.) Oh, yes, dear 
 mistress; Colonel Montrose, I think, must have been here. 
 {Matilda shudders at his natne^ He seems to haunt these 
 grounds, and I guess my lady can tell the reason why. If 
 If the thrush hen knows not the mottled lover that woos 
 her, what other bird of the wood can come to the knowledo-e, 
 I am too old a bird to know now the notes of a lover, or to 
 tell a moulted feather from the new plume. Col. Montrose 
 is as venturesome as he is constant. 
 
 Matilda. JSTo, not he. Any one else ? 
 
 Ber tha. {Suspiciously.) Why, who do you think was 
 here ? 
 
 Matilda. One whom I never saw; or, if I did, it was 
 ,but for an instant. Of his name and person I am wholly 
 ignorant. 
 
 Bertha. Then it is a he. Oh, my lady, the birds will 
 seek the cherries and the brook they come to taste and drink 
 of, Matilda. 
 
 Matilda. {Earnestly.) My old friend and instructress, 
 tell me, (and don't be foolish, or think I am,) have you not 
 seen one wandering through these grounds, or near them, 
 of an uncommon height and frame, with a dignity of mein 
 that would at once strike you ? I saw, or thought I saw, 
 such a one, but for an instant, and in that moment there 
 was a greatness in his looks and high fate that almost awes 
 me when I recall it. 
 
 Bertha. At twenty I would be much more likely to see 
 
IG 
 
 such a dear man than at fifty. You know my eyes have 
 lost somewhat of their sharpness, as well as their beauty. 
 
 Matilda. {Caressing Jter.) Now I want to ask a favor 
 of you ; and, dear Bertha, keep my secret. I want you to 
 find out, by some means, who this gentleman is who tarried 
 here just now, and then tell me. {^Another caress.) "Will 
 you promise me ? 
 
 Bertha. {Aside.) I'll find him ^out for my own sake, 
 {Aloud.) Well, if you wish it, and particularly request it, I 
 will; though it goes against my conscience to be engaged in 
 such a work, my lady. What would your ma say ? And I 
 am sure your pa would discharge your old governess if 
 he knew I was looking up the names and histories of all the 
 handsome young men who hang around a pretty heiress' 
 grounds at Newport; and then my time from my duties. 
 
 Matilda. Well, kind Bertli^i, that's a good creature. I 
 knew you'd do as much for me, and I'm ever so grateful, 
 and I'll recompense you for all of these perils; there, go. 
 {Exit Bertha.) And I will go to bathe the wings of my 
 fancy in this new sea of pleasant thought till I know more 
 of one of whom I know so little, and yet that little will 
 live with me forever. Exit., b. 
 
 Enter Frank, l. 
 
 Frank. Last night's dissipation was hideous. Old Bot- 
 tlenose dozed the whole evening and made a first class anvil 
 chorus to the band's Trovatore. Miserere ! ! The only 
 thing radiant, beautiful and befiting a " Mid Summer 
 Night's Dream " was Miss Roseallen. Gorgeous as a queen, 
 she walked and moved, the wonder and delight of both old 
 and young. Her highborn kinsmen must be the angels, 
 and they must be lofty indeed, if they don't have to look 
 up to her. Health and perfect beauty, to look upon, are in 
 themselves medicine both for mind and body. If this be 
 true, she is more potent to heal than all the old musty learn- 
 ing I got out of the books these last five years, and yet 
 
17 
 
 she left, no doubt, many a purple wound, that will be nursed 
 for raanj a day by love, in idleness. I wonder what Julia 
 would have said to have seen me startle at her classic face, 
 as she turned its full beauty upon me as she passed. But, 
 ah! Julia, I am yours, if am not yet sure you are mine. I 
 wonder if Miss Roseallen ever felt love's smart. Although 
 the most beautiful woman in America, they say she is the 
 humblest and the most aftectionate of friends. Where such 
 a woman gives her heart, there must courage, truth and con- 
 stancy dwell; else the gift were trampled in the dust, and 
 not laid upon an altar. Last night I noticed young Van- 
 derpelt, the railroad magnifico. She hung upon his arm. 
 What a contrast in faces ! One, the innocence of the lily 
 and the sparkle of the dewdrop, the other, the hard, sharp 
 man of business, smirking all over with success, yet eager 
 and sensitive at any change of good or bad fortune. As all 
 of his thoughts are drawn from business, they are, most of 
 them unfit for conversation. What does he know about the 
 bonds of matrimony ? Bah! Nothing — Erie and New York 
 Central, everything. Such a match is like the foam of the sea, 
 pure and spotless, caressing the slimy rock, only to be driven 
 back and lost in the blackness of despair. Such beauty as 
 hers is the beauty of holiness, indeed, and was made to 
 make, like the skies, all happy, and ambitious to be wor- 
 thier. No; if I have studied the expression of the outward 
 countenance aright, and can judge of it, as I can of the 
 blood, nerves and muscles, which give it animation, T should 
 say that nothing but a poet in love could ever strike a chord 
 of sympathy from that high-strung lyre, or casket a heart 
 so jewelled with every gem-like virtue. But — Oh ! Here 
 comes Bob's note and coat. {Enter Jeems, r., hands note 
 and coat.) Dear, kind fellow, as he is, what does he say: 
 
 " Dear Frank: As the patriarch of old gave to his best 
 beloved a coat of many colors, so I give to thee, with all my 
 heart, because I love thee, this celestial jacket. You may 
 3 
 
18 
 
 know the sacrifice I make, when I tell you I have been 
 invited to be one of the party. Bat having no other coat 
 but ray " Roger de Coverl}'-," which has been in and out a 
 dozen times, I have concluded to be assoined. May you not 
 disgrace the owner. 
 
 " Yours, ever, 
 
 " Bob Summer, 
 ^^Atty. at Law, Solicitor in Chancery, and 
 
 '■'■Proctor in Admiralty y 
 
 Thank you, Jeems, you may now go to your mistress. 
 {Exit Jeems, l.) He's witty, but poor. He'll make his 
 mark yet. I'll just slip the coat on and run over and thank 
 Bob. {Crosses to r.) 
 
 Enter Bob Summer, r. 
 
 Bob. My dear brother in poverty, Frank, how do you 
 do this morning ? Am sorry I could not be with you at 
 the hop last night, but was engaged in correcting the opin- 
 ions of the " High Court of Commission " on fraud and 
 perjuries in election cases. {Aside.) Playing backgammon 
 for dimes to get my breakfast, seven to eight. 
 
 Frank. Rather Hayesy, I should think. 
 
 Bob. Don't give me a pun, doctor. I would prefer a 
 milder emetic before bathing. After that I might take a 
 paragram. 
 
 Frank. Now, Bob, I'll just step aside and try your coat 
 on; and, as it is near the time when I am to start, I'll see 
 how it fits, and have your opinion of the get up. (Frank 
 ■puts the coat on.) 
 
 Bob. Why, it is a beautiful fit. IS^ot the hundredth part 
 of an inch too short, too long, or too wide. It is, in fact, 
 just the thing. Could n't have been better, although it had 
 been cut for you by Filby's foreman. 
 
 Frank. And now. Bob, to go, and to see, and to conquer. 
 
 Bob. And may all the angels who attend the good watch 
 
19 
 
 over you and follow you, ray boy, till, like Paris, you cap- 
 ture another Helen, or, like Eomeo, woo and win another 
 Juliet. Exit Frank. 
 
 {Officers 'present lurking among the scenery.) 
 
 1st Bailiff. That's him, sure; there's the coat. Let's 
 keep the ostrich in full sight till we capture him. He 
 walks nimbly, but he can't fly you know. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
ACT 11. 
 
 Scene. — Roseallen Garden, Vases and Flowers; Land- 
 scape Gaedenee talking to the flowers. 
 
 L. G. When I was a lad at my mother's knee, and drank 
 truth from her lips, as the thirsty traveler from a cool way- 
 side spring, she told me if I lived a pure life, and did that 
 which was right, and spoke the truth from my heart; that 
 if I never spake deceitfully with my tongue, or slandered or 
 wronged my neighbor; that if I felt lowly in my own eyes, 
 and honored those who served God; that if I always kept 
 my word and honor, though I might feel a present loss, if 
 I acted generously by a friend and protected the innocent; 
 that if I loved my country and obeyed her laws, I should 
 never fall, I believed her. And when the happy home was 
 made one of mourning, at the death of the husband and the 
 father, and I wept as if my heart w^ould break, I felt a sort 
 of pride at the consciousness that the Lord would give me 
 strength to make my ways perfect, so that I could have 
 power to bind up the widowed heart, and be the head of 
 our house. 
 
 And when that other dark hour came, when my native 
 and beloved State, seized with the fury of its closest com- 
 panions, star-like madly shot from its sphere to make one 
 in the constellation of a new born confederacy, when the 
 spirit of war entered our peaceful home, I felt that as one 
 of her sons I must go forth to battle in her cause, my 
 Spartan mother, true to her Southern birth-place, came and 
 blessed me, and gave to me the sword of my ancestor, and 
 bade me (though the apple of her eye, her sole and only 
 treasure,) to go forth and stand by my colors in victory or 
 death, I kissed her; and as I touched her lips I felt the 
 spirit of War beat high in my heart, and Hope, that I 
 
21 
 
 might win a splendid name, living or dying, for fame was 
 ever dear to me. I also felt sad at parting with her and 
 the loss of the old Union for which mj sires had bled. 
 And when, in the midst of carnage, on the fratricidal field 
 I fell, pierced by a bayonet, and darkness veiled my eyes, 
 and when consciousness returned a Federal soldier held my 
 head tenderly on his knee, and bending over me laved my 
 brow with the last drops of water from his cup, and spoke 
 to me a soldier's cheer, and as half entranced 1 gazed upon 
 the figure of that soldier, I saw a vision like unto Victory 
 holding the cup of Mercy to the pale lips of Defeat, or the 
 hand of Triumph smoothing the brow of Disaster, until all 
 were made God-like, victor and vanquished, by tliat love 
 which alone inspires the brave, I thought myself dying, and 
 I felt a resigned sorrow that I never would see again my 
 mother and my dear old home, but die and be buried, 
 unmarked, on that field by that noble Northerner; and 
 when youth and strength triumphed over death, and I once 
 more became a man again, I felt the joy of existence and 
 the delight of gratitude to those who had so generously 
 nursed me as I lay sick like a stranger bird in the nest of a 
 nourishing eagle. But neither the pride of youth or ambi- 
 tion at going forth to war, nor hope of victory or delight at 
 being saved from the jaws of death, or the heavenly senti- 
 ments of gratitude, did ere so thrill me with emotions so 
 strange and exquisite as I now feel at the ever-living 
 thought of her who forever and ever must be my heart's 
 proud, peerless dame! 
 
 And did I leave you {turning to his flowers) yesterday 
 with no love in my heart l)ut for you? Each face so fondly 
 dear, each breath so odorously sweet, with countenances so 
 mirthful and life so faitliful — each little hungry mouth 
 opened wide to receive its dewy drink, and each heart 
 unfolded to take in the liglit of God and His beauty; each 
 spray turned toward me as I tended you, and looked fresh- 
 ness and faith after I had given you your morning and 
 
22 
 
 evening bath. Surely He who has given you so much 
 beauty and such dear fragrance must have given you a soul 
 to love sweet sounds, as you show bi'ight colors. Each 
 passing breeze plays upon you as an ^olian harp, stealing 
 the softest music from the soul of fragrance, as Orpheus 
 played upon the lyre strung with the hairs of Apollo. Was 
 it you who blessed me, and taught me the perfect ways of 
 truth, and not I, who was your faithful, loving servant, 
 blessing you? You, my fair palace builders and chaste 
 embroiderers of the earth, must know the secret of my 
 heart, once all your own, now ready to forsake you all for 
 one unknown^ but one whose beatitude has robbed me of 
 every impulse save to be her adorer. You have in your 
 briglit, fragrant folds little citizens. What spirit was it 
 first tauglit poets of your fairy queen and all her tiny train ? 
 Can you not conjure her to mount her chariot, and, floating 
 upon waves of music and of light, spread a charm around 
 the spot where my slumbering maid lies bright and beau- 
 tiful, and keep her mjine forever? I hnov^ you hear me, 
 and will aid me. 
 
 " The red rose cries, ' She is near, she is near,' 
 And the white rose weeps, ' She is late ; ' 
 The larkspur whispers, 'I hear, I hear,' 
 And the lily weeps, ' I wait.' " 
 
 No wonder that poets gave to you the power of divine 
 eloquence. The heart of the rose and the soul of the lily 
 are fit orators of thoughts, which can only breathe holy 
 incense and purity. But 1 grow daft and foolish; I, who 
 am but a poor gentleman, without the profession of either 
 arms or learning, stripped by the decrees of war, of fortune, 
 an exile from the home of my fathers — a patriot without a 
 countr3\ How should I hope to win heaven's fairest star, 
 or wear upon my bosom earth's fairest flower? As I can- 
 not mate her, then will I canonize her, and sing vesper 
 songs to her, such as Diana and her chaste sisterhood were 
 wont to hear, not unheeded, when tuned by shepherd's reed. 
 
23 
 
 Enter Montrose, l. 
 
 Montrose. (Aside.) How good and noble lie looks. It's 
 he who stands between an heiress and myself. I hate him. 
 (Aloud.) Good morning, sir; I fear I trespass on you thus 
 early. 
 
 L. G. You are welcome. The early morn should ever 
 bring a welcome for those who watch for her coming. We 
 must be of the same faith who worship at the same altar. 
 How can I serve you, sir? 
 
 Montrose. Oh, nothing. I only strolled this way to 
 get a glimpse of the morning sun ere he brushed away the 
 dew from his eyes and shone a little too lustily for comfort. 
 Are you the gardener who designed and laid out these 
 grounds ? 
 
 L. G. I am, sir. 
 
 Montrose. I have heard your talents praised, and that, 
 too, by the tongue of beauty. Is your employment one of 
 choice? 
 
 L. G. Such choice only as fate compels one bred to arms. 
 For me the fortunes of war have indeed changed the sword 
 into a pruning hook. 
 
 Montrose. You were a soldier, then? May I ask in 
 what army? 
 
 L. G. I think my present lot would have answered that 
 question; in the Confederate service. Pray, why do you 
 ask me? 
 
 Montrose. Oh, a passing curiosity. Sometimes gods 
 have changed the garb of honor for the tunic of a shepherd 
 for the sake of a lady love. 
 
 L. G. I have known them to appear as geese. 
 
 Montrose. I said I came to see the morning; I also had 
 another object. A young lady has found out that a chanti- 
 cleer is not a nightingale, if he does tune his trumpet to a 
 love song. 
 
 L. G. You must speak more plainly, sir. To whom and 
 what do you refer? I never allow myself to play one in 
 
24 
 
 such a dialogue except in open Held. If aught that you 
 have said has any application to myself, you must drop 
 metaphor, and talk with plainness. 
 
 Montrose. To be very plain, then, Miss Roseallen is 
 offended at your boldness, and she regards your love as 
 high fantastical. Neither your presence nor your sere- 
 nades are agreeable to her. 
 
 L. G. Miss Roseallen has sent you with this uncourtly 
 messaere? That I never can believe. 
 
 MoiSTTEOSE. Dare you doubt me, then? 
 
 L. G. My tongue dares doubt what my heart mistrusts. 
 I fear not to speak my thoughts to heaven and man. I 
 shall discover, in a manner least annoying to the lady, what 
 has inspired so cruel an errand, if your words are true! 
 
 Montrose. Your words and manner both invite a future 
 meeting. {La,ying his card upon the flower stand.) I 
 shall have occasion to meet you, my Hector Cincinnatus, 
 my Pan in epaulets; ha! ha! Exit Montrose, r. 
 
 L. G. A parting salute from a cowardly retreat. It's an 
 unwholesome wit that only flashes as it goes out — a cliarnal 
 lamp that shows ghastly the corruption that reeks within. 
 He has slandered my dove. No such black plume can grow 
 among down so white. Oh, no, I'll not believe him. Poor 
 I may be, but the subject of contempt never. Her heart is, 
 like the stone in the ring of Pyrrhus, vermiculated with all 
 the graces in whose veins run living love, made by a 
 heavenly master. Methinks this false courier has told a 
 wicked lie. Slander was ever the coward's revenge; simple 
 faith and love to God and man are the only true flowers of 
 chivalry. Exit., l. c. 
 
 Young ladies and their leaux enter., r. c, carrying bas- 
 kets of provisions, which are stored away hy footman, etc. 
 
 YiOLET. {Sitting down.) What a charming place, and 
 what a delightful day for owxfete. 
 
25 
 
 Charles. And what a happy fate have I, Miss Violet, 
 to throw myself at your feet, Venus and Adonis like. 
 
 Clarence. Like Leander, I have swam so far that my 
 Hero must now revive me, if she can. 
 
 Nellie. One who could revive you, after having swam 
 in such a sea of glory, must be a hero indeed. 
 
 Charles. Did you notice that beautiful group of tall 
 trees just as we turned the lane? A thrush, which had been 
 singing as if his heart were bursting with gladness at the 
 freshness of the morning, frightened at our approach, flew 
 buzzing away to the meadow. I never saw such beautiful 
 plumage. 
 
 Violet. I heard his whir; but I was just then stooping 
 to pick up this beautiful flower. See, it is a wild one, and 
 has such a pretty goldeti tinge. Wouldn't a bunch of them 
 look nice in my hair ? Charles, you must make me a head- 
 dress of them before we go home. 
 
 Charles. I'm wild enough to be a flower; and would 
 be plefised to be one, if I could live among your tresses. 
 
 Violet. Yes, you're too wild for my ringlets; and I fear 
 that you are already a hair-brained youth. 
 
 Clarence. And here are the grounds laid out by the 
 young gardener — the Chevalier de Finer. They are a poem 
 in many books. He must be a poet, who can produce such 
 a landscape, and a sculptor, who could group such figures. 
 It is a manly as well as a lovely art. 
 
 Nellie. Indeed, they say he is not only a poet, but a 
 minstrel, and carols out his own songs like a skylark, " in 
 profuse strains of unpremeditated art." He is not only a 
 skylark, but a nightingale, for he sings both by day and 
 night. 
 
 Walter. He is a genuine troubadour and knight arrant 
 — a blending of Apollo and Mars. They say that he is as 
 brave as he is fine looking. 
 
 Maria. The bravest are ever the gentlest. I wish that 
 he would come down from the skies and have a lark with me. 
 4 
 
26 
 
 Arthur. Kather say that yon should go up to the 
 heavens, being already celestial. 
 
 Maria. Oh, yes, you gentTemen call us heavenly bodies; 
 and so we are, as we only dance round like them to eclipse 
 each other. 
 
 YiOLET. See the widower over there making love to Mrs. 
 Cummings! Why, neither of their spouses have been dead 
 six months. 
 
 Charles. And what's the fun, neither has heard of the 
 single blessedness of the other. 
 
 Clarence. I thought he was one of the pillars of the 
 church. 
 
 Charles. Better call him the nave. 
 
 Mrs. Cummings. Ah! Mr. Bartlett, where is your wife? 
 What would she say if she heard you talking such nonsense 
 to me? 
 
 Bartlett. Oh! madam^ {sighs) she is now resting in 
 Graceland, and I only think of her as an angel! I am a 
 widower these six months. Poor Clara is now on the 
 shining shore. But, Mrs. Cummings, you were not 
 acquainted with her. Her worth was like your own — 
 perfectly measuveless. Her beauty now lives in my mem- 
 ory, and is made only the more fresh by mingling the 
 shadows of the tomb with the animated bust of your lovely 
 self! It is I who should say what would your husband say 
 if he knew that you listened with a smile at the avowal of 
 my new born passion? How is he? 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh! I was dying to have you ask me that 
 question. {Siinperi7ig and coquetting with her fan.) He's 
 been dead these six months! 
 
 {Enter Old W., k., who has overheard them, and ap- 
 proaches.) 
 
 Julia. Why, here's father. 
 
 Old W. {Taking no notice of ^niA A.) Yes; your loves 
 are both buried; and, what is worse, their places can never 
 be filled. You, Mrs. Cummings, had a husband who doted 
 
27 " 
 
 on you, and killed himself to make you rich. "Well may a 
 man exclaim, under such circumstances, " What shall it 
 profit him if he gain the whole world and make his wife a 
 widow?" And you, too, Albert, had such a wife, so de- 
 voted and true. I saw you married, my boy, thirty years 
 ago ( Widower^ dressed youthfully^ winces), and I thought 
 I never saw such noble behavior as yours at your wedding; 
 nor did I ever see it equaled till 1 saw your resigned grief 
 at her funeral. Your deportment upon both occasions was 
 grand. {Taking Bartlett hy the hand.) Her place, Al- 
 bert, can never be filled, never, never, never ! ( Weeps.) Is 
 it not so, Albert? 
 
 Bartlett. Not by her, my dear sir; not by her. 
 
 Old W. Who in the devil would you have it filled by, 
 then? Oh, I see. (^Punches the widower, with a shy ges- 
 ture, and retreats.) 
 
 ^ULiA. Why, pa, you're not going. Stay, and let us 
 make you a punch. 
 
 Charles, And offer you a cigar. 
 
 Old W. JSTo; I am taking my constitutional, and I 
 wanted to see these grounds just laid out by my old friend 
 Roseallen. Exit Willoughbt, l. 
 
 (^All walk forward to the widow and widower.) 
 
 Violet. Now, we want all to pair off for the day. No 
 flirting, you know. Anyone found trespassing on these 
 rules must pay a forfeit. Mr. Bartlett, who will you take? 
 And you, Mrs. Cummings; make your choice. You know, 
 'tis orAy for a day. 
 
 Charles. Stop, stop awhile, says Slow\ Put on the 
 pot, etc., etc., etc., and let us sup before we go. Among all 
 these helles, let's have the tocsin of the soul — the dinner 
 bell. {A scamper for the baskets.) 
 
 Clarence. "A priest, a shark, an alderman, or a pike?" 
 
 Nellie. Boys, will you have your punch hot or cold? 
 
 Charles. Thank you ; I'll take one cold while the other 
 is heating. 
 
28 
 
 (Lizzie pours out wine in Walter's gohlet.) 
 
 Lizzie. Here, take a sandwich. They are very nice. 
 
 Walter. "Fill full. Why, this is as it should be. 
 Here is my true realm — among bright eyes and fair. 
 Happy as fair; here sorrow cannot reach." 
 
 Arthur. Oh, hush your poetry. Let's cease to feed on 
 sighs, to pant on beef. Like Homer's heroes, I never talk 
 while eating. 
 
 Maria. The first business of a picnic is to dine alfresco. 
 All compliments seem empty till then. 
 
 Julia. There are more loaves and fishes here than would 
 feed a multitude. 
 
 Clarence. You must remember, ladies, that we live at 
 a hotel, where the heaviest dinners are but light lunches. 
 The plates are like Indian bull's eyes. It takes a first-class 
 marksman to hit one with his fork. They only play bo- 
 peep with the palate. 
 
 Walter. They always have everytliing you want — on the 
 " bill of fare;" a good reason, they never part with it. They 
 always keep it. The waiter goes for it, and brings you 
 back a glass of water and faith. 
 
 Bartlett. Yes, in things unseen and untasted. 
 
 Arthur. {Pointing to Bartlett.) "He never dines 
 with comfort but where he is sure tq create a famine." 
 
 Charles. The guests are the only things seen, dressed 
 in a pepper and salt suit, at the table. The season must 
 season itself. High prices and low diet. 
 
 Mrs. C. Dr., you know the reason why they ought not 
 to feed you well. 
 
 Charles. We should not hanker after the flesh-pots of 
 Egypt unless we are Jews, and they do not admit them. 
 
 Clarence. No, unless you would n't be hungry enough 
 to come back the next season. 
 
 Mrs. C. If they fed you like camels, you could not go 
 through the eye of a needle into your be'Q chambers. The 
 
29 
 
 wing of a nightingale would make jour room too small to 
 hold you. 
 
 Clarence. But, Julia, where's your beau? What, a lag- 
 gard in love? Let's give him the sack, and cut him with 
 one of his own lancets. 
 
 Maria. Oh, look! Here he comes, Dr. Merrilie, look- 
 ing superbly. See how dashing he is, and what a coat! 
 Such a male would win any girl. 
 
 Walter. Girls, put up your umbrellas; for look on the 
 Doctor's coat! I fear 'tis going to rain — the doctor's a 
 traveling rainbow. 
 
 Julia. But a reign which will soon end when I catch 
 and string this beau. 
 
 Arthur. A capital shot with a bow. Miss Julia. You 
 are not only very arch, but a good archer. I ^quiver all 
 over at a thing so barbarous. 
 
 (Dr. enters!., c. and hows to all and hows hefore Julia.) 
 
 Julia. Why, Dr. Merrilie; if you are as slow in mak- 
 ing sick people well as you are quick in making well peo- 
 ple wait for you, 1 fear your patients will lose all patience 
 with you. 
 
 Frank. My dear ladies and gentlemen, I have been un 
 avoidably detained. 
 
 Charles. {Aside.) That sounds professional. 
 
 Frank. No matter. Where is Miss Kate Spring? I 
 have a message for her. 
 
 Lizzie. Why, she has been moping and as silent as a 
 star, because her summer has not come. She has not said 
 one word. The summer should ever follow the spring. 
 
 Kate. We were about to pair off, when Julia and I 
 found we were without our Romeos. And it would be 
 fruitless to make a pair of us (Frank offers his arm and 
 hows), even to hang on such a bough. 
 
 Frank. Since I am Bob Summer's ambassador to this 
 Court of Beauty, I trust I can interest Miss Kate while I 
 show her the heart of my embassy. {Offers other arm to 
 
30 
 
 Julia, and promenades among the roses and jlomers, hom- 
 ing and s7nirJcing, and eliding peals of laughter from all^ 
 followed hy the rest. [Footmen gather lunch^ etc.] As 
 each swvngs to the front and centre of the stage., th&y say:) 
 
 Arthctk. ' Why the doctor's the king of the roost. 
 
 Walter. The very center of attraction. 
 
 Charles. The delight, the glory, the leading st^r in this 
 galaxy of beauty. 
 
 Arthur. I declare, I would rather have a first class 
 tailor make one up than Praxitilies. They give a fellow a 
 finer form and a more modern look. Fashion is more to be 
 desired than any of Solomon's musty provender. It is bet- 
 ter to have a fashionable suit of clothes than to take a city. 
 
 Charles. Yes; cities will follow the fashion. It is their 
 habit. An embroidered tanic lost the Amazonian Camilla 
 her life. 
 
 Violet. Oh, Charles! you're envious. I will get a fairy's 
 coat and put it on you, and then you will be changed in the 
 twinkling of an eye. 
 
 Charles. Into a dandy sawbones. {Sarcastically.) Per- 
 haps you will get the same fairy Puck to lend me Bottom's 
 false face, 
 
 VioLEr. {Archly.) If I thought you needed it, I might, 
 my jealous Oberon. 
 
 Clarence. " What! Is the jay more precious than the 
 lark because his feathers are more beautiful?" 
 
 Arthur. " Or is the adder better than the eel, because 
 her painted skin contents the eye ? " 
 
 Julia. {Fondly.) Oh ! Frank ; you look so debonair^ 
 to-day. I've almost a notion to fall in love with you over 
 again. You are the best dressed gent at Newport. Your 
 coat is really distingud. Where did you get it ? 
 
 Frank. Ah ! Yes, indeed. I assure you I had great 
 difficulty to get it. It puzzled me a good deal to find out a 
 coat that would suit me to come here to-day. 
 
 Julia. I know you are very particular about many things ; 
 
31 
 
 but I never knew yoii to display such good* taste as now. 
 Pa was here to day. I wish we could have prevailed upon 
 him to have remained. I think, if Pa could see you now, 
 he might think you would make something after all. 
 
 Frank. I never felt, until now, how much a man owes 
 to appearances. It is a debt which is never paid, and for 
 which he is never dunned. " The world is still deceived by 
 ornament." But Julia, to look well in your eyes is worth 
 more to me than twenty garments, though they might be as 
 precious as was the cloak of St. Martin. I wish that your 
 pa was here, to see what a fine looking couple we make. 
 {Promenading from the front to the rear, while the officers 
 enter from the rear of the stage.) 
 
 Enter Bailiffs, bear c. 
 
 1st Bailiff. ( Wiping his forehead with his handker- 
 chief) Faith, Davy, that was a run, and not to make him 
 out after all. But we'll nail him yet. 
 
 2d Bailiff. But are you sure it was him,, after all ? 
 
 1st Bailiff. Oh ! perfectly; I cannot be mistaken. It 
 is the coat beyond a manner of doubt; and of course it is 
 the man, too. See, he came out of the house that we were 
 directed to. 
 
 2d Bailiff. Shall we nab him now ? Let's put a slug 
 through his wings. Little does he know that we are watch- 
 ing him. Do you think he'll run ? 
 
 1st Bailiff. No; wait a bit; not too soon, or he might 
 take to his trotters. You don't know how a man can run 
 with a writ at his heels. I've seen great fat ould chaps, 
 that ye would n't have thought could run a yard, tly like 
 the wind before a " Whereas.''^ 
 
 (Frank and his party, who have been sauntering ainong 
 the vases of flowers in the rear of the stage, come forward. 
 The Bailiff steps hack, and, as he passes, tips him on the 
 shoulder. Frank turns round indignantly, with the ladies 
 hanging upon his arm.) 
 
32 
 
 Frank. What do you mean, sir ? {Only reply ^ knowing 
 wink and wag of the forefinger, which meant, Come here, 
 my friend, and Pll tell you.) Get along with you, sir. 
 
 1st Bailiff. {Sarcastically.) Thank you ; but I won't. 
 
 Frank. No; then w^hat in the deuce do you want ? 
 
 1st Bailiff. You; but you had better behave yourself, 
 for your own sake. 
 
 Frank. {Sarcastically.) Do tell me what you mean ! 
 
 1st Bailiff. Do you know such a man as Filby, the 
 tailor ? Do you know Filby the tailor ? 
 
 Frank. I know him to be the most fashionable tailor in 
 the city; but, as I never had any dealings with him, of 
 course I can owe him nothing. (Frank attempts to pass on 
 with the ladies.) 
 
 1st Bailiff. Not so fast, friend, {slapping Frank upon 
 the shoulder less ceremoniously^ you're my prisoner; and 
 here's my authority, {pulling out a crumbled piece of paper, 
 an execution against Bob.) Although you do not know 
 Filby, I happen to know Filby's coat. The short and the 
 long of the matter is, sir, that I want you, at the instance 
 of J. Filby, tailor and clothier, for debt of $65, with interest 
 and expenses, said debt being the price of the identical 
 coat which you have now upon your back. So come along 
 quietly, or it may be the worse for you. 
 
 Frank. {Aside^ and leaving the ladies and walking 
 to the front of the stage; gents malce gestures of ftm 
 and delight, etc.) Yes, I see it all. I see how the case 
 stands. Poor Bob has never paid for this flashy thing in 
 which I am arrayed, and these dogs of the law intend these 
 honors for him ; and as I have won the glory, I must be 
 content to bear the defeat. I am here in a dilemma ! A 
 regular scrape. I must either acknowledge, in the presence 
 of these gentlemen and fair ones, that the coat which I wear, 
 and which has procured me so much admiration, and so 
 many compliments, is a borrowed one, or quietly submit to 
 being dragged from Julia to jail, as the true debtor. But 
 
33 
 
 I have no more fancy for incarceration than the prisoner of 
 Chillon, or of old Adam, to be turned out of his picnic 
 grounds. I must make the best of it. {Sighing.) I must 
 own the distressing fact that this indigo-tinted thing is a 
 borrowed one, and then, not being its true owner, I shall be 
 free from the attentions of these hounds. ( Walks towards 
 the company and officers.) I have, friends, a humiliating 
 truth to confess. This coat, which has excited your admi- 
 ration, and given me a false claim to your favor, is not mine. 
 It is a borrowed one. My wings were but wax, and the fire 
 of these luminaries of the law has melted them, and I must 
 tumble from my eminence. Let me ask your forbearance, 
 and pray do not laugh at my mishap, and as the shirtless 
 man, when found, was found to be the happiest, perhaps 
 because he did not live in a borrowed one, so may I hope for 
 content, if you will only forbear from jesting at a coatless 
 brother. Will any gentleman lend me his duster ? 
 
 Arthur. O ! Julia, lend him your shaw^l, now that his 
 fine feathers are gone; he will surely catch cold. 
 
 (Julia goes to him and affectionately hangs on his <^rm.) 
 ":'■ Charles. {Shaking hands with him.) That's the best 
 plaster that you can have. A pretty girl's sympathy when 
 you're down. 
 
 1st Baiuff. Young man, this may only be a stiff ; a 
 bogy. You can't prove an alihi in that way. Go down 
 with me to "Justice Bull" and clear it up, and then you 
 may save your carcass, although you have lost your skin, 
 
 (i RANK indignantly attempts to push the officer aside.) 
 
 fsi Bailiff. {Pulling out his handcuffs and clicking 
 them.) You had better bid the party a graceful good bye, 
 and come along like a decent well-behaved tramp. 
 
 Clarence. We all liked the cut of the coat. Its tail, 
 however, has an exceeding small ending. Young Asafoe- 
 tida must now assist at his own dissection. 
 
 (Frank and Julia go, and all follow.) 
 5 
 
34 
 
 Clarence. {Lingers.^ 
 
 " Sure this gay, fresh coat, as seems to me. 
 Hangs like green ivy on a rotten tree." 
 
 Exuent, l. 
 
 Stage darkened^ and while a minor-toned hell strikes 
 slowly the hour of ten the moon slowly rises, music low 
 and tremulous. Balcony, Rivulet, Bridge, and Bower, 
 flooded with moonlight. 
 
 Miss RosEALLEN enters Balcony. 
 
 Matilda. The moon rides at its highest splendor to- 
 night, and lights up all the gloom in yonder wood. What 
 strange, fantastic shapes of embroidery the moonbeams 
 make in the interlacing bonghs and leaves. See yonder 
 chilly water lilies. What silver light their faces throw on 
 that dark Norway pine that overhangs the rivulet edge. 
 The stars have all disappeared, or show like creamy flakes 
 of silver spray. Now all is quietness. Not a leaf stirs. 
 The winds do make no noise, and all is overflown with 
 silence and with fragrance. Now comes trooping into my 
 mind its own secret thoughts — the beloved stranger. My 
 spirits are so subdued to his love that on such a night as 
 this, with such a scene, I am almost melted to tears — fool- 
 ish ones, no doubt, but unbidden they spring, making me 
 feel as tender as looks this landscape. If mystic chords of 
 sympathy can hold two souls, I think this night's beauty 
 and stillness would weave them between my heart and its 
 idol, and bring him to me. The genii of solitude could 
 give to this garden no nobler form of statuary. 
 
 (L. G.'s Serenade is heard from the lady's hower.) 
 
 Math^da. Good heavens! what can this mean? {Pauses 
 till after the serenade.) Music ever moved me, but this 
 steals into my ears with a flood of melody so divine that I 
 am almost faint with rapture. 
 
Enter L, G. from Bower. 
 
 L. G. Did Surprise ever yet show so beautiful? She 
 looks like classic alabaster, or " Daphne root bound as she fled 
 Apollo." Methinks her upturned face doth give new beauty 
 to the moon and lights her palor into smiles. But list! 
 she speaks, and Silence holds her breath to catch- the per- 
 fumed sounds. 
 
 Matilda. What stranger can you be who comes here 
 with song and with instrument? These are private grounds, 
 and my father would be displeased if he found one such as 
 you seeking at such an hour the groves and walks of this 
 garden, instead of asking the hospitalities of the hall. 
 
 L. G. A friendless man, without a country, must always 
 be a stranger to the great. Your father entertains more 
 silken knights. 
 
 Matilda. I am too curious. I believe I know you. 
 Are you not the gentleman who but yesterday surprised me 
 sleeping in my bower? You are now a gardener, and, if 
 fame speaks truly, you were once a brave soldier in a lost 
 cause. Why do you forsake the noble profession of arms 
 to take up an occupation that the world accounts so lowly, 
 if not unmanly? You play the troubadour and the night- 
 ingale when you should act the hero and the eagle. 
 
 L. G. I cannot practice the profession of arms or follow 
 any learned calling suited to my taste. An iron-clad oath 
 has chained me to the rock, Prometheus-like, denying to 
 me, like him, the herb and bread that could be won by 
 intellectual toil in court or martial field. Yet, sweet lady, 
 call not my calling womanly, nor think meanly of its serv- 
 ant. Next to him who strikes for liberty and right, he 
 who distills from bogs and fens, beauty, fragrance and food 
 for all earth's children, most likens him who made each 
 tree and everything that grows upon its bosom. 
 
 Matilda. Yet the country clown and boor make rich 
 earth's soil to get earth's increase. 
 
 L. G. Yes, but with an idle mind and, an unfashioning 
 
36 
 
 hand. The golden corn and wheat, trained into graceful 
 rows, show beauty, but beauty that dies with the harvest. 
 I seek to carve out of the rugged and most waste places of 
 nature pictures as beautiful as poets' dream or artist's gem, 
 that Grod may be glorified in all His works, and my brother 
 man made nearer to Him, Homer, Milton, and the sweet 
 Bard of Avon drew pictures of great things in heaven, earth 
 and hell — gods and demigods, giants. Titans, and demons, 
 and fashioned them after their own desiring phantasy. These 
 bloom immortal in the lofty verse. Claude, Turner, Church 
 throw on the canvas landscapes that are pictures of Para- 
 dise, illumined by the light of heaven. So I (think it not 
 profanity), though lower than these giants of our race, 
 draw pictures on the homely parts of nature — if any aught 
 can be — and God's own sunlight, dew, and air paint them 
 with all the splendor of the bow, to smile immortal, yet 
 forever changing, midst a shower of melody. 
 
 Matilda. You paint a landscape made musical with 
 birds for man's delight, making nature at once a workshop 
 and a temple. I feel your work is noble. 
 
 L. G. Thanks, lady. This shall be my richest recom- 
 pense. I came not here to-night led by the merest curi- 
 osity; nor yet did love's hand lead me, though here I 
 wished to come; but a mission most important. Do you 
 know and did you request Colonel Montrose to carry me 
 the wounding message that my passion's song, ofiered thee, 
 had given thee ofi^nse? A man so calling himself, did so 
 inform me. 
 
 Matilda. It is a cunningly-devised fable, invented by 
 one whom I never admired, and can never more respect. 
 
 L. G. How dare the villain play upon me and misuse 
 you, the gentlest of your sex! May I be so bold as to ask 
 permission to chastise the cozening knave? 
 
 Matilda. Be not too hasty, sir; and remember that your 
 superior strength and stature must ever hold him cheap as 
 an antagonist, as has his base falsehood made him unworthy 
 
37 
 
 of your regard as a gentleman. Besides, I fear my impru- 
 dence. I know it is neither maidenly or customary for one 
 of my sex to hold such converse with an unaccredited gal- 
 lant. Seek my father. Your face, manners, education, and 
 birth give you more recommendation than a thousand con- 
 ventional introductions. Though bred to commerce, yet 
 his parentage is good, and he has sense and independence, 
 not only to discover merit, but with it to make friends. 
 The finer points of war, statesmanship, and generous com- 
 merce are the noble things which give men fame. I think 
 I am content to be devoted, pure and chaste, to love my 
 husband, care for my children, and make my home the 
 dearest place for all. These in womanhood rival the vic- 
 tor's crown or the poet's laurel. You know the brave are 
 bold, and love makes cowards brave. Then go straightway 
 to my father, and to that father's love will I intrust our 
 fate. 
 
 L. G. Mounted on such wings could I face the sun himself, 
 
 And ask him for the brightest daughter 
 
 Who lives upon his light. 
 Matilda. Good night. May my father's face shine upon you 
 
 As night's tapers do on us to-night. 
 
 I fear I shall be angry with myself 
 
 For giving you this entertainment. 
 L. G. Say rather that you will be offended at me 
 
 For being over bold. 
 Matilda. What if I should frown. 
 L. G. I fear not beauty's scorn, though dealt by thee. 
 
 My fondness may offend thee. 
 
 Urged by noble love, I dare support thy frown; 
 
 For Heaven is kind, forgiving, like her of old. 
 
 Before her Master knelt, and loved him much. 
 
 For much had been forgiven. 
 
 So thou, angel of love, let fall a tear, 
 
 And I, forgiven, will nurse that tear, a pearl 
 
 To purchase heaven ! 
 Matilda. If pearls could be brewed so easily, 
 
 I fear a necklace might be worn on every maid. 
 
 Your sin was forgiven in my heart, ere my tongue 
 
 Could pronouce the absolution. 
 
3S 
 
 Fair sir, good-night! It's late, and I must to bed — 
 Yet sing once more, while my prayers are being said. 
 
 Matiuja partly retires. 
 L. G. Methinks as I look upon this breathing sculpture, 
 Whose radient whiteness is o'er-canopied 
 With blue and gold, this garden is enchanted. 
 
 (Landscape Gardener retires to the bower and sings while tfie 
 curtain falls.)'^ 
 
 END OF ACT II. " 
 
ACT III. 
 
 Scene. — Part of Roseallen's Garden. Billiard Table 
 on lawn. 
 
 Oi-D WiLLOUGHBY. Bob, why don't you go yachting ? 
 I see you are rigged for the sport. 
 
 Bob. Well, I'm studying to be an admiralty lawyer, 
 and I play billiards, so as to calculate the angles of approach 
 in collision cases, by navigating balls so that they will col- 
 lide upon green baize. Hard study — " sermons in stones " 
 and a treatise on collision in every carom game. 
 
 Enter Charles, Gents,' Ladies and Bailiffs, etc., l. o. 
 
 Charles, Bob, my dear boy, we heard you were here, 
 and we came over to return to you this cerulian bobtail, 
 with a slight responsibility attached to the same. The doc- 
 tor says it is not good blue glass, and has given him an 
 ague fit. 
 
 Frank. I fear, Summer, that I borrowed trouble when 
 I borrowed your jacket. The officers here have me in dur- 
 ance vile. 
 
 Bob. My Dear Frank, you have n't borrowed the trouble, 
 it's all your own. Thank you. You may return the coat, 
 but keep the trouble, my dear fellow, and prescribe it for 
 Mr. Willoughby for the gout. Trouble is a sure cure for 
 that sort of a thing; eh ! Mr. Willoughby ? Hang it ! I 
 bought this coat for an easy-setting pleasure garment, and 
 it turns out to be good only for a traveling coat. 
 
 1st Bailiff. Are you the owner of this coat, and the 
 defendant in this writ ? If so, please take your cue and 
 settle up, or take the fate intended for this poor gent. 
 
 Bob. Hold on, my caitiff tip-staff. Walk softly and 
 speak low, for here is a first class case of false imprison- 
 
40 
 
 ment, trespass vi et armis. Merrilie, my friend, you have 
 a merry suit made out of tliis very blue coat. Heavy and 
 exorbitant damages, vindictive and curative. Egad ! I needed 
 business, and who would have thought of putting Frank 
 upon my hook as a fly? Why, Frank, I'll set you again. 
 You're a nest Qgg, and deserve an ovation. Don't you 
 want my breeches ? Would n't you like to invest in my 
 vest, hey ? {Turning to the' officers.) Look here, my body- 
 snatchers, you have unlawfully abridged the liberty of one 
 of the sons of the sovereign State of New York ! One 
 of the brightest luminaries that was ever a dead shot with 
 physic, or killed a man secundum arteni by giving him a 
 prescription to die in a dead language ! You had better 
 emetic yourselves out of the window there, and escape his 
 diagnosis, than to be ejected down stairs in a fit of convul- 
 sions. Vile minions of Jack Ketch, I will for once be mag- 
 nanimous. I will use my own funds in paying the dam- 
 ages you owe. I will pay to the 'plaintifi* in this case 
 {^pointing to Frank,) the amount of this execution out of 
 my own pocket, in liquidation, (to be taken out in liquor,) 
 of the damages you owe him, and call it square. Frank, 
 don't blush at my generosity. 
 
 1st Bailiff. That won't do young scarecrow ; that won't 
 go down. You can't play bugaboo with us. It don't pay 
 the tailor's bill. {Attempts to arrest Boh., who., retreating 
 around the Milliard table., passes into the arms of Baiijff 
 No. 2.) We'll have you or the money. 
 
 Bob. My accounts seem to be in arrear. {Looking a 
 little more seriously at Kate, and looking at . the hand- 
 cuffs.) Is this what you call "■ a Newport tie?" Will 
 you take bail? 
 
 Bailiff. Yes; if it is good. 
 
 Bob. What say you to the coat itself? It won't turn 
 tail and run away, even in a case of running account. 
 
 Bailiff. {Preparing to lead Bob off.) Pay up, or give 
 good bonds. We have wasted time enough already. 
 
41 
 
 Bob. See here, Mr. Willoiighby, would you like very 
 much to give security to these outflyers of the ninth part of 
 a man like yon ? 
 
 WiLLOUGHBT. I never lend to spendthrifts, young man, 
 or go their security, which in the end amounts the same 
 thing. 
 
 Bob. Mr. Willoughby, my father and you were old 
 friends and schoolmates. He followed the profession of 
 law, and, as a consequence, worked hard, lived well and died 
 poor. You, that of a merchant, and, what is better than 
 all, you can exclaim with Daniel Webster, (and you resemble 
 him verjmuchin that one particular,) you may exclaim, " I 
 yet live." When you two, my father and you, were young 
 bachelors, and both neck and neck, no doubt, in life's course 
 as you were heart and heart in friendship, you employed him 
 as your counsellor. Well, as my father left me the profession, 
 but no practice, I was looking over his papers to see if, 
 out of the ashes of his business, (ashes, I trust, that have 
 no lye in them, as have most lawyer's cases,) I found an 
 old package of papers, tied up with a blue ribbon, and 
 marked on his docket 9,999, although he had only been in 
 practice then two months. The case of Cyclops vs. Wil- 
 loughby. ( Willoughby startles.) Miss Xantippe Cyclops, 
 a spinster of thirty -five ! Case, " Breach of Promise to 
 Marry." Blue ribbon held love letters from a youth of 
 twenty-two, now resembling Miss Julia's father. The pack- 
 age also held their pictures, done in groujD — stately old she- 
 biddy, verdant young coxcomb. 
 
 Willoughby. Speak a little lower, please. 
 
 Bob. Well, in looking over the entries, I found that 
 your lawyer made no charge to his dear friend, and I don't 
 see anywhere that the case has ever been settled. I am at 
 great pains to look it up, and have it restored to the docket, 
 for I am sure, from a perusal of the letters, and considering 
 the over mellow ripeness of the plaintiff, and the youth and 
 inexperience of the defendant at the time, you have a first- 
 G 
 
42 
 
 class defense upon the merits. You are in the right, my 
 dear friend, and, for the sake of that friendship my father 
 ever bore you, I'll make a speech which will put the eye 
 out of that venerable Cyclops, and pull the wool over the 
 eyes of the jury, so that you will escape just as that shrewd 
 dog Ulyses did, by the aid of wool and lying, from the cave 
 of her horrid old ancester. Let me state the case to Charles 
 and Julia, here; they have first rate sense. Look on this 
 picture, and then on this ! Tragic and grand. {Old Wil- 
 lougKby tries to shut his mouth.) 
 
 Old Willoughby. Umj)h ! I'll settle this matter, Mr. 
 Bailiff. I'll call over to see the tailor. (Bailiffs retire l.) 
 
 Bob. And invite the company to a case Chatteau Mar- 
 gaux at your own snug cottage. 
 
 WiLLOuGHBY. Why, ycs. {Aside.) But no more of 
 Xantippe Cyclops. 
 
 Bob. JMo; as I have opened your eye, I'll close hers 
 forever. 
 
 Exeunt all, k. Bob offer's Kate his arm and sings, chaff- 
 ing Old Willoughby, 
 
 " Here's to the girl loith a pair of blue eyes 
 And here's to the nymph with but one^ sir." 
 
 {Removes Billiard Tahle.) 
 
 Enter Bertha and^ Col. Montrose, l. c. 
 
 Montrose. The news you tell me startles and con- 
 cerns me. I fear while I hesitate the bird will have mated 
 and flown forever beyond my reach. This is certainly 
 serious. I hope my visit to him was well timed, and will 
 make him shy. 
 
 Bertha. When you informed me that it was the young 
 Southerner, I made up my mind, from all that I could hear 
 and learn about him, that he would be a most dangerous 
 rival. There is enough of mystery and merit about him 
 both to excite the imagination of a young girl and to awaken 
 her admiration. There is a dash about him of the soldier 
 
43 
 
 and the courtier; and then his tenderness for his mother, 
 his care of her, and his love for the beautiful; his love songs 
 sung M'ith a voice of superb fullness; every one of which, 
 to a pure minded maiden like Matilda, will fly to the heart 
 like Cupid's best arrow with the golden head; and I fear that 
 her fancy will make a hero out of a two-legged animal, who 
 has no other merit than that of being an amiable pauper. 
 
 Montrose. But what did Matilda say? 
 
 Bertha. Oh, she extolled him to the sky, and was sure 
 that he was a gentleman, whose birth and fortune was far 
 above his.present condition. She thought his manners were 
 those of a prince, although she never spoke to him or heard 
 him speak; so quick does admiration give character to those 
 whom we regard. 
 
 Montrose. Well, one thing's plain — there is no 
 time to lose. You must help me. Arrange this evening 
 or next to get Matilda away from her father's hall into the 
 garden near to the bridge, and I'll arrange the rest. 
 
 Bertha. Oh, dear! You don't mean to do anything 
 wrong? You dare not go to extremes, or attempt to carry 
 her off. No, no, Colonel ; I will do all that I can to get 
 her for you, but it tnust be done by coaxing and persuasion, 
 and not by violence. I fear that I have gone too far already. 
 Let's drop the matter. 
 
 Montrose. Hark, you! I will not be trifled with. 
 I mean the wench no harm. I wish only to get her alone; 
 and then if tears and prayers avail nothing, release her, 
 beseeching her to forget me. I know that we can calculate 
 upon her delicacy and generosity; and if she believes that 
 I have sinned through excess of love, I am sure she will 
 forgive me, if she neither pities or loves me. ©o as I bid 
 you, or I will ruin you and kill myself. 
 
 Bertha. Good heavens! say no more. I'll do it; but 
 you must not harm a hair of her head. She is so gentle 
 and o-ood that I cannot see her wronsjed. 
 . Montrose. I promise, on my honor. 
 
44 
 
 Bertha. "Well, to-night or to-morrow night I will go 
 upon an errand for Matilda, to iind out about this strange 
 bird of hers, and I will ask her to watch me, as I am some- 
 what timid. When upon the bridge, I will trip and fall. 
 I know she will come to my assistance; and then while 
 there you can detain her, and speak to her, if you must. 
 You don't mean to say that you have seen him, and talked 
 to him about Matilda? What did he say? 
 
 Montrose. I threatened him. I found him as 
 quick as Mars. I fear that he will pester me, with his 
 cursed notions of chivalry and code of the duello. 
 
 Bertha. Blood mixed with choler is said to be the best. 
 But I should be so glad to hear more; but see, here comes 
 Matilda! and you must leave me. 
 
 Exit OoL. Montrose, r. 
 
 'r Enter Matilda, yrc»w the bower, carrying a houquet. 
 
 Matilda. See, Bertha, what a beautiful nosegay! Is it 
 not charming? See how it is arranged! It is a love letter 
 written in flowers, and says so many pretty things. I found 
 it in my wood bower, just as we were starting for the bath. 
 Who could have been thoughtful enough to have left it for 
 me? 
 
 Bertha. He who watches a maid while sleeping might 
 bring her flowers to beguile her waking moments. I am 
 afraid your invisible knight has left marks written in 
 Flora's colors. I promised you, my lady, I would find him 
 out; and so I will seek out his hiding place, and bring you 
 all the intelligence I can of him. 'Til then curiosity must 
 sleep in your heart, as sleeps the owl by moonlight — that 
 is not at all. 
 
 Matilda. Bertha, you were ever kind; but never before 
 did 1 feel your kindness as now. Here comes the horses 
 and Mr. Vanderpelt. I must go join him and pa; they are 
 waiting for me to take me to the beach. \_Exit Bertha, l.] 
 Bertha! {Calling her back.) Perhaps we had better make 
 
46 
 
 no farther inquiries — they might be misunderstood; and 
 if he should hear of them, might give him offense. 
 
 Bertha. Well, miss, just as you choose. {Aside.) I 
 fear she has learned enough already. {Aloud.) But still I 
 must go and meet my messenger, and instruct him not to 
 concern himself farther upon the subject. 
 
 Matilda. There, pa's calling. Go, Bertha. 
 
 Exeunt., Bertha, l., Matilda, r. 
 
 Enter Bob Summer and Kate, rear c, across the bridge. 
 
 Kate. I do declare,* Robert, you have given me quite a 
 chase {holding a bouquet of wild grasses and water lilies), 
 and I am quite out of breath ; and you came near drowning 
 your Kate. 
 
 Bob. Kate, you lost your breath! Why, dearest, I will 
 replevy it from the violets and sweet-scented flowers. If I 
 can't recover it the fields will smell sweeter than ever. 
 And as for drowning you, Kate Spring, how could a bab- 
 bling Spring be hushed in water? Your jets {caressing her 
 hair) will float in the air long after these wild grasses will 
 be as tame as your lover. 
 
 Kate. Tliey {looking at the grasses) will bear wild oats 
 forever, then. Why, here we are on the Landscape Gar- 
 dener's grounds. It's a splendid place to make love. 
 
 Bob. " Love thoughts be rich when canopied with 
 bowers." 
 
 Kate. I want you to answer me one question. Do you 
 think Miss Eoseallen so very, very beautiful? 
 
 Bob. Why, no, Kate; and yet we must confess her love- 
 liness. " But what care I how fair she be." Kate alone is 
 my nonpareil. Why do you ask me? 
 
 Kate. Because I heard you on the yacht say something 
 to her that almost meant so — about Venus, and the sea, and 
 some nonsense. {Laughs.) What did you mean when you 
 drove old Mr. Willoughby away from Frank and Julia by 
 singing that horrid song just as you were drinking your 
 claret? 
 
46 
 
 Bob. {Sings:) 
 
 " Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes ! ;■ 
 
 And here's to the nymph with but one, sir!" 
 
 Oil, tliat was to give a chance to the Doctor to feel Jtilia's 
 pulse without giving the old gent an opportunity to tell 
 Frank that Julia had entirely recovered, and that he might 
 discontinue his visits. That's all. Ha! ha! 
 
 Kate. You do plague the old gent's life almost out of 
 him. Yet he seems to like yon. But everybody likes you, 
 Kobert. Do you really love me? 
 
 Bob. Why do you dun me? It is the only suit {laugh- 
 ing) for which I was ever able to pay with all my heart. 
 Here {pointing to his heart) my wealth is fabulous. The 
 tenant is always a rich lodger, while the lower apartments 
 I confess are sometimes empty. 
 
 Kate. But the attic {patting his head) is filled with 
 salt. 
 
 Bob. a salt, I trust, Kate, that will soon cure me of all 
 my follies. I am almost sad when I think of my penury ; but 
 my craft is young, and I crowd on all sail to get clear as 
 soon as possible of the fog of poverty to schoon in an open, 
 clear sea, laden with a full freight of honest learning. 
 
 Kate. When the head and heart's right, dear Kobert — 
 
 Bob. Our heels will always carry us to green pastures, 
 and beside still waters. 
 
 (Bob Tnakes motions to go, and then fools Kate, who fol- 
 lows hinn up.) 
 
 Kate. For whither thou goest I will go. * * * Thy 
 people shall be my people. * * * Where thou diest — 
 
 Bob. Hush ; you make me nervous. I always thought 
 Ruth meant that as a threat. It gives a fellow no chance 
 for a Utah divorce. 
 
 Kate. Robert, it is getting late. If we're going to look 
 in at Mrs. Cummings', we must get along. 
 
47 
 
 Bob. Kate, come here and see tlie evening: star. It has 
 just peeped out through its rosy vaiL See, it looks like a 
 diamond distilled from the blushes of twilight. (Bob looks 
 down on her face as she looks itp.) Darling, the dew is 
 falling on the roses and these tulips. {Kissing her.) 
 
 Kate. {Breaking from hiin.^ and wiping her mouth as 
 if she liked it) Yes, Bob; you made me see more stars 
 than one. She runs off, l., a7id hefollov^s. 
 
 Enter Bertha, l. c. 
 
 Bertha. It is now time that Matilda should leave the 
 parlor. Here she comes. [Enter Matilda, r.] It is now 
 the hour that I promised the messenger that I would visit 
 him, to learn from him the history of your hero. It is 
 time I should go, Matilda. 
 
 Matilda. I only wish I could attend you; the night is 
 so very beautiful, and I am so nervous when I am alone. 
 The wind is gentle, and the halo around the moon gives 
 her a softer aspect than last night's splendor. 
 
 Bertha. I, too, am timid; yet for your dear sake would 
 I walk through more perils than grasshoppers and crickets 
 can surround me. 
 
 Matilda. Well, Bertha, if I can't be your companion, 
 I'll remain here at my lattice till you return. 
 
 Bertha. I fear that since you have found so much 
 mystery and interest in the garden, you prefer it to the 
 dancing hall. Remember, my lady, our first mother found 
 but little good in listening to a tempter in the garden. 
 Forbidden fruit costs us dear. 
 
 Matilda. I have found more snakes in the drawine:- 
 room than could people an Eden such as this. 
 
 Bertha. We'll go in, young lady, and I will start on 
 my gossiping errand. 
 
 (Matilda goes to the lattice and waves her handkerchief t- 
 
48 
 
 at Bertha, who goes toward the hridge and crosses its 
 planks^ slowly.) 
 
 Matilda. I fear dear Bertha may fall. It is the first 
 time that she has ever ventured across the bridge at night, 
 and its planks are very treacherous. 
 
 (Bertha stumbles and falls. Matilda rushes to her sup- 
 port, and, while hending over^ her, Matilda is seized hy 
 Montrose, disguised, with confederates. She gives a slight 
 shriek, and faints, and is hurried along hy Montrose, un- 
 conscious. The governess gets up and scampers off. As 
 Montrose hears Matilda from the hridge and across the 
 stage, L. G. strikes him to the earth,' he holds her in one 
 arm, and with the other strikes another roiigh. One rotigh 
 strikes the L. Gr. with a club, oAid then Jlees into the thicket.) 
 
 L. G. A knavish piece of work; but it failed. Lad}^ 
 how is it with you? 
 
 Matilda. Oh, nothing. You have done nothing in 
 saving me if poor Bertha lies drowned in the brook; and 
 that blood that flows down your face may be the dear price 
 of my safety. (Matilda starts up to save her friend.) 
 
 L. G. Content yourself, fair lady; my wound is but a 
 scratcli. And as for your companion, I saw her rise with- 
 out assistance, and with a spry foot return to the house, far 
 more sprightly than when she wiled you over the bridge. 
 
 Matilda. {Recognizes the L. G., and withdraws her- 
 self entirely from him.) Oh, mercy ! you here, and my 
 deliverer! What must I do? We cannot tarry here longer 
 together. Bertha will report my danger to my father and 
 his guests, and they will soon be in pursuit of me. And 
 what would they say to find us together? Have you sought 
 my father? 
 
 L. G. I^ot yet. I called at his door; but when I thought 
 of what answer I would make to his question, what brought 
 me to him, I blushed to think of what my heart would bid 
 
49 
 
 my tongue tell liim. It was not shame, but pride, that 
 made me blush. I could not bear to tell my story, with a 
 beggar's portion. He might misunderstand me. 
 Matilda. We must be strangers, then. Farewell! 
 
 (Matilda leaves him^ and he retires through wood hower. 
 Bertha returns to her mistress.) 
 
 Matilda. Sore stunned you must have been, good Ber- 
 tha, when you saw not my peril. Surely, it is impossible. 
 Did you not see your own Matilda carried off by men ? 
 Yet why do I put that question? Surely it is sufficient to 
 satisfy me that my dear friend was insensible and ignorant 
 of my fate, when she has failed to rouse my father to my 
 rescue. 
 
 Bektha. Carried away by men, darling, and I ignorant 
 of the base treachery ! Oh, Matilda, I am petrified ! Where 
 were you carried to, and who are the ruffians? Knew you 
 anything of them ? Doubtless of the gardener's " ku-klux " 
 knights in disguise. Speak, love, and relieve the beating 
 heart of your old friend, 
 
 Matilda. Oh, no. Bertha, lead me to this seat, and I 
 will tell you all. It was indeed he who rescued me; he 
 whose angelic countenance has so long hovered over me in 
 my hours of retirement and in my dreams. You know he 
 first saw me sleeping in my bower. Since then his face has 
 got into my mind by the power of its beauty. Oh, how 
 true I cherished it as the face of the beautiful hero of my 
 histories; often limed it on the air by the fragrant pencil of 
 my fancy; dreamed of it and wept, as the light of day 
 chased away the beloved form, and left me only in its place 
 the things of ordinary life — the countenances of the smart 
 beaux of Newport. 
 
 Bertha. A lucky knight, my lady, who timely shows 
 his head at a lady's bower, and as timely saves her from the 
 hands of kidnapers. 
 7 
 
50 
 
 Matilda. Oh, do not speak so of him. He is humble, 
 and knows as well as I that we can never be united. I'll 
 never see him more. Would that I had never seen him, or 
 that I were fated to see him ever. 
 
 Beetha. [Suspiciously.) Have you no suspicion who 
 the treacherous caitiifs were who would steal my darling? 
 
 Matilda. None whatever. But, Bertha, my best and 
 truest friend, you must endeavor to learn for me some intel- 
 ligence of my deliverer; for though he can never stand in 
 any other relation to me, I would wish to know more of one 
 whose image I treasure up iii my heart, even as the miser 
 does the number which forms the index of his wealth. The 
 widow loves the grave of her departed husband, and bedews 
 it with tears, and carries away with her again the image of 
 him she leaves to the worms. He is to me as the entombed 
 lover. Life and death are not more distant than the pride 
 of the Koseallens and the humility of the poor; but his 
 name may become as the graven letters of the monumental 
 stone — I may weep over %mm, , 
 
 Bertha. I fear that I have made a poor scout. Once I 
 failed in my commission, and a watery grave had nearly 
 been my reward. Take my advice, and seek him out no 
 farther. If it is ordained that you should forget him, you 
 should banish him from your mind. Think of him no more 
 than you would the bird that whirs past you into the wood, 
 that has a pretty feather in its tail. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, Bertha, that ignorance will not be bliss to 
 me; but I must hasten to ma, and tell her of the danger 
 and escape. 
 
 Bertha. Yes; and of the handsome rescuer. But here 
 she comes. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Roseallen. 
 
 Mrs. Roseallen. Why, Matilda, I have been in search 
 of you. Where could you have been ? My dear, the night 
 
61 
 
 air, I fear, will give jou cold. We missed you from the 
 parlor. Your father has just received a note that Mr. Yan- 
 derpelt will breakfast with us in the morning, and will 
 expect you to be one 'at the table, as he has something par- 
 ticular to say to you, which something your pa and ma both 
 hope will be received by you with all graciousness. Come, 
 child, why do you tremble? You are nervous. Bertha, 
 please see Miss Roseallen to her bed. Bertha, she has 
 fainted! 
 
 Enter Bob Summer and Kate, l. 
 
 Tableau! 
 
 Bertha. Matilda. Mother. 
 Kate. Summer. 
 
 ; END OF act m. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 Scene. — Parlor. Evening dancing party. Present, 
 Old Willoughby, Bartlett, Frank Merrilie, Bob 
 Summer, Clarence, Arthur, Charles, Walter, Julia, 
 Kate, Yiolet, et al. 
 
 Charles. Mr. Willoughby, when we dance or sing, or 
 you or Bob Summer| says something that's good, may we 
 laugh ? 
 
 Willoughby. I know it ain't respectable to laugh. They 
 don't do that sort of a thing at Newport. Fashionable 
 people only raise their eyebrows, and smile with their eye- 
 lids, and shrug their shoulders. Egad! my wife made me 
 practice it half an hour a day for a month. 
 
 Bob. When Mr. Willoughby cracks a joke we can't help 
 it. Flea, duress; verdict, couldn't be helped, it was so 
 funny. 
 
 Clarence. There used to be a grii^niug club in London, 
 in Queen Anne's time; but that died of the blues in our 
 own. 
 
 Arthur. What would Newport say if it heard that we 
 had laughed in society? 
 
 Charles. Or that we had said a witty thing? 
 
 Frank. Or saved a man's life without first inquiring 
 whether he wore a coat of arms, on the crest of the wave? 
 
 Walter. What did you say, doctor, about a coat of — 
 what ? 
 
 Bartlett. A mere slip of the tongue. "No more of 
 that, Hal, as thou love'st me," doctor! 
 
 Julia. The truth is, our party is so small that I think 
 we can trust them with their own secret. We may be rustic 
 for a summer's eve. 
 
 YiOLET. Why, when I first came here I thought ma had 
 
53 
 
 brought me to see the tombs of Egypt. Every house was 
 as silent as the grave. 
 
 Maria. And one don't get a ghost of a chance to enter, 
 unless he, she or it is as rich as Mr. Vanderpelt. Like a 
 first-class theatre, you must pay at the door for admittance. 
 
 Kellie. Or be as impertinent as Eob Summer. 
 
 Mrs. Cummings. Young ladies, if it were ever known 
 that two or more persons were gathered together here for a 
 dance, without an invite on perfumed satin, dated at least 
 ten days previously, delivered by a powdered footman, 
 drawn by a coachman with 
 
 Bob. a whitewashed fence on both sides of his chops, a 
 black band around his hat, like Mr. Mould, with a tiger whose 
 legs look like bull-frogs, and eyes like hobby-horses 
 
 Clarence. The glory of the Willoughby star in the 
 firmament of fashion would go out like a Fourth of July 
 balloon. 
 
 Arthur. It was only by a lucky accident that a dis- 
 tinguished family, returned from France, obtained an entre 
 into good society, a few seasons ago. 
 
 Bob. Which lucky accident was no other than their 
 thoroughbreds running away; their coachman was killed. 
 This established at once the mettle of the horses and the 
 family. 
 
 Frank. The only unlucky thing about the affair was, 
 that although I ran a mile, to be the first to get the subject, 
 the poor fellow was dead ere I could feel his pulse. 
 
 Walter. But, doctor, what did your friends say to see 
 you running after a runaway ? 
 
 Julia. The doctor was incog. — he was afoot. No one 
 is ever recoginised at Newport afoot. 
 
 Servants enter with wine. 
 Charles. The ruby laughing in this wine is not redder, 
 or sparkles less to me, than your lips. {Speaking to Violet.) 
 
54 
 
 YioLET. Yet, unlike my lips, it will give you words of 
 folly. 
 
 Bob. I always follow the advice of Sir William Temple. 
 The first glass for myself, the second for my friend, the 
 third for good humor, and the fourth for my enemies. 
 
 Kate. I am afraid that you oftener sacrifice yourself to 
 your enemies than toast yourself or friends. I am not yet 
 convince^l that the fourth bowl did not keep you away from 
 the picnic. 
 
 Bob. Oh, no, dear Kate. I was on horseback, compos- 
 ing before breakfast my great play of Newport, in six acts. 
 
 Clarence. (Aside.) Bob doesn't usually get his break- 
 fast 'til some one asks him out to dine. 
 
 Lizzie. But how could you compose so heavy a play on 
 so light a stomach? 
 
 Bob. Easily done, my fair satirist. You summon the 
 modiste'/ 
 
 Kate. How charming! 
 
 Bob. The milliner! 
 
 Violet. A lovely idea! i. 
 
 Bob. The tailor! 
 
 Arthur. A jolly suggestion! 
 
 Bob. The upholsterer! 
 
 Old W. Satin and gilt. Farewell, the buskined stage. 
 
 Bob. The artist! 
 
 Bartlett. An inspiration! 
 
 Bob. The Florist! 
 
 Mrs. C. Nosegays and night- blooming cereus. 
 
 Bob. The musician ! ■* 
 
 Clarence. Drums and fiddlesticks. 
 
 Bob. And then consult the old masters for a tableau 
 to finish up each act. {All, encore, encore.) And if the 
 plot is as dull as the times, and the wit as flat and dark as 
 the poles, your play is a success. 
 
 Frank M. It requires one thing more, Bob. Like the 
 wine we drink, it must be of foreign importation, and the 
 
 I! 
 
56 
 
 older the vice, like the wine, the more it is prized. There 
 are play tipplers as well as wine tipplers. 
 
 Nellie. I was told, by a lady of fashion, that we misses 
 were only expected to lan<^h at what we had been taught to 
 blush, and only to blush at finding ourselves too modest to 
 laugh. 
 
 Julia. Fashion tells us only to smile at vice. A hearty 
 laugh at an innocent jest is the worst kind of ill-breedinf>-. 
 For my part, I shall always prefer those plays which set my 
 mind to a merry music, by which I can find a good partner 
 in truth and morality. They may not waltz so brilliantly, 
 but then they give a pink to the cheek, which is the 
 blush of innocence and health, and not that of vice and 
 excitement. 
 
 Walter. Gentlemen, let's try one of those moral waltzes. 
 
 {Bow to their mates, and swing off to the Newport vmltz^ 
 with figures, music and dance composed for the play. 
 Set^ant enters and announces to Mr. Willoughby that 
 Miss RosEALLEN has heen kidnaped near the grounds.) 
 
 Old Willoughby. Gentlemen, what news is this ? Great 
 Heavens! The groom says that Col. Montrose is killed. 
 Bertha drowned, the gardener wounded, and Miss Roseallen 
 kidnaped; that the Colonel now lies on the lawn. 
 
 {All make for the lawn.) Exuent. 
 
 Enter Mr. Yandekpelt and Miss Eoseallen, e. 
 
 Mk. Vanderpelt. Indeed, you surprise me. Miss Rose- 
 allen. Those nearest you gave me to understand that your 
 heart was perfectly free, and your hand wholly disengao-ed. 
 It was my hope to make you the head of my establishment. 
 An establishment as well appointed as the richest in the 
 land. Instead of asking a dowry from your father, it was 
 my intention to present my wife, on her wedding day, with 
 a mansion house and all of its contents, together with as 
 fine a turnout as was ever stabled in our city, to go and 
 
56 
 
 come when and where she pleased; added to this a private 
 allowance of ten thousand 
 
 Matilda. Pray, Mr. Yanderpelt, spare me these details. 
 They cannot possibly interest me. They may your wife, 
 upon her wedding day. 
 
 Yanderpelt. Perhaps my plainness and directness may 
 oifend you ; but, Miss Roseallen, I am a business man, with 
 all the words imply. A clear proposition, direct and to the 
 purpose, is one of the first accomplishments of a good mer- 
 chant. I think this ought to hold good in the affairs of 
 love, as well as those of business. 
 
 Matilda. Mr. Yanderpelt, I am perfectly conscious of 
 the honor you intended me, and I hope I am sufficiently 
 flattered and grateful. I respect you character, and am not 
 surprised at your wealth. 
 
 Yanderpelt. Yes, my credit is A No. 1, and my house 
 is very solvent. May I consider that you will turn the mat- 
 ter over in you mind, and let me hear from you by due course 
 of mail, or shall I wait for a reply from yourself in person? 
 
 Matilda. I think I have been sufficiently explicit. I 
 may say, out of the respect to my dear parents' wishes, that 
 I believe all your wares to be solid and in demand. {Laugh- 
 ing^ I believe these words are the currency in trade, 
 but your market here {'pointing to Tier heart) is without 
 consumers. 
 
 Yandereelt. I am sure of one thing, that you will find 
 more true happiness with a man of wealth, without the 
 fashionable book learning that young ladies think so fine, 
 than with a poor bankrupt, with nothing to feed and clothe 
 you except fine thoughts. 
 
 Matilda. My lover must be a lover, and his fine thoughts 
 must only be the advance guard to glorious actions. He 
 must not eat the lotus, but drink deep of the well springs 
 of human action ; great thoughts made great things by a 
 man of noble spirit. 
 
 Yanderpelt. I do not quite understand you, but I care 
 
57 
 
 very little for anything to eat or drink while a negotiation 
 is pending. May I take my leave ? 
 
 Matilda. Adieu. (Yanderpelt hoios out, r.) I must 
 appear very cruel and unkind, I know; and it almost breaks 
 my heart to disappoint poor pa and ma. They have 
 always been so kind to me. It is the only thing I could 
 refuse them. But instinct teaches us to find our mate as it 
 does all other living creatures. As well might the black- 
 bird be compelled by its sooty parent to wed the hawk, and 
 expect to find happiness, as for me to wed this lion of the 
 Stock Exchange and love him, as he has a right to expect, 
 from my bridal vow. 
 
 Exit Matilda, r. 
 
 Enter Bertha, r., and Montrose, l. 
 
 Montrose. I can endure this no longer. 
 
 Bertha. What, you here ? 
 
 Montrose. Yes; I find the family has gone for a drive ' 
 to the fort, and was too impatient to see you to wait. That 
 southern rebel has crossed my path and filched my game 
 while it was in my springes. Bertha, I'll be revenged on 
 the dog and make him grub in the earth for something else 
 than flowers. 
 
 Bertha. But what did yon mean to do ? You did not 
 mean to kidnap Matilda. AVe will be caught and punished. 
 
 Montrose. Did Matilda suspect who were her assailants ? 
 
 Bertha. Ko, indeed; and I trembled for all my life, 
 and tried to throw suspicion on the gardener. 
 
 Montrose. But she knew differently. 
 
 Bertha. Yes; and is more desperately in love with him 
 than ever. If you expect to ever gain Matilda, you must 
 get the gardener out of her way. 
 
 Montrose. That must be thought of hereafter. Let me 
 see, I will have old Koseallen forbid him to throw himself 
 in the way of his daughter. The fellow is as high toned 
 as Sir Charles Grandison, and is as firey as Hector or Hot- 
 spur. He will keep away; besides, the blow he got in the 
 
58 
 
 fray has laid him out for at least six weeks, and perhaps 
 may prove his quietus. In the meantime I will invent some 
 story that will make the coast clear. Of two things am I 
 now resolved — Revenge on this impecunious intruder, and 
 to have Matilda, though I should have to dive wrist deep in 
 her lover's blood. 
 
 Beetha. You must now leave me, for I hear them. The 
 carriages have arrived. In the meantime I will ward off 
 all suspicions ; will sympathize with her, and keep the track 
 
 of her secret. 
 
 JExuent, Bertha, k., Montkose, l. 
 
 Enter Matilda, r., with her bonnet in her hand and 
 throws herself on a sofa, her head resting on her hands., 
 and in meditation. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Roseallen, k. 
 
 Mrs. R. Matilda, you have your father much offended. 
 The expectation indulged in by him, that you would accept 
 the hand of Mr. Yanderpelt, has been as soothing medicine 
 to a mind sick almost to desperation. Every emotion of 
 his heart is bound up in love of you, and pride for the 
 honor of his name. Your father is not avaricious, nor I 
 ambitious; nor would we sacrifice your happiness for any 
 earthly motive. 'Tis not that honor or riches are to be 
 won, but dishonor and loss of caste is to be averted ; that 
 makes it necessary that you should wed this millionaire. 
 Consider your father's gray hairs, his sensitive nature, his 
 fear of humiliation, and then, like the fair daughter of Is- 
 rael, kiss the hand that you believe wounds you. I know 
 my daughter's spirit and principle; I can calculate upon 
 them. I ask you not to wed for distinction, wealth, or sta- 
 tion, although all these are things to be desired. I know 
 that you would spurn them if your heart did not espouse 
 the giver; but think rather on the good you may do and 
 the evil you can avert to tiiose precious to you, and who 
 gave you life and trained up your mind in fadeless gems of 
 loveliness. I do not command you; I only entreat. 
 
59 
 
 Matilda. {Throws herself in her 7nother''s arms and 
 sobs.) Mother! mother! mother! I can wrong myself. Like 
 Jephthah's daughter, I can give up my jlife without a sigh, 
 save to leave you all, for the sake of duty. But my dear 
 father's examj^le and my mother's precepts have ever taught 
 me that tliere is no possible ill so great as that where self- 
 respect dies with the ruin. I shall ever be obedient to your 
 will, and pray heaven that it may open some other way to 
 save you and bless me. Mercy! what shall I do? I care 
 nothing for worldly splendor, though surrounded by such 
 since first my eyes knew what it meant. Kind and gra- 
 cious heaven ! give us strength to bear our present lot, if in 
 poverty, with independence and content; if in prosperity, 
 humility and loving charity! Dear mother, things may 
 yet be better than they seem. {Embracing her mother.) 
 
 Mes. E,. God bless you, my child; and may we learn 
 wisdom from thy chaste and innocent lips. 
 
 Exit Mother, k. 
 
 Enter Bertha, k. c. 
 
 (Matilda turns and throws herself into her arms, and 
 sobs.) 
 
 Bertha. Do not weep, my dearest darling; my heart 
 almost breaks for you. I feel as if you were again my 
 pretty child, with sunny face and amber-lighted ringlets, 
 come to my arms to tell me that some mishap had over- 
 taken your favorite doll. Then the eyes dropped plenteous 
 tears ; now the bosom rises and falls, and the heart beats as if 
 this little delicate body would end its being. {Aside.) I can- 
 not longer deceive her. {Aloud.) Matilda, bear up. Your ride 
 has fatigued you. Evening isjust coming on, and the moon 
 is just rising. {Goes to the window.) See this fair paint- 
 ing spread before you — the long, dark shadows of the wood 
 lying by the side of bright moonlit plats of green. Thus, 
 darling, is life ever checkered. AVhat, darling, no words, 
 only sobs? Can't I make you think of something else? 
 
60 
 
 Well, there ! (Matilda lays her head upon Bertha's hosom.) 
 Cry yourself to sleep, little baby. 
 
 {Serenade on flute ^ air^ the Love Song^ heard from the 
 hower.) 
 
 Enter Mrs. Roseallen, r. 
 
 Mrs. R. Forgive me, my darling child. {Kneels by her 
 side and raises Matilda's hajid to her lips.) God bless 
 you, Matilda, and may He who stilled the waves stretch out 
 His hand to save. 
 
 END OF ACT IV. 
 
 
ACT V. 
 
 Scene. — RoseallerCs Garden. Landscape Gardener'' s 
 cottage in rear. Landscape Gakdenek, with head hound 
 in handkerchief, sits in grief. 
 
 Enter Frank, from cottage. 
 
 Fkank. Well, Terapleton, it's all over witli poor Adam, 
 He died blessing your mother and you. 
 
 L. G. The last link is broken that bound me to the old 
 plantation. The pitcher is bi-oken at the fountain. {Shows 
 great emotion; rises and comes foi'ioard.) Doctor, you 
 can hardly understand my feelings at this moment. That 
 faithful old servant is so associated with my childhood, my 
 boyhood, and my manhood, in our prosperity, destitution, 
 and wanderings, that it almost tears out my very heart-strings 
 at parting with him. The goodness of this swarthy slave 
 shone like a candle upon my head, and by its light I 
 walked through darkness. It was his honest nature, faith- 
 ful and true, that watched over me and mine, and followed 
 my poor mother to the North to search out her prisoner 
 boy, and asked no other wages but a smile and a " Well, 
 Adam, how are you, to-day?" All the high and lofty ones 
 have dealt treacherously with us, but this weak, decrepit 
 old man has been as the rock. This sable face is to me 
 whiter than those brought up in scarlet. Farewell, dear 
 servant! Faithful friend, farewell! T^^e dear remem- 
 brancer of our once happy home and county, farewell! 
 Our fathers have sinned and are not. Our servants rule 
 over us. Our crime has fallen upon our head. Woe unto 
 us that we have sinned! But the Lord wall not cast us off 
 forever. But, though He doth cause us grief, yet will He 
 have compassion according to the multitude of His mer- 
 cies. 
 
62 
 
 Frank.. A sorrowing friend is the best willow that can 
 weep over tlie grave of virtue, whether that angel dwelt in 
 a white or black skin. 
 
 L. G. Give the poor fellow as decent a burial as our 
 purse can afford, and I will go. Doctor, to my mother, to 
 aid her in crossing the hands of gentle old Adam. 
 
 Frank. {^Approaching to assist Templeton.) Come, jou 
 must not grieve so. Your present health makes you im- 
 pressible. He who has just given you Matilda has taken 
 from you Adam. He gives and He takes away. Yet, such 
 drops are medicine to you. Tears shed by the generous 
 over the grave of the faithful sparkle into the brightest 
 chrysolites that blaze around the great White Throne. 
 
 (Frank leads the L. G. to the cottage door.) Exeunt. 
 Cottage shifted. 
 
 Enter Matilda and Bertha, r. 
 
 Matilda. It is now three nights since he was in the 
 wood. My silence and indifference have but ill repaid his 
 services and his passion. The sound of the Hute has been 
 to me the voice of hope breaking through the clouds of 
 despair. Oh, Bertha! my sense of duty to my parents and 
 the honor of our name have so nearly perished amidst the 
 persecutions of Mr. Vanderpelt that I could now feel it no 
 crime to throw myself into the Landscape Gardener's arms, 
 and seek, in his humble worth, the protection I cannot find 
 in my own home. 
 
 Bertha. Wisely spoken, my beautiful child? My own 
 blood boils with the passion of youth, and almost drives 
 from my heart the gratitude I owe your parents, as I 
 witness this persecution of the sweetest young lady in the 
 land. The arms of Colonel George Templeton, the son of 
 the widow, can as well defend his bride as the proudest man 
 who ever wore epaulets. 
 
63 
 
 Matilda. Is that the name of my preserver, Bertha? 
 How came you by the knowledge? Speak and relieve me, 
 that I may be certain to whom I owe ray life, or my honor, 
 and to whom I, unworthy, thankless, ungrateful being that I 
 am, have not since then vouchsafed one solitary look or word 
 of thanks or gratitude. But what said you of his health? 
 He was wounded for me. Alas! has adverse fate another 
 evil in store for a daughter of affliction ? 
 
 Bertha. For your sake, my child, I traced out this man. 
 But oh! that I should have to add another sorrow to the 
 woe-worn child of my early affection ! He is ill. A wound 
 he received in a fray has become, by ill-treatment and expo- 
 sure, the heart of a fever that has eaten into the heart of 
 life. 
 
 Matilda. And he will die for me, killed by the second 
 and severest wound of ingratitude! With death on him, 
 received in my defense, has he nightly visited the bower of 
 his ungrateful mistress, who never, even by the movement 
 of her evening lamp, showed that she heard his strains or 
 understood their meaning. That countenance, weeping with 
 blood, yet beautiful through his life-stream, flowing for me, 
 will haunt me through the short span that misery may allow 
 me. Would to God that I had returned one token as a mark 
 of gratitude, if not of love! Bertha, I must see this man 
 who holds in his hands the issues of my destiny. 
 
 Bertha. And you will, good child. But, should death 
 deprive you of this refuge, may we not think of some other 
 means of saving you from this forced, abhorred match with 
 this rich suitor? Col. Alex, Montrose, whom your father 
 has dismissed, loves you, and will give you that care which 
 your heart so much requires. 
 
 Matilda. Bertha, do not mention that wretch's name to 
 me. He is a slanderer and a vile coiner of falsehood! 
 
 Bertha. Are you able to wander so far as the cemetery, 
 and near to the cottage of Widow Templeton? 
 
64 
 
 Matilda. A bleeding head did not keep him from my 
 wood bower;- a bleeding heart shall not prevent me seeing 
 him before he dies. 
 
 (Matilda and Bertha walk to an angle of the stage in 
 rear.) 
 
 Bertha. See you the little rustic cottage yonder, just 
 beside the grave yard? It looks out on to the sea. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, yes. Its beauty and romantic appear- 
 ance has made it a wonder and attraction to all who visit 
 Newport. It is on our grounds; father visits it daily. 
 
 Bertha. The smoke from its chimney is curling around 
 the mist clouds; but there is a darker mist within, and no 
 sun to send a beam of health through it. 
 
 Matilda. And, humble as it is, compared with these 
 lordly mansions, and gloomy as it may be within, I could 
 ever seek there the peace I cannot feel in the proud halls 
 of Roseallen Place. There are no forced marriages under 
 the roofs of cottages. 
 
 Bertha. But there is death in the lodge as well as in the 
 palace. 
 
 Matilda. Gracious heaven! what do I see? A group 
 of people that look like mourners. It is a funeral! See! 
 they are moving toward the church yard. Bertha, who is 
 dead? 
 
 Bertha. Come, come, now; we have seen enough. 
 
 Matilda. There is a marriage with death; it endures 
 forever. Bertha, I can endure my woe no longer. Death 
 or madness will be my doom if I am forced into this aw- 
 ful marriage. What of George Templeton? Did you not 
 promise me to inquire for his health? Were we not to 
 visit him when my strength permitted? Tell me — -tell me, 
 have you heard how he is? 
 
 Bertha. He is well, my lady — better than either you 
 or I. 
 
65 
 
 Matilda. Bless you! bless you, dear Bertha! {Throw- 
 ing her arms around the neck of Bertha.) . Then there is 
 some chance left for me. I may yet be saved from that 
 dreadful doom. I would trust to the honor of that man, 
 who has already saved it, with my life. Ah! if he is well 
 I may yet expect those sweet tones which soften the grief 
 that Sits like a relentless tyrant upon my heart. Why not, 
 Bertha, go right to him? 
 
 Bertha. It was his corpse that they just now bore by 
 us. (Matilda siooons in her arms and revives.) Alas, 
 poor young lady, let me lead you in. {Aside.) It is cruel. 
 This is love, indeed, but a holy love. It makes her sacred; 
 mine has but made me miserable and wicked. 
 
 Exeunt., r. o, 
 
 ' ' Enter Julia, l. 
 
 • Julia. It is the most singular thing in the world about 
 the report of Miss Boseallen's abduction. No one seems to 
 know^ anything about it, although our coachman saw the 
 whole affair. The Roseallens ignore the whole matter. It 
 seems so strange that Mrs. Roseallen should seek to compel 
 Matilda to marry Mr. Yanderpelt, when she avows her dis- 
 inclination to marry her husband — that is to be. Oh, dear, 
 I am so glad that pa was brought over to let Frank come to 
 the house, and to promise me that if he succeeds in his pro- 
 fession he shall have me to divide its honors. Mercy on 
 me! why donH Frank come? He is always late; and I 
 promised Miss Roseallen that I would take him over and 
 introduce him to her. Perhaps I could get her father to 
 ask Frank to prescribe for poor Matilda's spirits. If they 
 are low, I feel that Frank's spirits will be correspondingly 
 high at securing such a fashionable connection. I wonder 
 if he could not discover some very select remedies for very 
 select society? If he only makes them believe s'o, it will 
 give him a high standing in his profession. Qh! here he 
 comes; I know his step. 
 9 
 
Enter Frank, from across the hridge. 
 
 Frank. Better late tlian never. But the truth is, I have 
 a patient, and have just lost another. Poor fellow! About 
 a M^eek airo I liad an errand over to the cottao-e of our fair 
 widow, Mrs. Cunimings; and on my way back I was hasten- 
 ing hither, when a rustic cottage — a miracle of bean fry — 
 attracted my attention, and I could not but stay and admire 
 and wonder at the taste of the occupant, whoever he might 
 be, when I heard from within the moan of one who suffers 
 in his sleep; and while I stood half in curiosity and half in 
 admiration at the neatness and refinement of this humble 
 home, a motherly woman came to tha door. Her troubled 
 countenance at once told a story of sickness or grief As 
 she noticed me, she at ffrst thought to withdraw herself, 
 then hesitating, she addressed me with, "My kind sir, 
 where does the nearest doctor or surgeon live? " I answered^ 
 " Madam, one now stands before you. and will gladly tender 
 his services, if they can be accepted. Pray, what can I do 
 for you?" She looked earnestly into my face, as if ques- 
 tioning whether one so young could be trusted in a case of 
 surgery, and then humbly said, "M}'' son lies sick of a 
 wound; please examine it." I entered the cotter's room in 
 an instant, and found stretched upon a bed, whose trappings 
 rivaled the whiteness of the mountain, snow, a young man 
 of the most herculean proportions; his limbs knit together 
 with a neatness that at once promised grace and manly 
 strength. No classic sculptor has ever given us a liner 
 figure of robust manhood, joined to that elegance of pro- 
 portion which gives to its possessor grace of motion. As 
 he lay upon his couch, with his bosom opened to view, his 
 shirt rolling from it on either side, I noticed a deep scar, 
 taken, as he told me, in the battle of "Bull's Pun " fro:n a 
 bayonet stab. I found that the wound from which he was 
 then sufferino; was received from a club or staff* — a severe 
 contusion on the head, severe, but easily managed. I knew 
 
G7 
 
 by the pulse that my patient was suiferin^^ more from per- 
 turbation of mind than from tlie eifects of the wound, and 
 that a nervine would soon restore him to repose. After 
 administering -one, I left him, at times delirious, talking 
 wildly of flowers and a lady-love, ruffians, villains, and then 
 of the deadly strife of the battle-lield — 
 
 " Of prisoners' ransom, and of soldiers slain. 
 And all the currents of a heady tight." 
 
 And then some love thr)ughts, fresh and beautiful as morn- 
 ing violets. Poor fellow ! I was afraid " Armeidis de Gaul " 
 and Cei'vantes had made his big, manly head mad with 
 some hopeless passion. I proposed to visit him that same 
 evening, and I then hoped to learn something of my 
 wounded hero. 
 
 Julia. Oh, that's the home of the landscape gardener 
 who designed and made these grounds we admired so much 
 at the picnic. We all had hoped to see him, and to have 
 contrived ,to make him one of our company. Curiosity is 
 on tip-toe to peep into his little sanctuary. I wonder who 
 could have harmed him ? 
 
 Frank. jNo matter. I have been tending him for a 
 week, and he is getting better. 
 
 Julia. In spite of your treatment? 
 
 Frank. Hush, Julia! And I have become so inter- 
 ested in him that I have learned to love him. He had a 
 poor slave, Adam, who was as much devoted to him as was 
 •'Corporal Trim" to my uncle "Toby," and with as good a 
 reason. George Templeton is at once the noblest and ten- 
 derest of men; as gentle as a mother's love, and as faithful 
 as a mother's heart — a soldier and a lover! Well, this 
 poor black took sick of a fever, and no angel ever shielded 
 from harm as did the landscape gardener and his kind, good 
 mother this dying servant. In spite of their nursing and 
 my skill tlie poor fellow died; and although Templeton is 
 poor, he spared nothing to give his faithful domestic a fitting 
 
68 
 
 funeral. Now, this is the secret that I have heen keeping 
 from joii, and making you so jealous; and it is my interest 
 in George Templeton that prompted me to ask of you an 
 introduction to Miss Matilda Roseallen. 
 
 Julia. Well, Frank, you are a good, kind-hearted fellow, 
 
 « and I won't be jealous any more. Wait a moment, and I 
 
 will put my hat and gloves on, and go with you to call 
 
 upon the belle of ]^ewport; and while on the way, to satisfy 
 
 a woman's curiosity, it is only a little walk to the "front. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 (Matilda, about to visit the grave yard and throvi 
 herself on the grave, looks out from an angle of the 
 stage, l. c, toward the grave yard.) 
 
 Matilda. My heart is so big with grief that it chokes 
 out every fear; yet mine eyes are backward cast, and great 
 beads of sweat do stand at each shadow moving to and fro. 
 Those monumental sentinels of the dead do in the moon- 
 light look like sheathed ghosts, and at the echo of each rus- 
 tling leaf I startle. Oh, how I loved this man, when in- 
 fatuation can take me there in spite of all these fears! I 
 shudder while I pray. Heaven save me! This pilgrimage 
 is the only penance I know. If a maiden's tears could 
 quench the fire that now burns within my heart, then would 
 I shed tears as fast as ever fell from April cloud. No, it 
 cannot be. Like the pelican, I must suck the wound until I 
 die of love. Spirit of my beloved, look down from the 
 chaste heavens, and before this altar — thy grave — receive 
 my penitence. Let the light of thy countenance shine upon 
 my sorrowing soul. To die without one word of gratitude, 
 a look of love — neglected by her whom thou didst die to 
 save — her who loved thee so. You whose goodness lit up 
 her soul with such a liglit that all its hills and valleys 
 smiled with gladness — {sobs) — but must smile no more for- 
 ever. [My soul is heav}^; and will be until with thee it rests 
 in Elysium. My desire would dig thee u-p again, if thought 
 
69 
 
 did not teacli me that greater grief, to see tliee dead and 
 changed, would ahiiost kill me. Look down from the foot- 
 stool of mercy and forgive me. In pity do this, that 1 may 
 bear my cross, {Sohs.) Teach me to say, " Thy will be 
 done." My only peace is to look up to thee. Lift me for 
 the sake of her desolate, that I may be her daughter and 
 her comforter. God give me strength to undertake this 
 night's worship! What do my eyes see? Bertha and a 
 man dressed in the garb of the villain who attempted my 
 abduction! ISTow I see his face! Montrose! I must hide. 
 (Matilda retreats to another part of the stage.) And has 
 she deceived me? Then there is no refuge for me. Good- 
 night, sweet gentleman. {^Looking toward the grave.) The 
 dew upon your grave is not more pure than was your heart 
 while living. Conceals herself. 
 
 Enter Montkose and Bertha, l. c. 
 
 Montrose. Bertha, this very night must end my sus- 
 pense. Matilda in my arms, and death to George Temple- 
 ton if he would save her. 
 
 Exeunt, Montrose, l.. Bertha, r. 
 
 Matilda. {Co7ning forward.) I am forsaken on every 
 side! George Templeton dead and in his grave; ]>ertha 
 faithless! Thus have I lost both friend and lover — the one 
 by death, the other by infidelity. My mother still tenderly 
 persuading me to that most loathsome to me. My father 
 obdurate and almost unkind. Mr. Vanderpelt determined 
 and relentless, vexing me with an ardent passion which he 
 calls love, but from whose embraces I would fly as from a 
 twisting serpent. Tears are denied me, and my heart is 
 restless and miserable. 
 
 Enter Servant Maid, r., with Mr. Vanderpelt's card. 
 
 Servant Maid. A gentleman waits for you upon the 
 front verandah. He is dressed very smartly, and brings 
 you a big bouquet. He came in a splendid carriage. I 
 guess he is very rich. 
 
70 
 
 Matilda. Tell the gentleman to excuse me. I am very 
 indisposed, and cannot possibly receive any company to-day. 
 (Servant retires.) Is there no hope, no snccor ? How can I, 
 who am in the deepest despair and misery, entertain anght 
 save my own weeping thoughts? Solitude is the only friend 
 who can sit beside me and my own bitter fancies; the only 
 solace I can have in this hour of gloom; the harp of 
 grief, like the ^olian of heaven, knows no mortal touch; 
 its sounds are saddest and sweetest in the solitude of the 
 wood, and grow wild amidst the festivities of the hall. 
 Sweet heaven, send thy ministering angel to me, and illu- 
 mine my brow with thy own hallowed light! 
 
 Enter Mr. and Mrs. Eoseallen, r. 
 
 (Mrs. R. holds Matilda's hand and strokes her hair.) 
 
 Mr. E. All this will not impose upon us, Matilda. You 
 were well last eve when you walked with Bertha, and this 
 well-acted fit is intended to remove the impression I enter- 
 tain of your perfect ability to receive Mr. Vanderpelt. 
 Mark me, Matilda, I will heed you no more if your simu- 
 lations were as well acted as those of the wise king of 
 Utica. Besides, we have, in your wood bower, a lover. I 
 insist, Matilda, you tell me who he is. 
 
 Matilda. {Startles.) {Aside.) Could have Bertha told 
 me falsely of his death and burial? {Aloud.) Father, I 
 do not know. 
 
 Mr. E,. Is it he with whom you attempted to elope that 
 night when Bertha fell on the bridge? 
 
 Matilda. I never attem])ted to elope; but an attempt 
 was made to carry me off by some one in disguise, and the 
 man now in my wood bower may be he; but I know not. 
 {Flute is heard g-iving a serenade. Matilda throws herself 
 m her mother'' s arms and 'wee2)s.) Mother, save me! For- 
 give me; my heart will break! Whom can I trust? I 
 love George Templeton, the gardener, and will go to him if 
 
71 
 
 it is he. Living I love him. Dying, I'll go to heaven, and 
 find that rest denied to me here npon earth. 
 
 (Matilda rushes to the hower, followed by her father, 
 mother and Bertha. As they approach a pistol shot is 
 heard, and Montrose, holding the pistol, rushes from the 
 hower, followed by the Landscape Gardener, who staggers 
 out and falls, wounded, at Matilda's feet^ 
 
 L. G. Sweet maiden! Beloved! {Points to his cot- 
 tage^ My mother! [Dies, hissing her hand.) 
 (Matilda siooons.) 
 
 end of act v. 
 
ACT VI. 
 
 ScK^^.-^Moseallen^s Parlors^ hrilliantly illuminated^ 
 the picnic j^arty — Bob Summers, Bertha, et al. 
 
 Bob. Well, Kate, I think if every wedding had such 
 beautiful cut flowers, and such delicious music, it wouldn't 
 be poor fun to be invited every Saturday niglit at least. I 
 wish they would provide gloves and carriages, as they do to 
 the other end of the comedy. 
 
 Kate. I fear, dear Robert, that Miss Eoseallen, in her 
 orange blossoms and pearls, is but a cut flower, delicate and 
 lovely; but, like the brightest, the soonest to wither and 
 crumble. 
 
 Nellie. I saw her yesterday evening, and her hand was 
 as cold as marble and her face like alabaster. Her sweet 
 voice sounded like the spirit of sadness. 
 
 JniJA. For ray part, I would rather marry the one. I 
 truly love than to have the wealth of Midas. 
 
 Clakence. And ever afterward feel as if you wore his 
 ears. 
 
 Julia. Why are you so cheerful, Frank? Your spirits 
 seem as jocund as a country dance. I should think you 
 saw some rainbow to the cloud. 
 
 Chaeles. Frank's looking forward to a larger practice. 
 So far he has been called upon only to attend the dying. I 
 trust that he now looks forward to tlie more clieerful 
 practice of giving sugar-plums to the living. As most 
 partnerships end in work for lawyers, so do most weddings 
 fees for doctors. Ha! ha! 
 
73 
 
 Bob. What did 3^011 say about fees for lawyers? Egad! 
 this is to be a cheerful wedding after all, if that is to be one 
 of the courses. 
 
 Walter. I wonder Yanderpelt is not married privately. 
 They say that the bride refuses to receive any wedding 
 presents except a bouquet of lilies from the doctor, here. 
 
 Bob. No wedding presents! Then has Cupid come 
 again ? 
 
 Lizzie. Yes; and a beautiful thing it is! The flowers 
 came from the cottage lately inhabited by the ill-fated 
 George Templeton. His spirit must have breathed upon 
 them. 
 
 Akthur. a spirit as pure as their own fragrance, and 
 as tender as their own lives. Doctor, who arranged them 
 for you ? 
 
 Enter Eoseallen, Daughter, Mrs. R. mid Vanderpelt, 
 Clergyman, et at. 
 
 Tableau for wedding. 
 
 Clergyman. If any one can show just cause why this 
 man and woman may not lawfully be joined together, let 
 him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace. 
 
 Enter George Templetqn. 
 
 Geo. Templeton. What God has joined together let no 
 man put asunder. I claim by that highest of titles, the 
 human heart, this woman to be my bride, and will maintain 
 it by all that's right! 
 
 Matilda. Good heavens! George Templeton alive and 
 here! {Rushes to and clings to him.) 
 
 Geo. Templeton. Yes, darling, and to save. {Turning 
 to M-ATi-LD a' & father.) Sir, I called on you and respectfully 
 laid my claim to your friendship and your daughter's. My 
 10 
 
74 
 
 occupation was and is honorable. Wealth or fame it might 
 not have promised; competency and content it surely gave. 
 You received me with disdain. You reminded me, in my 
 lost cause, rebellion was treason and I a traitor. In vain I 
 urged upon you my honorable descent, my forefathers' 
 splendid services at the birth of our Republic, of the 
 sincerity of my intentions, and the fidelity which I owed 
 my native State. I asked you to show that magnanimity 
 to me, a paroled prisoner and fallen man, that the great 
 Grant, when flushed with a victory that will forever gild 
 his name, displayed when he poured the greatness of his 
 soul upon his peer, the great Lee, crowning him in higher 
 immortality ! Yow. bade me leave your house, and see you 
 no more. Had this been all, I should have respected your 
 commands; but when I learned that you would sell my 
 darling for lucre, to one whom she had, with tears and sobs, 
 told she could not love, the tie of father and daughter was 
 rent in twain. Children should be given in marriage, not 
 sold. Then I came to you poor; I now claim her hand, as 
 I already hold her heart, rich, and what is best to her and 
 me, able to recompense, as I have, the skill of my dear 
 physician, Frank Merrilie|, who saved my life; and to pay 
 gold and gratitude to a clever lawyer — dear Bob Summer^ 
 — through whose aid the government has extended the act 
 of amnesty to me, and restored to my mother her fortune. 
 And now, Matilda, forgive Mr. Vanderpelt his persecutions, 
 and invite him, as we are authorized, to the wedding of Dr. 
 Frank Merriliep with Miss Julia Willoughby, Robert Sum- 
 mer^, Esq., with Miss Kate Spring, and Col. George 
 Templeton with Miss Matilda Roseallen, in the presence of 
 all our friends, North and South. 
 
 Fra]!«k. And with Julia for my wife, all will go merrily. 
 
 Bartlett. {Holding Mrs. Cuimnings hy the hand.) 
 And may not we make a " Bartlett pair? " 
 
75 
 
 Bob. And if you smile on our nuptials, I trust this 
 beautiful Spring will be the mother of many a " Summer." 
 
 Old W. And, friends, when we see the beauty of the 
 North married to the chivalry of the South, " MAY THE 
 UNION BE PERPETUAL!" 
 
 Tableau/ 
 
 VANDEKPELT. CLERGYMAN. BEKTHA. 
 
 ET AL. MRS. ROSEALLEN. MR. ROSEALLEN. ET AL. 
 
 B. & K. LANDSCAPE GARDENER & MAITILDA. F. & J. 
 
 BARTLETT & MRS. C. OLD WaLLOUGHBY. CHARLES & VIOLET. 
 
 THE END, 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 910 200 2