LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf ..'.was UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. t^ > r mporte COPYRIGHTED BY THE AUTHOR, WALKER WHITESIDE, FOILED NOBILITY. A PLAY IN TWO ACTS. EUGENE ARAM AND OTHER POEMS. BY WALKER WHITESIDE. DENVER, COI.O. C. J: Kelly, Printer, T€)3;71 PREFACE. I trust it is not presuming top niuch for one of my years to set this little volume afloat upon the sea of literature. I beg the generous indulgence of the readers for whatever faults may be found therein. V^ALKER WHITESIDE. Orchard Place, Denver, Colo., Feb. 28, 1888. H OILED NOBILITY CHARACTERS. C^ouNT La Touche. Lord Vinton. Clarence Stedman. Stephen Weston. Richard Weston, (Stephen's nephew). Mr. Dallas, (a poet). Mr. Murray. M. De Pugh, (a detective). Mrs. Marie Weston, (wife of Stephen Weston). Miss Annette Weston, (Mrs.W's step-daughter). Miss Grace Carlton. Miss Fairfield. Servants. COSTUrs/IKS. ACT FIRST. LORD VINTON Riding Hahit. ANNETTE. .Riding Habit and BkE.\KFA.sT Gown. MRS. W Breakfast Gown. MR. W Business Suit. RICH. AND CLAR Traveling Suits, ACT SECOND. All in Full Dress. polled j\lobiIity. ACT I. SCENE — A drawing-room in Stephen Weston's country home, in environs of Brooldyn. Large bay-window back, looking out into grounds ; large portiers half drawn ; door L. 3. E.; mirror over fire-place L.; large library table, chairs on each side L. small eastlake staircase up the stage R ; large divan in bay-window ; book cases ; screen in front of fire- place ; small table R., chairs on each side; books and papers and call-bell on library table. Enter Annette Weston followed by Lord Vinton. Annette. Thank you. [passes dotvn and stands looking into mirror. Lord Vinton passes dozvn stage to R). Lord Vinton. Miss Weston, you look flushed and charming after your darincj ride. You are positively A. Daring? {seats herself left of library table'). Why, Lord V^inton, I call that the jauntiest little ride I have had since my return from school. Daring ! You should have seen me flying across the fields, a few days ago, accompanied by Carl, dear fellow, and yielding all the rein to Prince, until he almost flew, and then, after the ride, oh ! what a color I had. I am really pale now to what I was then. L. V. Pardon me^ but who is this dear Mr. Carl ? 6 FOILED NOBILITY. A. [Langliing heartily) — Jfr. Carl — Mr. — ah, pray excuse me, but it is so funny. L. V. {A?inoyed). What ? Who ? A. I arn very rude, I know, Lord Vinton, but Mr. Carl is our dog, [rises) and a large, noble fellow he is. You will pardon me while I exchange this cumbersome costume for one more becoming, {passes tip right to stairs; Lord Vinton crosses Z.) L. V. Pray do not. You can not improve, I assure you. A. You shall see. {Exit up stairzvay). L. V. Charming creature ! I hope I'm the first. Carl — ''our dog." I am glad he is a dog, and yet I am almost jealous of her affection even for him. Ah, she is positively divine ! That hand! — that fairy foot ! that — {Mr. Weston conies doivn stciirzvay). Confound it. Mr. Weston. Ah, good morning, Mr. Vinton. {Vinton bows). I should judge from your attire that you are making preparations for a morning ride, or that you had just returned from one. Which is it ? \_Conies dczvn front~\. L. V. Just returned, my dear sir, from a most delightful ride with Miss Weston. She has re- tired to her room for a few moments. Did you not meet her ? Mr. W. No. She is very fond of sport, and I am glad of it. So different from most young girls of her age, who would rather while away their vacation by lounging around and reading some novel. I have no doubt . the ride has sharpened your appetite, and you will better relish your breakfast. {Crosses to table l.) What do you think of the surrounding country ? Is it not beautiful ? {Taps bell). FOILED NOBILITY. 7 L. V. {Crosses to R.) It is indeed, and a very charming spot for a young lady, like your daughter to spend her vacation. And the air is so refreshing. I believe I could eat everything set before a king. Mr. W. We cannot promise you quite so elaborate a spread, but what there is I can as- sure you will be well cooked. {Enter servant R. u. E.) Serve breakfast for three. Have you been to the mail ? Servant. Yes sir, there are three letters. Mr. W. You may bring them now. {exit s. l.) You know, Mr. Vinton, {sits r. of table.) I make it a practice to have a few of my letters addressed to my residence, so that I may read them before reaching my office, and thus save time. {Enter servant r. zviih letters and nezvspaper on waiter, conies dozvn to .air. weston, zvlio takes letters and paper. Exit servant r. u. e.) L. V. Quite convenient. Will not Mrs. Wes- ton breakfast with us ? Mr. W. {Looking over his mail). I am afraid not — no. She was suffering with a headache the greater part of the night, and I did not v/aken her this morning, feeling that a good rest would be of benefit to her. Would you like to look at the paper ? {Holding out paper). You will par- don me while I look over my mail. L. V. {Crossing to Him). Certainly. {Takes paper). Thanks. {Passes back to table r. and seats himself r of it; reads; after a pause, read- ing, and to himself). News from New York. Count La Touche is registered at the Bruns- wick. {Glancing up). The nobility will be well represented here soon. \^Aside\ 8 FOILED NOniLITY. Mr. W. Ah ! this is good news, Mr. Vinton. L. V. So? Mr. W. My nephew and his comrade are coming sooner than I expected. Nevertheless, they are welcome. This will be a surprise to Annette. How long have you known Richard ? L. V. Oh, about two months. I first met him at his college, and again at a reception in Boston. I invited him to call on me, and he kindly accepted. We had a cigar, and a very in- teresting chat; attended a few operas, and before long had become very good friends. Mr. W. I am glad to hear it. '[Adoui to break open an envelope, but pauses. L. V. resumes read- ing\. Addressed to Marie. Doubtless some kind remembrance of a friend. \_Lays it on the table. Opens another letter and reads\ L. V. \Looking over Ids papers\. By George! I'll faint pretty soon if I don't see some signs of breakfast ! \Resumes reading. Antiette comes dozvn stairiuay, slips up behind her father, leans over and kisses him on the forehead~\. Annette. Did I frighten dear old papa? Oh ! letters, and not one for me? Mr. W. No, my dear; your school friends have quite forgotten you. A. \_Stamps her foot']. I want a letter. L. V. [From behind his paper\ I want my breakfast. [Aside. Rises\ Ah, Miss Weston, I must really surrender. You have improved wonderfully. [Servant announces breakfast]. Thank heaven! [Aside]. Mr. W. [Rises]. Now, Mr. Vinton, come. [Walks half 7ip the stage]. A. But, mamma ! Mr. W. She is not well, my dear. FOILED NOBILITY. 9 A. Had I not better see her before eoine to breakfast ? Mr. W. No; she is sleeping, and it would not be the thing to disturb her. So, come. I am sure Mr. Vinton is nearly famished. L. V. \_WitJi a forced smile\ No, indeed, be- lieve me. \To Annette, and offering his arm~\. Miss Weston, allow me. \_Exit Mr. W. k v e.") A. To breakfast? Ah, \^ou are very gallant. \^Takes his arm; exe?ieni'\. [Mrs. W. conies down stairs, goes to the ivin- dotv and tJiroivs back the cnrtain^ Mrs. Weston. I must have the morning sun. \Sits on divan. After a panse\ How good it was of him to let me rest. How kind they all are. I feel sometimes that it will be impossible for me longer to resist the impulse to tell him all. And yet — and yet — Heaven help me, I am trying hard — trying to take a true mother's place — trying to be all that is expected from a wife and mother. \Jiises\ There must be mercy in this world for one like me. \^Conies dozvn to table l. Sees letter addressed to her. Picks it lip]. Some congratulations from a friend, perhaps. Why ! the envelope has been partially broken. Stephen. I suppose, must have done it by mistake. \^Starts violently]. Ah! — Ids handwriting. \_Breaks letter open nervously. Reads], " My dear Marie — It pains me much to " liave to disturb the placid life I have reason to "believe j'ou are now enjoying; but circum- " stances over which I have no control, as the " saying -goes, compel me to do so. I am aware " of the fact thafyou have married a very wealthy " widower, and that you have access to his cash " account. So much for this. Now, before lo FOILED NOBILITY. " coming to the point, I cannot refrain from ex- " tending my heartfelt congratulations to you on " your marriage to an lionest man, and one who " can surround you with the honest people for " whose society you always craved. " But now to business. I am sorely in need of " money, and I expect to be furnished the same " by you. You are to give a reception to-morrow " night. I am invited. Ycm understand. When I " arrive, be sure to treat me courteously and as " an old acquaintance. I will see you alone, and " you will then hand me what money I demand, " There will be no further trouble. I will de- " part with the rest of the guests, and on the fol- " lowing morning I shall sail for Europe. Do "not trifle with me, or I will openly declare. " whose wife you were before you married this " honest VL\-3,n, and became the mother of his inno- " cent daughter. " With many kisses, and hoping \-ou will "comply with my simple request, "I remain your divorced husband, "Count La Touche." "P. S. Have a good round .sum on hand for I will need it." {Sits). Oh, God ! is there no rest this side of the grave for me — will there be beyond ? Just as I feel the curtain of my sorrow has been lifted forever, it comes rushing down, veiling all my bright hopes in gloom ! Justice ! Heaven ! Ah, have I not borne enough alread\'? Must my dream of future happiness be blasted? No, no! It can't be ; it must not be. Courage, Marie! You must not give way so easily. You need your strength. You must go now, aye, at once, and tell all. Throw yourself on the mercy, the hu- FOILED NOBILITY. ii manity, the justice of your trusting husband. Let him decide whether you remain here longer, or depart in shame ! {rises). If I remain, cannot he silence this — scoundrel. But stay, did he not say he .would depart for Europe the next morning ? {Reads letter). Yes, but alas, I have learned long ago to put no trust in his word. Perhaps he has gotten into trouble, and being pursued, seeks to elude his followers by • going abroad. If I gave him what he he asks, or rather demands, would it not be as well ? Could I, by revealing my past 'relations with this man to my husband, feel, in the future, when my eyes shouldmeet his, that he loved me, as I do now ? Suppose he should coldly tell me to go. Oh! God! I could not bear the humil- iation. I can see no other way than to yield to this fiend. He will come, I will give him what he demands. He will leave America, probably, never to return. And then Stephen and An- nette will be none the wiser, and I would still abide in my happy home, with them. [ Voices heard zvithojit, l. servant enters and Jiands tzvo cards to Mrs. W\ \Reads^ "Richard Weston, Clarence Stedman." Show them in, \Exit S. L. u. E. Mrs. W. hurriedly slips letter in her pocket']. Stephen's nephew and his friend. He did not expect them so soon. How do I look. \_Goes to iniri'or\ How pale I am. \_Drazvs her handkerchief from her pocket, as she does so, the letter is draivn out and falls oji the floor']. Calm yourself Marie, you must appear delighted in spite of the inward storm. \Enter servant, showing in Richard ajid Clarence l. u. e. Servant boivs and exits. 12 FOILED NOBILITY. Richard advances and takes mrs. w. by the hand. Clarence stands a sJiort distance behitid Iiini,^ Richard. Aunt, for I shall call you so, and gladly too, you did not expect us so soon, I know, but we could not wait and so hurried over to surprise you all. \_Tnrns to c] Mr. Stedman, tny aunt, Mrs. Weston. C. S. [Taking her hand\ I am happy to know you, Mrs. Weston. Richard has spoken of you quite often to nie, and, if I am not mistaken, read. me some letters from his uncle. Eh, Richard ? R. Yes, indeed, and your name occurs in them frequently aunt, I am certain uncle is get- ting the young lovers fervor back again. Mrs. W. I am delighted to see you both, and, notwithsanding the surprise, everything is in readiness for you. R. That is very good of you. \_Crosscs r.] Mrs. W. I trust you both are very happy at graduating with such high honors. By the way, we have a guest — a lord, yes indeed, a Lord Vinton, who arrived last evening. Your Uncle, Annette and he are at breakfast. R. Oh, yes, Lord Vinton is a personal friend of mine, and knowing that he was coming to Brooklyn, I asked him to call and see uncle, at his office, to whom I wrote in the meantime, asking him to extend Lord Vinton an invitation to accompany him here. He is very good com- pany. Do you not find him so? Mrs. W. I have seen very little of him as yet. Retiring at an early hour last evening, slightly indisposed, I slept rather late this morning, and did not feel as if I cared for breakfast, so I did not come down until shortly before you arrived. I FOILED NOBILITY. 13 know Mr. Stedmaii and yourself must be tired. If you would like to retire for a iew moments, I will have James show you to your rooms. \_Voices heard without r.] Hark! The)^ are coming from the dining room. You had better stay and surprise them. R. The very thing, where can we conceal ourselves. Mrs. W. Step behind the portiers here, and I will close them. [Richard and Clarence go up the stage and step in the bay zvindow ; mrs. w. draivs portiers, and comes dozvn stage and seats herself -L. Enter Annette, follozved by mr. w. and L. V. talking earnestly ; annette comes dozvn to MRS. W.J A. Are you not feeling well, mamma? Mrs. W. [Taking A. by the hand']. Much better now my dear. The longer one indisposed lies abed, the worse one feels, and so I have got- ten up A. But, will you not eat something? Mrs. W. I will wait till luncheon, dear. L. V. [Seeing mrs. w. goes to her and prof- fers his hand]. Ah ! Good morning, Mrs. Weston. I was afraid you were going to have a serious attack ; glad to see you looking so bright. A. [Rises and crosses r.] [Aside.] I don't like that man. He smiles and talks too much. [Busies Jierself about the room ; Air. W. meantime IS looking about table l.] Mrs. W. [Taking L. Vs. hand]. Thank you, I am much better, now. [Rises and crosses L.] Mr. W. [jAdvajices to center]. I see, my dear, you have found }'our letter. [Mrs. W. shudders, but quickly composes herself]. Good news. Eh ? 14 FOILED NOBILITY. Mrs. W. [AfUr a sliglit pause]. Yes. [Z. V. smiles complacently ; noise in windozu]. A. \_Sta!'ting~\. What was that ? [^Rnshcs to the windozv, b?it witJidrazvs in afyight\ It's a man ! \ Voice from behind cju'tain']. It's two. Mr. W. Whose there ? R. 'Tis I. \_Ad7>ancing'\. C. \Follo%vi)ig Jnni\. And I. A. \_R?{shing to both of them']. Oh ! you Gfood-for-nothing dear fellows. VVhat a surprie. \_Both try to kiss her at once]. C. I'm first ! R. \_Pnts him aside]. Tut, tut, Fni first. Be- sides it won't be long before you'll have your fill. \_Kisses her]. C. \pecidcdly]. Nev^er. Mr. W. Come, come, how is this ? You rogues, we did not expect you until next week ; then }'ou wrote me you would be here to mor- row. \JSoth C. and R. advance laugliing]. And you arrive scarcely a half an hour after your let- ter. \Lord Vinton is leaning on the mantel l., not noticing the rest]. R. Well, you see uncle, just a little surprise. A. A little surprise ! I should call it a very large one. C. Agreeable? A. Oh! More than that. Mr. W. Ah ! Marie I am afraid you had a hand in hiding them. Mrs. W. I confess I did. [Turning to R. and lozv tone to him]. Richard j-ou have not noticed Lord Vinton. \^A. and C. converse apart and up stage ; Mr. Weston lights a cigar]. R. \_Coming doivnto L. V] Ah, ha, old boy, FOILED NOBILITY. 15 I am glad to see you. You must pardon me, but family affairs — you understand, and I did not notice you before. \Botii shake hands']. L. V. No excuses are needed, my dear fel- low I am delighted to see you. Charming spot this? R. I hope )^ou are enjoying yourself Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Stedman. \_T71r7is to Cliirei!cc\. Clarence, tear }'our self away a moment I would speak to you. [C bows to A. tJien comes dozvn to R7] L. V. \Froivning\ Stedman ! The devil ! \^Asidt\ R. Lord Vinton, Mr. Stedman. \L. V. turns to tJicni ; C. starts. C. Pleased to \nc&t yow Lord Vinton. \_They sJiake hands ; R. goes up stage a?id talks to A. and Mr. Mrs. W.] L. V. [^Draw/i/ig']. Thanks, thanks. [_/yozi>s, C. looks at him, as lie does so, intensely ; L V. straigtJiens up ; C. crosses to l.] He doesn't recognize me, thank heaven ! Mr. W. \^Comes down the stage to table l., and opens a box of cigars]. Mr. Vinton and Clarence, come try one of these cigars. I find them very good. Richard — Richard. \RicJiard turns]. Will you join us? \_Holding up a cigar, L. V. and C. advance to table ; each take a cigar]. Rich. Thanks, uncle, I do not smoke- \_Resu7nes talking to A. and Mrs. W. L. V. lights his cigar. C. places his in his pocket]. Mr. W. By the way, have you had some- thing to eat ? Clar. Oh, yes ; in the city, before you were out of bed. We freshened up after our dust)' 1 6 FOILED NOBILITY. travel, so that we could come right in and have a good talk without bothering you. Mr. W. You were very considerate, indeed. But now, you know\ business is business, and I must hurry to my office. I am quite late now. T shall see you at dinner this evening. Mr. Vin- ton, would you care to go to the city ? L. V. Thanks, no, my dear sir; this is such a charming spot I am loth to leave it. Mr. W. I am pleased to think you like it. When you feel inclined, take a stroll over the grounds. \^Goes to door u. l.] L. V. With pleasure. \Bozvs\ Mrs. W. \_to Mr. W?^ I will accompany you a short distance in the carriage and walk home. I feel that fresh air and exercise will do me good. Besides the young folks would rather be alone. You will excuse me, will you not ? \Goes to Mr. W.] L. V. Certainly. C. Hope you will feel better. A. [C^rj- to Mrs. W. and kisses her, and then kisses Mr. W.] C. [IVa/ching- her~\. Humph! seems I am to be the last instead of the first. A. Good-bye, papa. Don't forget to see about the i-oses. Mr. W. Trust me for that. \_Exeiint Mr. and Mrs. IV. L. u. E.] A. Oh, Clarence, we are going to have a few young ladies and gentlemen here from the city to-morrow evening, and you must both be here. I>ord Vinton, also. [L. V. zuho has been talkins^ to R. turns to A.'] L. V. Thanks; I shall be delighted. [R. walks up to Ann. and Gar. L. V. zvalks to nnr- FOILED NOBILITY. 17 roi'\. Now for the letter. It's strange not one of tliem caught sight of it. [^He glances around, iJien stoops and picks tip the letter. Sits l. of table and down loiv in chair. Reads~\. C. Ah, Annette, I must show you some- thing I have for you. \^Goes to a small package remaining on chair up stage l.] A. Oh ! what is it ? C. Wait a moment. \_Ann. and Rich, converse apaft. Enter Mrs. W. l. u. e. agitated. She goes hurriedly to Clar^ Mr5. W. Mr. Stedman, I have left a letter in this room ; where, I do not know. Would you kindly search for it, and if you find it, please preserve it for me till I return. My husband is waiting for me. I shall excuse myself to him and come back immediately. Let no one see it. A little surprise, you know. [Exit L. U. E.] A. Mamma ! R. She is gone. What was it Clarence ? C. She has left a letter and would like to have me find it for her. Come, Richard, you open this package for Annette. \Richard and Annette both go to the package^ A. Oh, how slow you are. Let me take it. R. Patience, patience. \_Clar. appears to search around the room; comes suddenly up behind L. V., looks over his shoulders, appears satisfied. Vinton has not noticed the con- versation preceding?^ C. [Suddenly, and in a loiv but intense voice\ Lord Vinton ? \L. V. starts to his feet\ Whose letter is that ? [pointing to letter^ L. V^ By what right do you ask ? C. Because I do not believe it belongs to you. It is Mrs. Weston's letter. 1 8 FOILED NOBILITY. L. V. 'Tis mine. C. Seyton Rogers, 3-011 lie ! Give it to me, or I will denounce you before all. L. V. You dare not do it. C. \_Snatches letter from hivi\. You shall see. L. V. You know me ! Read that letter and denounce me, if you dare ! \^Ciar. starts; L. V. puffs at Ids cigar. Annettee and Rich, at back of stage, in window. She is holding small box in her hand, ivith lid open. R. bends over, looking in box. Mrs. W. appears"^. TABLEAU. CURTAIN. End of Act I. Position of Characters at fall of Curtain. Annette. Rich. Mrs. W. Clar. L. V. ACT II. « SCENE— Parlors in Stephen Weston's house decorated with roses, tete-a-tete cliair R.; divan l.; large mirror R.; archway up R., leading to veranda; door leading into library U. L.; large folding doors back of stage open ; mantel L. Mr. W., Mrs. W., l., A., C, r., R., Miss Carlton, Miss Fair., Mr. Dallas, Mr. Murry and guests discovered. Mr. Murry is walking down c; bowing, he crosses toi.. Murmurs\of'' Splendid ! bravo ! " \_Laughing\ Miss Fair. Now, Mr. Dallas, we call on you. {Murmurs of ''yes!' D. rises and boivs). Mr. D.. Oh, excuse me, I'm not prepared. {Pompously^. Mr. W. Come, come, Mr. Dallas, no excuse. We all know that a gentleman, like yourself, has alwa^'s something read3^ Mr. D. Mr. Weston, I iDeg — {But shozving ill- disguised anxiety to proceed^ Mr. W. Nay, I insist. Mr. D. Well, since you will have it so [Goes up stage), I will \'ield to your kind solicitations, (u.' c.) What shall it be ? [Clearing his throat). A. Something original, of course. Mr. D. [Bombastically). I dreamed a dream, a harrowing dream it was, Freighted with more wild forms than dream had been I'o FOILED NOBILITY. Before. 'Twas of the universe and my home^ the moon. Deserted; left to myself to feel its high towering- Grandeur. Here is a cavern, far reaching to its- bowels ; Trees petrified to moonish stones ; and here A bristling mountain's mouth, open though in death. Stopped is its smoky breath, if ever that, it had. Methinks I see, midst these shadows lounging, Conspirators and lovers of moonish ages past, Plotting wrong and telling lovers' vows. Here lie fallen pillars of some ancient town, By creeping age joined to the lifeless soil. Silence reigns o'er all ; not e'en the restless Ocean's wave, breaking on its whitish shores, Sounds on my hearkening ear; nor bird, nor snake. Nor beast break the placid air that hangs About this blasted orb. Vastness, ruin, age And desolation all seem seated on thy rigid rocks. And all the beauties that thou hadst of old Are now unfashioned by the hand of God. What golden light gilds now thy mountain's peaks ? * Now dancing down their sloping rocky sides, Stretching a gleaming cloth across the fields. Now in his glory rises the god of light and day ! Shedding on thy adamant, reflecting stones Ks incandescent, glaring, blinding rays. Now dies the day, and one by one the stars Steal out, blossoming, like flowers, upon the dusk, And in the calm deep heavens, with well befitting glory— FOILED NOBILITY. . 21 Wearing a bejevveled and golden champion belt. In splendor rears its head a blazing planet ! And all the beams these fiery orbs are shedding Fall on this lonely globe, peopling it with stony Giants, who, from their yawning tombs, arise Majestic, and so stand beneath the sparkling Drapery of night ! Oh, God ! what tumult in The iieavens now begins ! 'Tis the tragedy of worlds ! Torn from their azure seats and onward hurled Against each other, crashing with more deafen- ing noise Than e'er had thunderbolts forged thrice-hard By Vulcan. New planets now, and bright, arise. Pushing, with mighty strength, their wa\' amongst This crashing ruin, brushing the silver dust From off their sides. \_Appla7tse. T>. pauses, ac- knowledges compliments and proceeds^ Some worlds now burst Filling the sulphurous air with things of might, aflame. While others shrivel up, squeezing out and drip- ping. Drop by drop, their blazing life-blood, as they pursue Their way, all pathless, through the sk}/' red-lit- ten. Now speed a\ong, fanning my fear-blanched cheek Like some monster eagle, flapping the summer air, That hangs about the limed and frightened birds, Some charred, rough, jagged and demolished balls. 22 . FOILED NOBILITY. On, on they rush — then opens wide the heavens, Reveahng, encircled by a golden ring of light, A majestic throne, on which is seated the Creator Of these flashing stars, with frowning look and Potent, seeming to say, " 'Tis time." But now The planets' war has ceased, and through the bright Porta! of heaven roll silently, and fearful of Their coming fate, hke some baffled felon Crouching in a court of justice, till at last they Are relentlessly chained to the throne of God : — That supernatural dream, imbued with all the Harrowing forms that dreams are "heir to," haunts Me while awake. And at the rolling of night's Sable curtain down I fear me much to sleep. Else with that sleeping come dreams in aspect . Far more terrible, ruffling my needful rest. \^Dallas bozvs, retires to archway r., follozued by Miss Fairfield. Applause. All exclaini\ "Splen- did ! Wonderful !" etc C. {To all except Dal., ivJio is conversing with Miss F.,\]. k.) Isn't it remarkable what an attachment poets have for the moon. The cold, sad and mystic moon. [All laugh). R. ( With a signifiicant look at C. and A.) And lovers also. {LaugJdng coiitiimed). Mr. W. You might have added lunatics, as they belong to the same category with lovers. Eh, Richard ? {Folding doors back of stage are thrown open. March music. All rise). A. {Taking C!s arm and looking over her shoulder as she is passing out). So you have been twice a lun.itic, have you, paj)a ? {All laugh). F(.)ILEJJ XUBILITV. 23 Mr. W. {With a slight shrug). I confess I have. But mind, a very lucky one. Mr. Murry. {To Mrs. IV. and offering liis oj-in). Would you be so kind, Mrs. Weston. Mrs. W. [Taking his arm). ThcUik you. {Exeunt all into room back, the doors arc closed after; but Mr. W., zvho passes into library, and Miss F. and Mr. D., zvho remain standing in arch- way K.) Mi?s F. \Fanning herself^ Dreadfuil)' warm in here. Do you not find it so? Mr. D. It is so, indeed. Suppose we stroll out- side, Miss Fairfield^? 'Tis a golden night ; full of the beauties we poets enjoy. See how the sleeping flowers and all around are bathed in the golden light of the n)3-stic moon. Ah! Miss Fairfield, on such a night as this, clothed in such celestial robes of more than beauty, the guests should re- pair to the lawn. Miss F. \_Aside'\. How romantic he is. Mr. D.— When soft fell the eve's sable curtain, Bediamonded with stars glistening bright, I'd seek me a place on a mountain And there note the beauties of night. Miss F. \^Aside']. How lovely he is ! Who is the author, Mr. Dallas? Mr. D. It is my crime. Miss Fai^-field. \^Prondlj'^. Miss F. Would you mind repeating it? Mr. D. Do- you like — crime — so well ? Miss F. A poet's, yes. Mr. D. When soft fell the— [77^^^/ pass out. Enter Count La Tonclie, follozved by L. V. from library; the doors are closed after thevi\. C. L. • \_Advancing to center\ Now, Rogers; 24 FOILED NOBILITY. I received your letter apprising me of the amount of money at her disposal. I took advantage of the good news, invited myself to the reception, and here I am. I have not had the pleasure of seeing Marie's sweet face as yet. Tell me, does she appear at all nervous ? \^Sits in tetc-a-tete chair k. facing audience^. L. V. \po%vn stage, l.] Sometimes. I have not seen much of her. C. L. How did you manage to be invited here ? • L. V. Very easily, I assure you. I was in- vited by the old gentleman, to whom I received a letter of introduction from his nephew. C. L. Where did you become acquainted with him ? L. V. His nephew ? {Coiuit nods, V. crosses over to him and sits at his side, with his back to the andience). Well, you see, you told me where he was attending college, and I immediately set out for that place with a friend of mine. We saw the young man, for I recognized him from your description, lounging with some other students under a tree on the college grounds. My cigar had gone out in the meantime, and I carelessl)^ strolled over to w:here he was; asked liini if he could accommodate me with a match. He did so; I managed to draw him into con- versation. He pointed out the principal features of the sui'rounding countr}'', and requested my- self and friend to attend a polo matcli that after- noon ; which we did. After that was finished, I asked him to call on me when next in Boston ; gave him my address, and it was not long before he took advantage of the invitation. He became a very good friend, and the rest I have told you. FOILED NOBILITY. 25 But now to business. How much am I to get out of this little game. Eh, Count? C. L. You have been faithful, and played your hand well ; and I intend givmg you a good round sum. Trust me for that. L. V. You have never failed me yet ; and I will. {Rises and goes to niirvor. Aside). But not out of sight. C. L. (Aside). Yes. A good, round, sum, of — nothing. You credulous fool. L. V. [Ho/ding a photograph in Ids hand and approaching C. L.) Now gaze on this face, and know it's that of the step-daughter of your, " Dear Marie," as you style her. C. L. {Starting to his feet). Where did you see my letter ? L. V. Quite by accident, indeed. She must have carelessly let it fall, and I, unobserved, made so bold as to read it. C. L. Where is it ? Is it still in your pos- session ? L. V. {Faltering^. No, I tore it up, and af- terwards burned the pieces. C. L. {Composing himself). Good. Good. I shall increase your share for that. {Taking picture). I have met her. {Looks at it). She is very pretty. L. V. Pretty! I call her charming. C. L. {Hands pictnre to him). Bah ! that has always been your weakness, Rogers, to fall in love with some woman. Copy me, my boy, copy me, and you will always come out a winner. I cultivate the weaker sex only for what money I can wring from them. And I never failed yet to accomplish what I set out to do. Copy me, copy me. {Crosses l.) 26 FOILED NOBILITY. L. V. Thanks. I rather clioose to be original. C. L. As you please then. {Servant enters ; passes into library ; as door is opened men are seen playing cards, and laughing). I am glad they are enjoying themselves in there; as for me, I'm here for business, {l^o L. V.) Hark! you. Rogers ; when Marie comes, you go outside, or anywhere, and leave me here with her. Why tne devil don't she put in an appearance. L. V. You do not resort to hints, do you? - C. L. Not with you, and I hope you won't with me. \_Enter Mr. Weston from library. Conies down cj. Mr. W. Ah, gentlemen — having a social chat? I own it is rather warm in the library, but when one becomes interested in an exciting game of cards one does not notice the heat. C. L. As I depart to-morrow for abroad, I have been questioning Lord Vinton as to the most interesting points for me to visit while in England. Mr. W. Do I interrupt? C. L. Not in the least, my dear sir — not in the least. How is the game progressing? Mr. W. I am very sorry to sa)^ your substi- tute is losing. C. L. \Asidc\ That's bad. I must lose nothing to-night, either by proxy or otherwise. Mr. W. Mr. Melburn and Mr. Clayton had quite a heated discussion [servant enters room; back, couples seen dancing; waits music ;'\ over pol- itics. They are good friends now, thanks to myself L. V. You know that is something I never FOILED NOBILITY. 27 discuss — especially at such a delightfyl gather- ing as you have here to-night. Mr. W. Quite right. Come; let us go out on the veranda, where the air is refreshing, and have a good story or two. Both L. V. and C. L. With pleasure. [Ex- eunt RUE. Enter Annette and Clarence through c doors, wliicli are closed after tJuvi; An- nette fanidng ]ierself\. A. I am completel}^ exhausted. \Sits l.] C. So soon ? Oh, you must not yield yet. There are two hours yet ere j^our guests depart. [ Crosses R to nirror, adjusting his tie~\. A. S^Looking at hint]. Vanity, thy name is man! Now, that's the third time to-night you have made an excuse to view yourself in the mirror. C. This confounded tie has such an ambition to rise — in society. \^Jerks at ii~\. Oh, what a bother. A. Can't I assist ? You'll lose 3/our pa- tience in a moment. C. You may save the loss, my dear. \_Crosses to Iter and sits r of licr on divan~\. A. Now, how in the world do you expect me to better your appearance when you hold your head like that? Raise it up; up. C. \_Holding Ids head very JiigJi\. Ready? A \Giving a last toucJi to the tie~\. Yes. C. \_Kisses her suddeidy. She makes a gesture as if to speak and reproach hini\. Tut, tut! there's no one present but ourselves, and it's the first to-night. I could not resist the opportunity. A. That's different. Oh, do you know there is a Count here to-night ? I was introduced to him by Mr. Murry. [Clar. starts']. He has 28 FOILED NOBILITY. such easy manners, and his conversation, brief as it was, became very interesting. C. \_As!de'\. He has kept his word and is here. {^To A.'\ How does he look? A. He is extremely dignified, handsome and gallant. O, you would know him to be a for- eigner immediately. C. Very slight opinion you have of your own countrymen. \Laug]iiiig^ heard on veranda^ A. Who is out there ? See. C. \\Valking to door u. R.] Sounds like your father's voice. \Looks out, then comes back to A7\ Your father, Lord Vinton, and from your flattering description, I should judge, the Count. \_Co2int heard talking]. A. Yes, that's his voice. But come, I must return, or the guests will think me rude. [^Kises. Enter R. through center doors, holding his hand- kerchief in his Jiand and la2tg]iing\ R. Ah! ha! {To A.] You said that old maid, Miss Chauncy, had such a beautiful color in her face. A. Well, she has. {After a pause]. What pleases you ? Don't you think so? R. Only on one side now, cousin. Instead of /;/ her face, you should have said 07i her face. A. Why ! What do you mean ? R. [Opening handkerchief ; as lie does so a large red spot appears on it\. Behold and shud- der. A. {With surprise]. Why, it's rouge. R. {Laughing). You don't mean it ! I thought she had such a lovely color in her face. C. {Crosses r. singing low). " Things are sel- dom what they seem." A. How did you discover this ? FOILED NOBILITY. 29 R. {Sifs L.) We were standincr near the window ; she had been pursuing me all evening h'ke a bird of prey, silently and ready at an\' moment to swoop down on me. I eluded her whenever an opportunity presented itself to do so. But she at last captured me, mind I do not say captivated me; and I said to myself, now old girl — A. Eh! What? R. Well, maj'be I didn't say that, but what's the odds. I'm going to see if that lovely color's genuine, and I told her there was a slight speck- on her face, and offered to brush it off. She consented. I did. She looked, saw, and • disappeared rapidly. Thank heaven she'll not trouble me again. [All laitgh). A. I think that's awful. {C. viotions R. to leave them). R. {Rises). That's all right eld boy, I'm going, but I wanted to tell you this. I say, Annette, will this vermilion come out? A. I think it has come out. Poor Mis^ Cliauncy, I suppose she is half way home b)' this time, or perhaps her blushes are a fair sub- stitute for her rouge. R. Pshaw I don't believe she has blood enough to blush. [7?. walks up stage. As he does so the c. doors are thrown open. Enter Grace Carlton and Mr. Mnrry'\. Mr. M. \_Advancing\. Miss Weston, we arc making ready for a new dance, and can't allow you to be absent. Will you take my arm ? \Offering Ids arvi\. A. \Takes his arni.~\ With pleasure. [77y';' zualk np stage\ 30 FOILED NOBILITY. R. Miss Carlton allow me, \_Offcring his arm\ G. C. In just a moment,. Mr. Weston, you will pardon me, but my glove has become unbuttoned ; would you mind buttoning it? R. Not in the least. \Procecds to assist her. Dance -music; ladies and gentlemen seen passing to and fro in room back\ I am very slow. A. \_Turnir,g to G. and R^ Are you not coming, Grace ? G. C. In just a moment. Run along. \_Exennt A. andM:] R. There, you are released. G. C. Thank you very much. [Takes R.'s arvi\. Are you not coming, Mr. Stedman? C. Thanks, no. I shall stroll outside and get a breath of fresh air; it is so very warm in there [/?. and G. bow vnd pass out\ The Count would see Mrs. Weston alone. Me shall do so. A.s for me — well, I shall be no great distance away at the time of their meeting. If she succumbs to his threats, and gives him what he demands, she will be as guilty as I have reason to believe he is. If she defies and denounces him, she will prove herself to be the good and noble woman that her husband claims her to be. But. above all, wliat transpires must needs be kept secret from Annette. Bless her I her sweet soul must not be visited by a wave of sorrow. [Laughing heard on the veranda~\. He appears to feel con- fident of success. [Crosses i^7\ This Rogers, or rather Lor-d Vinton, as he calls himself, is here for no good. I must keep a falcon's eye on both him and the Count, in fact. Is it not likely this Count (I'm sorry I do not know his real name), has this Rogers stationed here for some purpose? FOILED NOBILITY, 31 The circumstances surrounding this mystery fit that supposition perfectly. We shall see in time, — in time. If it is in my power to silence the tongue of this blackmailer, I shall do it without the slightest hesitation. [CcfS* itp to i,. u. v..jLolds open the curtains zuith his left hancf\. If she needs my help she shall have it. \^Exit\ \_Entcr Mrs. Westoii from ball-room, pale and excited. She advances to centre of stage. Servant enters from library with empty glasses on tray. He is about to pass out L. u. E. Mrs. Weston turns to him'^. Mrs. W. August ! Aug. \_Coming fortvard~\. Yes, ma'am. Mrs. VV. Where is Mr. Weston ? Have you seen him ? Aug. Yes, ma'am. He vas out on der verandi mit Lord Beatmii und anoder shentlemans. Vill I call him ? Mrs. W. No. You may go now. \_Exit Ang. L. u. E.] Now conies the struggle. Wouk' to Heaven it were over, and I knew my fate. The suspense is awful. I thought I should faint in there ; the air was stifling, at least to me. Ah ! I could not join in the mirth, as I was wont to do. Oh, Heaven ! why will the past be brought before me to drape in gloom my blissful life. I could not bear to hear them laugh. One said that I looked pale. Ah ! \_Rises and zvalks nervously to mantel L. and leans on it, resting her head on her liand\ What is to be ? \_Mr. W., L. V. and C. L heard langliing. Mrs. VV. starts They pass in front of door u. p.. Mr. W. stands zvith his back to andience, L. V. side- zvays, C. L. front, still la7ighing'\. Mr. W. Very good, Count, very good. L. V. Extremely funny, indeed. 32 FOILED NOBIL/TY. Mr. W. Come, let us walk out and maybe Lord Vinton can tell us something of his experi- ence. \_Coii?it sees Airs. JF.] C. L. You must excuse me. I should like very much to join you ; but I have an engage- ment with a )'oung lady for the next dance, and I am afraid I have lingered too long already. Mr. W. Certainly. But sorry you won't ac- company us. [Z. v., Mr. W. move off. C. L. enters, drazving the curtains to after him. He ap- pears smiling, cool and expectant ; advances to c] C. L. Ah, Marie, well met. You were rather later than I expected, but notwithstanding, I par- don you before you ask me. You are looking very pretty. Mrs. W. Infamous. \_Crosses to r.] C. L. No, my dear. Pretty. You do not seem to appreciate my compliments. \_She shntgs her 'shoulders\. Well, I can't say I am here to make them, but rather on a little business matter. \Panses\ Well ? — I am waiting. Mrs. W. \lurning to him~\. For what? C. L. Pray, do not compel me to speak. Mrs. W. I will not, for I understand you. You said in your letter you would go abroad to- morrow. What assurance have I of the truth of that statement ? C. L. \_Drazuing fortJi a pocket book and opening ii\. Come. \She advances to hini\. Here is my passage. What more proof would you have than this? Surely not my word of honor? Mrs. W. How well you know, Gaston Dean, you never had honor ! C. L. How you flatter me. But come, we are not here for this sort of thing; the time is passing and you must decide. FOILED NOBILITY. 23 Mrs. W. How nuicli money will satisfy you to leave me in peace ? \^3fr. W. appears in door U. R.] C. L. Now, that's better. I will not be ex- orbitant. in my demands, so I fix the sum at five thousand dollars. Mrs. W. I have not such an amount at my command. \_Sits R.] C. L. You can get it. Mrs. W. No, I cannot. It is impossible. C. *L. \Hiirriedl)'\. Oh, come, come, do not hedge. 1 know you can, and twice the sum if you would. Mrs. VV. \Rises and faces hint defiantly~\. Gaston Dean, what you could say of me would not affect my character. I am as free from guilt as a child. Three years ago I met you at Long Branch; 'twas in the evening; I was full of romance, and you affecting to be a Count, and by your pleasing manners ingratiated yourself into my favor. On the third day after our meet- ing, you proposed to me. I went to my parents to get their consent to marry you. They re- buked me for ever having entertained such a thought; commanded me never to see you again. One night while I was walking alone, I heard you step behind me; I sought to fly ; you called to me to wait ; I did so ; you again pleaded with me; I yielded, and the next day we were secretly married ; and then, for the first time I learned your true name and character; one Gaston Dean, a convict and a felon. You were, two weeks after our marriage, arrested for for forgery, and had not been in custody a day until complaints poured in at the jail, aye, from rich and poor, whom you had swindled. Oh! the degredation, 34 FOILED NOBILITY, the shame I felt on awakening from my dream of happiness, and finding myself the wife of such as you. My father hearing of this sent for me to return to him, and forgave all. Yoli wrote me; indeed, besceched me to come and help you, saying I was the only one who could. Did I ? No. I hated, I loathed you, as I do still. Why should I fear to have my husband know this. Is there anything overshadowing my past. Why should I give to you money intrusted to me to silence such as you. You had better go to your miss- tresses, [C L. starts,\ and wring from them their vile money. It suits your hands best, or forge a check. No doubt, you thought I'd yield to you, but no, rather than keep from my husband what it is right he should know, I will tell him my- self. So, you see, Gaston Dean, you have failed! You have failed! C. L. \_Smiting and playing with a 7'ose~\- Perhaps not — perhaps not. Mrs. W. Can you deny what I have said? C. L. I am sorry I cannot. What you have said is. remarkably true, and — allow me — deliv- ered with eloquence ; but who'll believe it? Sup- pose I go and tell your friends in there [pointing to the ball-room) that you were the wife, before you married this honest man, of a convict and a felon — as you call him. Mrs. W. I would denounce you as that man- C. L. As I leave to-morrow for abroad, that would have little or no effect. Mrs. W. What care I if you tell it to the world, so long as I have my husband's goodwill. C. L. Very well, then. I am sorry. You FOILED NOBILITY. 35 might have saved this. \^Going up stage, Mr. W. confronts ]iiiii\. Mr. W. Stop, sir ! Mrs. W. \RusJiwg up to hiii{\. Stephen ! Mr. W. Marie, I have heard all. As for you, sir — go ! C. L. But not without Marie. Will she not bear me company? I should dislike very much to leave without her. Mr. W. Enough, sir ! She shall remain with me and share my comforts. Mrs. W. \Falls on divan l, sobbing\. I do not deserve this. Mr. W. Calm yourself, my dear. You do, arid more, for def3nng such a man as this. \Taps bell\ C. L. Mr. Weston, it grieves me much to be compelled to make known to your guests the se- cret history of this woman. [Clar. appears at L u e]. Mr. W. You may go at once! It is nothing to be ashamed of Do you suppose they would think the less of her for the story you could tell? C. L. Mr. Weston, the main point in this lit- tle scene has been left out. Would you have them learn that she is a bigamist? Mr. W. Marie, is this the truth ? Mrs. W\ No; God knows it is another of this villain's black lies. C. L. Can you prove what you now speak to be the truth ? Mrs. W. I can, and will. C. L. Do it at once. Mrs. W. I cannot at once. C. L. When ? 36 FOILED NOBILITY. Mrs. W. As soon as a dispatch will reach my father and I receive an answer. C. L. We cannot wait 'till ' then ; besides, what father would not shield his daughter? [Ser- vant enters r s e]. Mr. W. I believe my wife speaks the truth, and I will trust her. \To servant.] Bring this man's hat. C. L. You are very kind. \To servant]. It is a light hat. You will find it on a chair this side of the rack. \_Exit servant]. Mr. Weston, where do you find a class of people who will not believe bad of a woman when her character is attacked. One simple word will blast her life forever, and all the good that is said of her after- ward will do little toward making amends. Trust one who knows the world. Now, you, with a small sum of money, at least, to yourself, can save this lady from the shame I could plunge her into. Mr. W. I understand you, sir, and I yield, not because I believe }'ou, but because of the trouble you could niake. What you would say would have more or less effect, and who would believe the truth ? C. L. You say right, sir. \_Enter L. V. r. u. e. wipcrceived\ Mrs. W. No, you shall not give him one cent. I would rather suffer the humiliation than feel that this man was getting money from you to keep him from telling of me — a lie. C. L. \AngriI)i\. Take care ! You know me well. Mrs. W. Too well ; but I defy you ! C. L. Mr. Weston \seeing L. K] and you, this woman is my wife ! FOILED NOBILITY. 37 C. \_Coviiiig dozvn siagc\. You lie ! \_.C L. starts\. I have said it and will prove it. \_Holds up letter and reads] : ' With many kisses I remain yowx divorced Juisband, Coiint La TaiicJie! C. L. \Turniug suddenly to L. F.] You scoundrel ! You told me you burned that letter. L. V. A slight mistake, Count. I ask 3-our pardcui ? C. L. \Angrily\ Pardon? By Heaven! I'll make you repent it. ^Composing himself\ There, there, excuse me, friends, I forgot myself. \^Enter servant zvith tzvo hats. Advances to C. Z.] Thank you, this is mine. [Takes a hat]. I do not know to whom the other belongs. L. V. \_Looking at Jiat\ It belongs to me. I will take it please. \Servant hands him hat; exit]. Mr. W. Now, sirs we will dispense with your unwelcome presence. C. L. [Looses his temper, grasps L. V. by the throat, tJir owing him against the table r.] Damn you, you cur ; here is your good round sum ! [Strikes him\ Mr. W. Sir! [Enter De Piigh ; he grasps C. Lis. arm as he is abont to strike L. Vl\ De Pugh. Don't lose your temper Connt. It,s unbecoming in you. [to M. Wl\ You will par- don me Mr. Weston for entering your house so unceremoniously, but I have business with the nobility. [Pointing to L. V. and C. Ll\ C. L. [Cooll}i\. What business have you with me ? De Pugh. You — absent-mindedly, of cour.se — made the mistake of placing another man's name to a check, instead of your own, and your friend there passed it for you. Your friends up 38 FOILED NOBILI-n^ the Hudson are lonesome witliout your company, and we (you may accompany us, Mr. Rogers,) will take a trip over to them. C. L. \_With a forced smile]. So soon back to the old home? Madam [/^ Mrs. W.J, you will pardon my use 'of profane language a few moments ago, but I was angered. And, gentle- men, when next we meet I hope it will be under pleasanter circumstances. In the meantime I shall conjure up some pleasant stories. I wish you all luck. As for me — well, you see^ "FOILED NOBILITY." Au revoir. TABLEAU. CURTAIN. Position of Characters at Fall of Curtain. De Pugh, L. V. C. L. Mr. W. Mrs. W. Clar. As curtain falls the center doors are thrown open. Music. (end.) ^ij^ei^e f\rztx\ A DRAMATIC POEM. [The story of Eugene Aram, as embodied in Bul'wer Lytton's novel, is substantially followed in this poem. The liberty is taken, however, in the •closing scene of the poem, to change the manner of Aram's death.] " Me tliought I heard a voice ciy," " Sleep no more " Macbeth does murder sleep." * * -if * * " Oh, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven." SCENE I. — Eugene Aram's Room. RICHARD HOUSEMAN. ^^g|RAM — I see you here 'mickt poverty and ^(H' pride, Knowledge given, but wealth denied, Had'st thou but wealth, the mighty multitude Would seek thy book.s a.s quick as daily food, Thou'rt like the diamond, far from sight. And need'st but wealth to cast thee into light. Thou livest secluded, by compulsion so, By no one noted where 'ere you go. It grieves my heart, it grieves my nature rough, To see iiien flourish, who but publish — stuff. The bell of truth seems in my ears to chime When ends your magic pen a written line, I'd fain pursue and know I could 'till day. The hour invites me, and I must awa}'.. 40 EUGENE ARAM. ARAM. STAY — Houseman, your words to nie are kind. 'Tis true, I've knowledge, but to wealth am blind. You see that desk, stacked with my writings, high, They have ne'er been noted by the public's eye; All are returned unto the one that gave them birth, Returned accompanied with "They're nothing- worth." Wealth, man's mightiest ruler, on its throne Bows not to me, though knowledge I do own. The poor be damn'd, the rich forever blest; Houseman, how true, that life is but a jest. You find me now on poverty's dark shore, Lined like the bird, to flutter and no more. That waxed taper sinks in its circle grave To night a blessing, but to fire a slave ; And so with me, I fain would blaze on high, But poverty consumes me when 'ere I try. I prithee sit, thou'rt ever welcome here, I've too long poured my sorrow in thy ear. Change we now, the subject of our talk. Or, pleasing thee, we'll take a quiet walk ; Not to the village, na3'', the taunting crowd Ring curses at me that are grating loud, " For why? " thou'lt ask ? because I'm poor they say. And will not toil as they do through the day, EUGENE ARAIM. 4-1 Houseman, full well thou knovvest my thoughts are high. I crave more knowledge, and with that will die ; I could no more unto these vulgar people drop Than could the earth its ceaseless motion stop. But now farwell unto this cheerless room, We'll out, the air's refreshing and bright shines the moon. SCENE U.—A zvood. HOUSEMAN. ARAM, why bear thus much when wealth is near, And thou can'st have it without work or fear; Once thine the poverty robe which 3^ou wear now Unfurled would be ; men of genius to thee then would bow. If thou wilt have it so, I will pursue, If not I'll silent be, but — pity you. ARAM. Say on, say on, I prithee, I am all intent, My nature's open, and my hearing lent. HOUSEMAN. 'Tis Daniel Clark of whom 1 now would speak, That vile debauching, and insulting sneak He whose contaminated flesh does rot, Whose character is stained with a filthy blot, 'Twas he, who with a pleasing, smiling face, Under pretense of purchasing some choice lace, Decoyed the daughter of a woman old, 42 EUGENE ARAM. And — well — hushed up the matter with his gold He thought, but no, from house to house the gossipping wind Fast bore it, leaving naught behind, Lie upon lie accumulating as it blew. Where doors were barred, it forced its vile self through. Old maids with mouths open, faces ashen white Heard them with wonder, terror and afright ; Meanwhile the men, weak men, did fret and fume, Saying, "This very act shall seal Clark's doom." Did it? not so, but like some mightv king He tells new stories in a tavern ring ; And she, poor girl, with sorrow weighed, and shame. She could not live and bear her father's name, But with a potent poison, she herself destroyed ; Clark with a cynic's smile was overjoyed. Aram, with thee I would this man undo; Relieve him of his gold, give half to you. Nay, start not until I finished am I've pictured to thee full this odious man; It is not meet that he should live in peace, His crimes accumulate, and wiH never cease. ARAM. What would you have me do ? I prithee straight unfold Thy all mysterious secret of his gold. EUGENE ARAM. 43 HOUSEMAN. You will not angry be if I offend? ARAM. No ; but patient 'till you reach the end. HOUSEMAN. All thanks. To-morrow night 'ere tolls the mid- night bell To thee TU bring, 'fall my plans hold well, This Daniel Clark who claims he knows you not, If ever did, he surely has forgot ; Thpu'lt courteous treat him, let no rough words fall, And treat our coming as a welcome call ; We'll chat awhile, some wine thou'lt have at hand, And I a prowder, dost thou understand? Freely partake he will, and stupid grow. Thick will become his tongue, his words come slow ; He'll crave fresh air. we'll seek a quiet spot. Say, near St. Robert's cave, the very place, why not ; His demon soul, long fettered up too tight With drink, its bonds will break and come to light. Insulting he will grow, and we, he'll curse ; /'// strike a stunning blow, biit notliing worse; In a leathern belt he'll likely have his gold, And to appropriate it I shall make so bold ; 44 FUGENE ARAM. Yield half to thee, we'll go our separate ways^ I to seek fortune, thou, a scholar's praise. ARAM. Thy story's clear, but touches me in vain, No crime shall ever Eugene Aram stain. I had as lieve be of all hopes bereft, As seek to gain them by the devil theft. HAUSEMAN. Thou dost refuse me, then? I charge ye then beware ! Reveal not my secret, or I swear ARAM. Swear what? — What dost thou swear? — I pray thee speak. •^ I see — thou meanst to threaten — Well, I'm weak. And not the man to cope in streJigth with thee. Nor thou the man to crush the ivill in me. HOUSEMAN. Forgive me, Aram, for my being bold, But think of thy fame hadst thou but gold ; Think of this villian, this damned villian, Clark, That has of manhood not the slightest spark; Think of that ruined maid, her death, her shame. ARAM. Who was she, pray ? thou hast not told her name. I've absent been a fortnight, and have nothing heard ; 'Tis news unto me now what then occurred. EUGENE ARAM. 45 HOUSEMAN. Aram, I have witheld her name, but since 3^011 press me, Marie Ceylon it was ; ah, 3-es, 'twas she- ARAM. Marie Ceylon ! that maid I daily met, so bright, Who seemed encompassed with celestial light ? Marie*Ceylon, my poor young scholar of two years ago. Thou art mistaken, truly, it can't be so. HOUSEMAN. 1 swear it is; but jf thou dost demand more proof, Look to her family and there learn the truth. Note, for thou can'st, their seated grief untold; Note the wan faces of her parents old ; Note her small home in cheerfulness once shaped, And then the melancholy gloom in which 'tis draped ; Then turn your eyes, or thoughts, to this odious man. Without a purpose or an earthly plan — But of the undoing of some trusting friend, Or stealing, swindling, or some maid offend ; Then ask thy heart if my proposal's wrong. And if this Daniel Clark has lived too long. ARAM. Enough. I will bethink me, and if changed be, To-morrow night thou'lt know if I asree. 46 EUGENE ARAM. (Aram and Houseman, by a preconcerted plan, pretend to assist Clark in his midnight escape with his ill-gotten money and jewels, and at a lonely spot near St. Robert's cave, Houseman strikes Clark a deadly blow, Aram being an inactive but willing accomplice in the struggle. Aram, aids Houseman in hiding the body in the cave and in concealing the crime afterwards. (The following scene occurs twenty years after the murder;) SCENE in. — A wood. At night. Aram alone. ARAM. Ye deep, unfathomed, floating and stern rooted stars ; How have I sought to solve thee many troubled hours ; How oft; how oft; when no clouds obscured the skies I've to my attic gone, towards thee upturned my eyes. And there I've sought with patience your mystery to unfold, But, alas, in vain ; your secrets rest untold ; Untold perhaps for ever they will calmly rest Content be then, ye are the only things thus blest. For me, I dwell environed by an atmosphere of woe, Linked to one gloomy thought where ere I go ; EUGENE ARAM. 47 Aye, with a clanging chain whose never ceasing noise Rings on my brain, forbidding earthl}'^ joys. In love, in walks, in meditation deep Its hell-like sound haunts me, denies e'en sleep, Its strength is more than mortal man can break, 'Twill not bend, nor even deign to shake, 'Tis fettered tighter than a chain of hell Is to its suffering prisoner in his firey cell. And through the day and night it keeps the rasping time. That belongs only to a chain of crime ; Oh God ! had I but waited one short blessed day. {Enter Madaiine) MADALINE. What, then, Eugene had happened ? tell me, pray. ARAM. Madaline ! What brings thee to this lonely spot? I sought seclusion and longed to be forgot; Hast thou been long in hearing-distance here ? MADALINE. I have just found thee. ARAM. (Retreat attending fear), [Aside~\ For, Madaline, I've caught a studious melan- choly strain That lingers like a dirge upon my brain, I thought, sweet Madaline, of unrewarded life, Where, or what is the prize for all our earthly strife. 48 EUGENE ARAM. MADALINE. •Eugene, our mode on earth will our reward decide, I p/ithee, though, to cast such thoughts aside And talk of flowers, thyself or something pleas- ing, dear. And drop thy voice like music in my ear. In seeking thee I've lonely roamed an hour, And find thee gloomily pondering 'neath this blooming bower. ARAM. The contrast does seem odd, it does indeed ; For thy forgiveness Madaline I most humbly plead ; This hand, fair lady, trembles ; ah, can it be Thou hast some adventure had in seeking me. MADALINE. » Ah, Eugene, how well thou dost read me,' A stranger met me and asked for thee. While passing near the tall and bending oak That overhangs this quiet little brook ; I saw a shadow moving in the moon's soft rays, And then a figure stepped full in my gaze ; A man it was, and in appearance rough, His face was haggard and his clothes uncouth. By first inipulse, I thought I'd run or scream, It all seemed like some frightful dream, He asked if Eugene Aram lived hereabout ; I replied he did ; he asked me then the route EUGENE ARAM. 49 That would lead him to thy home. I gave it plain ; * He vanished then, I saw him not again. But liere I am, and safely, at thy side, My braven^ should be my Eugene's pride. ARAM. Aye, that it is. You say he asked for me ? He is a stranger here. Whom could it be? Ah, '^eW, perchance I'll know ere yet the night is spent, Towards thee meantime I'll let my thoughts be bent. But stay ! Did he make known from whence he came ? Or, Madaline, mayhap he gave his name ? MADALINE. Ah, yes ; how could I ever that forget? Houseman — I think it was — and yet — and yet, Yes, yes ; I think I'm right, but; if I'm wrong, Thou'lt surely learn it without tarrying long ; And parting, said, "Sweet lady, no harm do I intend ; I'm Mr. Aram's old and cherished friend. ARAM — [aside). Houseman ! Great God ! what sends him to this spot. To dash upon my soul a darkening blot ? MADALINE. Eugene, that ruffled frown that hovers o'er thy brow. 50 EUGENE ARAM. Some troublesome thought denotes, affects thee now ; • Oh, tell it me, thy sympathizing friend, Or canst thou nevermore on me depend? ARAM. Madaline, what! I despair in trusting thee, Who art the shining sun and life to me ! No fickle nature's housed in this weary frame, When you speak thus you drive my soul to pieces. To think that thou to whom I've ope'd my heart, Could let thy words such unjust thoughts impart. This stranger, dreamed I, is an imposter bold, Who calls for alms and must his sad lot unfold. It troubles me to think he'd call me friend ; What welcome should I to such a man extend ? A hearty one, as I am wont to do, Or let him know I've read his nature through ; And caution him to leave my cottage door Ne'er to return, I'll help him nevermore ? {Aside'). Oh, God, could I but do so, what a blest relief. Madaline, tlie marks he bears of an imprisoned thief. Ah, ha ; nay come, and let us stroll around, And talk of stars, their mystery profound — No, no; not that, 'tis folly to so do ; Say of flowers — or what e'er pleases }'ou — EUGENE ARAM. 51 Great God ! — behold yon hideous figure stand- ing there, His gaping throat, his red blood- matted hair. Behold with what horny fingers he ponits to me! Avaunt, thou fiend, frpm fiery hell set fi'ee ! MADALINE. Eugene ! Eugene ! What ails thee ? Tell me dear. ARAM Ah, 'twas but a passing fantasy; have no fear. Oh, heaven this brain of mine will work my proud life's end ; Ah, have I not in this dark world a friend ? MADALINE. Why stare you so into the vacant air, I am thy friend, and more, do not despair. ARAM. 'Tis true, 'tis true I'll trust thy loving heart ; Good night sweet angel, for now we part. MADALINE, Oh, good Eugene, I prithee list to me, Thou must not study more, it brings wild thoughts to thee. ARAM. No more, no more, I ask but this of thee. When thou dost pray to-night remember me. Now fare thee well, to-morrow I'll be gay ; God bless and guard thee 'till the break of dav. 52 EUGENE ARAM. MADALINE. Ah, fare thee well and may thy dreams be bright, Nor naught disturb thy placid rest to-night. \_Exit]. ARAM. Aye, bright with blood, my damned dreams shall be ; May God, and all the hosts of heaven watch o'er thee. SCENE. — A Room in Aram's House — Aram is Seated at an Organ. ARAM. What man, what fiend I ask again art thou, That now appears with ruffled brow. Standing mid my portieres hanging, (Cease thy hell chains horrible clanging) Red anger darts forth from thy eyes Stilling my organ's melodies. PHANTOM. Bethink thee well, bethink thee of the past; Ah ! ha ! turn pale, thou hast recalled at last, Root here thy gaze, note well this blistered face, For 'twill haunt thee man, I swear from place to place ; I am that man you struck and planned to rob, Be stone thy heart and let it .cease to throb. ARAM. Thou lie'st fiend, I struck thee not, nor would; EUGENE ARAM. 53 These hands were never stained with human blood, Back to thy home, tliy firey, gloomy hell. Back with thy chains — be pinioned to thy cell, Nor gibe, nor grin, nor gnash th}^ teeth at me ; {Bell tolls:] Thank God, thank God, the bell and thou must flee ; Ah! ha! begone, rattle each chain and link. Thy ruler calls down, down, to hell you sink — {Phantom disappears^] Thou hast left foul heat my soul to wither up ; Eugene, thy wine, the cup, the cup ; Too late, too late, dread death doth come at last, Ah, be not slow, thou canst not come too fast ; And, so Eugene, thy gloomy life is done, No more, no more thou'lt see the heavenly sun. Creep on, creep on, sweet death, God sends it; Madaline, to thee be peace. — Thus ends it. {DiesT] \\^T)\(s 5tory. (jd^^AY, Hank, tell us that story, ^ That story 'bout old Kit. Shut up, keep still, Nora, Or I'll lick you and won't care a bit." Then down laid the trapper's favorite dog, Down on the log cabin floor; While Sy on the fire then put a fresh log. And Jim Baker barred the door. " The story, boys, that Bill's asked me to tell," Happened nigh twenty years ago — Stop knawin' that gun, darn you, Nell ; Say, pards, just hyar the wind blow ! " " Th' wind 'ith th' story aint got nothin' to do ; Th' story's what we want — Hold on, now, 'till I take a fresh chew; I aint got one ! You give me one, Bunt." " Now fire ahead and shoot off your niouth ! For we're hyar for the evenin', I guess. I'll bet, 'fore yer through, th' wind '11 be from the south. Say, Bill, did you feed old Bess ? " Bess was the horse, and Bill said he had ; Then things got quieted down ; 56 HANK'S STORY. And Hank went on, in a way that was sad, — The fire lit up their faces so brown. " 'Twas on Colorado's slrarp cactus beds VVhar this storj^ begins with old Kit. We'd been trailin' a band o' the pesky reds ; But on 'em we hadn't yet hit. " O'Neil came ridin' over the plains, With a message held in his hand. We thought we were through, then, with our pains, And he knowed whar to find the red band. " But the paper didn't read that way, But said that a wagon train Was passin' over th' plains that day. And was signed by Big Stork Lane. " When Kit stopped readin' that notice, Yer orter seed how he shook ! For ' some one yer'Usee,' he said to us, ' Like yer mothers used to look ! ' " He said 'its been nigh twenty years Since my mother's face I've seen ; When of her I think, my eyes fill with tears. When I left home I was just nineteen. " It had been full five years since a woman we ■ saw — Say, Bunt, turn over that log. Course we'd seen many an Indian squaw, But thev aint mor'n a docf- HANK'S STORY. 57 " Pard.s, on a woman our e3-e.s hadn't set, Nor their picter in a book. We were up and niovin' to see one, you bet, — Like our mothers used to look. ." The way it was longr, but the hosses were bright, Aad we took along stuff fer to cook. Kit Carson kept saying ' of onej^ou'U get sight, Like yer mothers' used to look.' " D'rectly we came to a rise in the plain, Whar Kit said 'twas best thar to wait. By 'n by. hove in sight the long wagon train. Yes, sir ; just as th' paper did state ! " On the raise we laid down and peeped over to spy. Kit was peakin' from a nook. When, all on a sudden, ' thar's one,' he said, with a cry, ' Like my mother used to look.' "Sure'nuff long came a woman kind, gray and tall, VValkin' 'long by a cart ! We could almost see, 'neath dress and all, A kind, lovin' motherly heart ! " Her dress 'twas calico, to us finer than silk; In her hand she was readin' a book ; A form just as stately as that of an elk — Like our mothers used to look ! 58 HANK'S STORY. "Those scouts, pards, that never flinched in a fight, Cried now, Hke babies, I sa3^ They tossed and were restless all through the night, And seemed sorter lonesome next day. " Kit was blue all through th' day, And kind o' went oft alone, Thinkin' 'bout that woman so tall and gray, And his mother above, in her home! " Next day we had a fight with th' reds; We licked 'em ? Well, you can bet ; And turned in, all sound, that night in our beds. I wish Kit Carson was livin' yet ! " As Hank finished his story and lit a fi-esh pipe, Bill thought it was time to " turn in." Many tears were shed in the cabin that night, And aching hearts, to see their own kin ! November, i88y. J\)e paleo^er's Bride. I^LADLY on the breaking morn ^t^ Sounded the hunter's falcon horn. The falcon, soaring far on high, lieapd it's echo in the sky. It settled where the hunter stood And waited for the blinding hood. " Well, bird, can'st not find us meat; We then pursue our way with naught to eat. Come, now on my shoulder perch, And near the night we'll end our search." 'Twas Judita, a Jewish maid, Who had been stolen from her father's side, And Jules, her lover, searching now. Had to her father made a vow That ere the dawning of two days He would on his daughter gaze; That he, Jules, would bring her home Or yield his life without a groan. He found the trail he thought was right, And followed it 'till fell the night. He reached a hut where lived a hag, Clothed in many a filthy rag. Of her he'd heard when but a boy ; She once was young and full of joy, But sorrow o'er her cast a shadow. As she sought and found no Eldorado. 6o THE FALCONER'S BRIDE. Jules stepped to the door and knocked with his fist ; Someone within sharply said "hist!" Again he knocked with greater force ; 'Twas answered by a croaking curse. "What would'st thou at this ghost hour ; Know you not the milk is sour, The bread is stale, the rats have slunk Away and hid beneath my bunk. Their once fat sides are now quite thin ; They're wearing now a hungry grin. r faith I've such a scanty hoard, I almost sometimes curse the Lord." Thus spake the Hag. Then Jules said, " I care not for your milk or bread ; Thou hast a treasure dear to me Hid in your hut, I fain would see ; So open then to me the door. Release the maid and say no more." " What maid ? Art crazy, thou ; There's none within, I'll surely vow. Begone and leave me to my rest. Ere with a curse I your soul infest." " Come forth thou hag, and show thy withered foce, Show me that form that once was full of grace. Nor cast your eyes down to the dust ; Release the maid, now hag, you must." She opened wide the oaken door, He stepped in on the filthy floor. ■ " Come now, hag, bring forth the maid, THE FALCONER'S BRIDE. 6i There'll trouble be if it's delayed." "Then search thee, .'-iconicr of this wrinkled face > Search the hut, then every place." Blinded by the hag'.s brave front, Jules carelessly pursued the hunt ; Thi-n in an instant heard a voice That made his troubled heart rejoice — " Come Jules, hasten to my side." " I will, Judita," Jules all excited cried, "Where art tiiou hid?" " Here, in this musty chest ; Release me, ere return the rest." • Then resting the falcon on the bed, Jules took the cap from off its head, And set about the chest to open break And from it's hold the fair Judita take. At last the chest, all shattered, falls apart. Jules clasps Judita to his heart ; Nor notes with axe uplifted o'er his head, 'I'he hag who now would strike him dead. The falcon though, with warning cries, Strikes his sharp talons in her eyes. She drops the axe with curses deep, And falls into eternal sleep. The falcon's claws had pierced her brain And left on it death's awful stain. " Come, Judita, come away, We must reach your father ere the day. I have without a brave, fleet-footed steed, That's always ready when his help I need." 62 THE FALCONER'S BRIDE. But now new perils await them in the woods ; The thieves returning with their stolen goods, Seeing their prize, Judita, borne away, They chase the two and try brave Jules to slaw Despatches he two robbers to life's end — Ail ! Nobly the maid he does defend ! But now there's matched with him the robber chief; To all the maid's entreaties he is deaf; Jides sinks his swor. He clutched then at his swelling throat, and tried himself to choke; And from that hellish dream, at last in terror 1 awoke. You note this frown ? you note it all ; whence came it, did you say ? It came to me while in that dream, I've worn it to this day. 'Twas drink that brought about that dream, it haunts me \yhile awake; I'm chained to it with some hell chain, that I can never break. Ah ! there now is that smothered chant — heark- en can'stthou hear? — The witches say, this day's my last, and the last one of the year." This all mysterious man, then fell upon the tavern floor, We started, all, and each one thought, is this a tale of yore. And then the landlord spoke and said, "J. prithee have no fear, THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 77 He's but poor ' Job,' a maniac, and has been so for years. He's haunted bj^ wild thoughts you see, the blood's rushed to his head ; Just raise him up;" we did so, but lo ! the man was dead ! With faces ashen white, we gazed upon his twisted form. The wind it groaned, the wind it moaned, and on there came a storm. The watch-dog howled a mournful howl, the wind it shrieked and wept ; We each then went unto our beds, but not one of us slept. December ^ I St, iSSy. Orpl^eus ai}d ^urydiei^. ORPHEUS. ^jl HRICE hallowed maid and full divine, ^i The sunlight of my years ; Celestial ever shall thy beauty shine, And wipe away my tears. The pure angelic carrier dove That brought your dear words to me, Seemed to be with thee in love, So fast he flew back to thee. EURYDICE. Fond Orpheus, ere the ending of the dial I will be with thee in Thrace, My soul is full of thee, the while My heart scarce holds its place. Forever in my vestal veins The blood of love flows warm. The thought runs throug my restless brain Of thy dear person's charm. 'Tis evening cool, two lovers meet. Passionately they embrace, Ambrosial fragrance rise round them sweet From flowery banks in Thrace. 8o ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE. Oegrus comes, Orpheus' father Followed hard behind - By Calliope, Orpheus' mother; The lovers then they bind. The pair then, seek a quiet nook With roses for its wall, Fringing on a silvery brook With many a rippling fall. Resting there, of love they taste, Its first and only bliss. Though briefly then away to haste, And end it with a kiss. On 'morrow morn', Apollo comes, To Orpheus gives a lyre. And says 'twill charm the heavenly suns, And quench infernal fires. The muses come, nine full in band. And float about his ears, His sense's to these words expand, " Now cast away thy fears." " With this same lyre enchanted be, The rocks, the trees, the beasts Thou'lt always clasp, Eurydice, And have love's glorious feast. False muses! what, false said I ? Nay, ye are always just. Ye never could breath forth a lie, Mistakes, admit, you must. ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE. Si Ere many days Eurydice, Was by a serpent stung ; The last she said, " Fond one from thee, Into death's cave I'm flung." Lady of Thrace in thy one happy hour, To be of hTe so briefly stripped ; Talcen from thy ever blooming bovver When life you've only sipped. Orpheus follows with lyre in hand, Paused 'fore the gates of hell; The outward walls in terror scanned, Dispairing then he fell. Determined, rises, his charm he tries. Trusting but to fate ; In hell's far corners its sweet echo dies, Then opens wide the gate. He entered, but with one desire, And that to see his own ; Then stood before the lake of fire, Which seemed with blood to foam. Prayed he, " Heavenly God set free, Give me by the hand. My own, my wife, Eurydice, And I'll do Thy command." Retrace thy steps then to the gate. She will follow near thy side, Nor look thee back, 'twill be too late," A heavenly voice replied. 82 ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE. He had almost passed the fatal bound, Hell's gates swung witl^^a groan ; Anxiety of love then turned him 'round, Eurydice was gone. The devils bore her hastily back. And chained her to the wall. Around her settled hell's deep black; In vain did Orpheus call. The devils grinned, the hell hounds barked, The bats around him flew, The flames leaped higher, sharply forked, The horns of demons blew. Green spiders hung from webs of slime, Horned scorpions 'round him crawl; He hears the cry. of a concubine Re-echo from hell's wall. ;}: * * * * * Back to Thrace, then Orpheus went, And met the harlots there ; He treated them with scorn, contempt. These Thracian harlots, fair. For him, then vanished all their love. With knives from vulcan forges, They killed him in the excitement of Their Bacchanalian orgies. November, iSSy. Jfje pate of tl^e plirt. (^f^'RESSED in soft and rustling tafieta "4^i Whirled she 'round on waxed floor, In the charming dance lavolta, Forgotten now, forever more. Two knights stood by in rapture gazing On this beautious maid of Spain, And indeed, it was amazing How, o'er all there she did reign. Gazed they rapt with admiration On this Spanish maid, so fair, Escorted with much incurvation By her partner to a chair. Bowed he then with knightly courtesy. Thanked her for her gracious hand. From her side he strutted pompously, Struck up then the " Saraband." By, there came a knightly gallant Darts at her a winsome glance ; Responds she sweet with smile relucent, And he wins her for the dance. In his arms, she grows more pliant, As the dance enchanting grows ; S4 THE FATE OF THE FLIRT. Drops she then a diamond pendant, He picks it up with many bows. He takes her gently by the arm And leads her to a seat, She talks to him with winning charm, Which grows so dangerous sweet He attended her with great respect, And longed to press her to his breast; But when he broached love's subject, She changed it with a jest. He told her that no royal knight Could love her as did he ; Then in her eyes coquettish light Was dancing playfully. He took her gently by the iumd, His suit, he pleaded ardently, And said, " Would they together band." She answered pleasantly. — " This has come to me so sudden, My answer yet I cannot give ; But, to-morrow, my dear leman. You shall have it if I live. " A glass of wine, now bring me please, You'll find it in the outer room, I think it will, my headache ease; Hurry back with it quite soon." Fixed he then the wine to suit her, Nor the sugar did lie slight ; THE FATE OF THE FLIRT. ^ Started back, but paused in wonder As he saw a kneeling knight. Aye, beside her, there was kneeh'ng A richly clothed and handsome knight ; That made himl^laze with jealous feeling, Which he tried to quench with might. Down the glass of wine he dashed; His spirit full of anger, And from his eyes the lightning flashed, As he rushed up to the stranger. He laid his hand upon his shoulder And stared him in the face ; Saying as he grew much bolder, " Go ! seek another place ! " " By what I'eason, do you Sir Knight Ask me to leave her side ? " " For the reason and the right, That she's to be my bride." " What say you sir, what said you now ? That she is to be bride to thee ? She gave me knight, her sacred vow That she'd be that to ;//t'." Spake the lady, " Oh, quarrel ye not, Or my love you'll surely lose ; My life is not a happy lot ; I cannot between you choose. " I love you sirs both equall}^ And love not one the best ; 86 THE FATE OF THE FLIRT. I acted only playfully, And merely in a jest." " Stay Senorita, do not go, You've pledged your hand to me; You Sir Knight, to tell me, are not slow, She has done the same to thee. " There is a forest not far hence Where w^'ll this matter right, Now, you sir knight, with all your sense Choose weapons for the fight." "Your challenge, I accept brave Knight, And swords — if it suits you ; Lets haste ere morning's grayish light, Ther'll be left but one of two." Shraightway went they to the forest. Followed by the trembling maid ; Speaking 'gainst the duel in protest, . Asking it to be delayed. " Nay, senorita," spake a knight. " It must be at once, aye, now ; You have brought about this fight, By pledging each a vow." Drew they forth their weapons bright ; In fashion then they poised them. Flashed they in the soft moonlight, And terrified the maiden. Screamed she then in deadly terror ; Rushed between the fighting men. THE FATE OF THE FLIRT. 87 And their joking changed to sorrow, Fearful she'd been killed by them. To the ball-room straight they bore her, Hoping there she'd soon revive, But her breath came harder, slower, 'Till at last she ceased tojive. Ladies shun ye allflirtation, < For by it you'll nothing gain ; It only leads you to perdition. Bethink ye of this maid of Spain. 1[)l« :(; * * The bells of Christmas are ringing; Why, 'twas but a dream that I've had, And the carols, gay children are singing THE TWO PHANTOMS. 91 As they trip through the streets hght and glad. I step to the window and gazing Up towards the Blessed Abode ; There is no one, no one, I'm saying, Who doubts in his heart there's a God. December^ i88j. /T)(^lap(5(^. GRATITUDE. When soft rose the perfume of summer, I'd seek me some cool quiet spot, And there I'd let all be forgotten, And no doubt was by all forgot. There with the stars, soft rays playing On the sleepfng trees and the flowers, I thought 'tis nature alone that is thankful For the light of the sun and the stars. And for the sw^et life to it given ; Unburdened with sorrow and care, I felt e'en though it is speechless, It sends forth a heavenly prayer. And by the bediamond like waters Of the brook, slipping hght thr'o the wood, 92 MELANGE. I felt, though surrounded by comfort, My heart lacked the true gratitude. June p, IBS']. "- SYLVIA. A voice swelled on the moonlit night ; A lute's tones tripped along, The voice was clear, the voice was light. That lingered in this song. " List, list ! — list, list ; Sweet angel you have won my heart ; Come forth bright maid, be not afraid, One kiss and I depart. While ^'littering stars in azure towers Covet thy bright face ; Oh, pray arise, and with thine eyes, Lend to this night more grace." A shadow appeared on the velvet lawn. It rested motionless ; The lute was stilled, the night was filled With celestial loveliness. " Sylvia this brief hour is fleeting, Venus watches thee and I, Though we must in haste be parting. Still we part with many a sigh." " Farewell Lorenzo, for 'tis to meet and part, No conference we're allowed, MELANGE. 93 Still love, in full sway, rules my heart, While silence is my shroud." " Farewell sweet Sylvia, for 'tis to meet and part ; To meet is bliss divine, But parting withers up the heart ; Then joy has its decline." Sylvia stood in the balcony window ; Her shadow lay on the lawn, Lorenzo knelt and kissed the shadow, And starlicrht was his crown. A STRANGE DEATH. He sat at the organ rolling A Roman dirge from its keys, And the curfew's solemn tolling Blended with its melodies. The chamber was rich!)' furnished With patterns stately and old ; The organ was brightly garnished With seraphs wrought in gold. And the cold sad moon was shining Through a casement in the room. On a statue half reclining Of a hero veiled in gloom. And the duke sat dreamil}/ fingering The keys with a touch that was light, And the muffled tones were lingering On the silence of the nig^ht. 94 MELANGE. Lingering as they departed, On the sable waves of air, Like a mourner broken-hearted Filled with sorrow and dispair. But lo ! a dull-armored figure Through the portieres, spectre like, glides, And moves with the stealth of a tiger; Then at last on his course decides. — " From this spot of deep seclusion Soon a soul will mount with speed ; Would to God I had not been chosen To do this crimson deed. " Play on! play on! while thou mayest, Let thy solemn music roll For on earth thou shortly stayest. Then play into heaven thy soul, " The star of thy life is declining ; Thy good and noble head Soon will feel celestial light shining On its snow when thou art dead." Thus spake the dark assassin, And with no warning word An old duke's soul had risen At the thrust of a gleaming sword. And a corpse the moon was bathing Of a noble man and brave. Who unconsciously had been playing His funeral march to the grave. MELANGE. 95 A VIEW OF HAMLET. Hamlet of immortal fame. Is thought by many to have been insane, The noblest thoughts hung 'bout his pate, His purpose halted by the hand of fate. He heard the ghost in solemn night, And swore his father's wrong to right. Bethought he madness then to feign By which he would his object gain. But sponging spies lurked 'round his back That set this delicate mind on rack. He loved a woman beneath his sphere, Yet wept with saneness o'er her bier. His mother speaks he justly to, And stings her with his lecture througli. Ophelia's father killed he then, A rasher act could not have been. It changed his every tliought and plan And sent him to a foreign land ; In company with pretended friends Whom he sent unto their ends. Back he came then to resume His plans, which had an end so soon. Revenge he had, and that full well In sending Claudius' soul to hell. His mother's poisoned unto death, Likewise, Laertes void of breath. Hamlet follows with princely grace. His death he takes in his embrace. Sorrow weighed and melancholy. 9° MELANGE. He never stooped to acts of folly At times, afraid he'd lose his wits, When in soliloquizing fits. No mind unsettled, ere had he, For proof, " To be, or not to be." No madman ever walked the ground. Who formed such thoughts, so deep profound. Now, oh sirs, both young and old Forgive me full for being bold, But in all his actions, Hamlet's, plain, He never could hav.e been insane. MINDS OF YOUTH. 'I'hat minds are brighter in thejr happy youth. Is but an old and everlasting truth. Minds elder weary of their life. Welcome the end of unsuccessful strife. Ambitious youth seeking to make a name. Crowned with laurels and never ending fame. Overtaken at last by age itself, He sinks back to the fretting peevish elf. Ceases then the sparkle of his mind to shine ; Grim death then comes to him in shape sublime. Man is like the wavering of the reed He believes and believes not in the holy creed- His life he tries to fathom, but cannot, In many regions does he cast his lot, At last he owns he's but to life a slave. And puzzled dies — is borne to his grave. November, iSSy. MELANGE. 97 TO DONNELY. Oh, Donnely, take it unto thyself To place your proof upon the shelf, Take not from us a friend so dear. Prove not that Bacou wrote Shakespere. If 'tis fame that you are after We'll read you quick, forget you faster. The bard of avon all divine, Will ever on our senses shine, Try to fathom but his plays And not Lord Bacon all thy days, Scatter thy proof then to the skies. " Where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise." THE TRAVELER'S STORY. 'Twas in the bleak December, the chores had all been done, And the day to night had vanished with the set- ting of the sun. When a tired and careworn traveler stopped at my cottage door And asked for just a moment's rest, he wanted nothing more. I gladly gave it to him and asked him in to warm, Saying its an awful night sir to be out in a storm^ Said he, " You're right it is sir, but ere to-mor- row noon. gS MELANGE. I must be in smoky London, aye in great Lon- don town.' The story that he told me made my eyes dim with tears ; 'Tvvas about his loving wifisj and prattling little dears. He said he left great London upon the Sabbath day, With just four hundred pounds, a year's hard worked for pay, A letter from a pretended friend, bade him come witli him invest All his money in a gold mine, in America's far West. ' I took the ocean steamer,' said he, ' And sailed from Liverpool. The trip to me was novel and the sea breeze brisk and cool.' I wish to my wife's warnings I had ever been less deaf. And not have trusted all my wealth to a trick- ster and a thief, But how was I then to forsee, my friend I knew at school. He was an idle lad, wearing much the cap that marks the fool. Pshaw, he must be honest, his letters read that way. MELANGE. 99 And then tlie steamer landed — landed in New York bay. I took the train that very eve to go to Leadville town ; The cars run much slower there than they do o'er English ground. In a few days with all my luggage I reached my shopping point ; Weary from the travel and sore in every joint. My man was there to meet me with many a scrape and bow, Saying to treat us travelers, he knew the best way how. He took me to a lodging house, the room was neat and clean. They sent me up some water by a waiter lank and lean ; I washed and dressed, then locked the door, and went out in the street. The houses looked quite cosey and the people very neat. Then up a stranger came to me, I think his name was Cline. He said, ' Your friend Rolan said for you and I to meet him at the mine,' Our way we took then to the mine, and there we met my friend. Said he, "A rich investment this, on my word you may depend." 100 MELANGE. I gave liim all my money and his eyes they blazed up bright, As he held it in his own hands and held it mighty tight. v. They worked the mine just twenty feet, when suddenly they halted, A man came by, examined it, and said it had , been salted. I looked around for Rolan, but he had the country fled ; And then to stir my sorrow, I learned my wife and babes were dead. They died of cold and of starvation in the streets of London town, And in the paupers' burrying yards, they laid my dear ones down, I tramped my way back to New York, then worked my passage here ; Passing through many hardships without the slightest thought of fear. I have nothing now to live for, but to obey my God. My darlings' souls now rest with Himjwhile their bodies 'neath the sod ; Now thank you sir for taking in one so ragged and alone. God bless you, may you never know what life is without a home. MELANGE, lol SHE IS BLEST. Toll, toll again that funeral bell. Let it again its story tell, Of a maid, Who perished on life's darkling sea; From this world taken and from me. She is dead ! Sound, sound again that palling knell, Like the echo in a shell Of the wave, It will linger in my heart, From which it never will depart ; To it I'm a slave. And a melancholy feeling Comes o'er me as I'm kneeling On the ground. And the bell's dull, dismal tolling Lingers long as it is rolling All around. By her grave, yes, I am kneeling, As the shades of night are stealing O'er the world. Will this winding sheet of sorrow Not be loosened on the morrow, And unfurled ? And the faded rose is drooping. And the withered violets stooping To be kissed MELANGE. B)' my darling softly sleeping, And her heart has ceased its beating She is blest ! 1887. A SMILE AND A TEAR. Gayly, gayly ringing, hear the wedding bells. What a world of happiness their merry music tells, Of a gleeful wedding That occurs to-day, Ofa loving couple With hearts light and gay. Tolling, tolling, tolling, hear the funeral bell, See the veil of sorrow that comes with its palling knell, And the hearse black plumed. And the carriage train, Waiting for the body That at last is free from pain. Sighing, sighing, sighing, see the husband lone, Leaning on the coffin of his wife whose soul is gone To the great unknown, There to see a brighter day She has crossed the golden river Far, far away ! January 11, 1888. MELANGE. TIME. Tell me not, that souls of sorrow Never see a brightning day ! Or to-morrow, and to-morrow, Comes to us with morning's gray. I was, with my fond love, floating, On that placid river, " Tmie," On that morning's happy boating, She seemed a creature, all divine. I whispered : "Sweet Ogarita, What, dear, is your one desire?" She answered; "Marinita, To be with thee, a being higher. I picked a stick, which she threw down. And tossed it in the river. Saying: "Float thee on, ah, float the on, Forever, and forever!" Said she: "Oh, say not so, It yet may find a staying ; It can not, dear, forever go. You'll find it when you're Maying. Through yonder wood, this river slips, Where flowers 'neath willows grow. It's waters kiss their ruby lips. As gently by they flow." "And there your stick may lodge in time, Lodging ever there to stay, I04 MELANGE. Gathering 'round it, greenish shme. To coat it many a day." Spoke I : "Ogari^ta, ever, Through every town and cHme, Runs this perpetual river — The ceaseless river — Time. "Upon whose surface, we are cast. To do as best we can ; And, when our life on earth is past. We join another band. " Continue, we, thus, evermore ; To-morrow never comes, But sorrow sees a brighter shore, Lit up by many suns. " And when, on Heaven's holy ground, We see a beck'ning star. We restless, grow, then soar around, And fly to that, afar ! "And thus, forever, do we go, Stopping not to be at rest. But trust to God ; He guides life's flow, And does for us, the best. "Then think not, in all our lives. That stick will ever cease to glide ; It is, my own, just like ourselves — It goeth with the tide." November, 1887. MELANGE. 105 THE HUMAN TONGUE. In human tongue more danger lies Than mortal ever could surmise, 'Twill lie you to a deed of shame, And all your future hopes will lame ; Unhappy marriages it doth make. From virtue, virtue, will it take. And leave to rot all that it's overcome; Aye, rot, " breed maggots in the sun." November ^o, 188 y. THE EARTH'S LAST KISS TO THE DYING DAY. 'Tis evening and I am standing On the sand, and shell strewn beach, Of the ocean o'er treasures rolling. Forever beyond my reach. And the sun hangs low in the heavens An apparent!}^ sinking orb, And the last long shades of the evening Fall o'er the works of the Lord. The tide commences its labor At this parting hour of the day, Its plashing is like the music Of some cherished and beautiful lay. The silence is sadly pathetic. And the sea crulLs skimmine the waves io6 MELANGE. Seem like celestial seraphs Watching o'er watery graves. The hour is so placid and soothing I would it ever could stay, But the earth is sadly kissing The dying god of day. i88y. PADDY'S NOON. In an old Irish shanty down in the lane With many a crack in the old window pane ; The good wife sat mending the clothes of her babe, And right near the door stood the pick and the spade. 'Twas the noon hour for dinner and Paddy was home ; He had lit a fresh pipe and sat down alone As happy an Irishman as ever could be He seemed as he smoked 'neath the tall elm tree. I chanced to be passing and lingered to talk. Said he, " Misther Davis are'e takin' a walk ? " I replied I was taking a breath of fresh air For a sharp headache, I had more than my share. " Now Iv'e a foine cure for pains in the head," Paddy with a twinkle solemnly said ; MELANGE. 107 I asked what it was my soul full of hope ; He said, " Its a round necktie made of hemp rope." Then gleefully laughing at his own pyn, And acting as if a great favor he had done ; He said, " Misther Davis I'm as happy a man A§ is sittin' roight now on your free country's land. For my wife and the babe are filled full of health, And I'm happier now than if I had wealth ; " Said I " Paddy, tell me a story of your own Irish wit, It will ease up my headache and cure me a bit." He said, "Misther Davis the ground hog wan's noo, And if ye don't moind I'll spring it on you. It happened in Oireland on a bright summer's day, (There's moighty few ground hogs over that way.) And me father was plowin' a bit of rough ground, When he heard a slight noise and on lookin' around He seed one of thim animals feedin' on grass, And the chance for some fun he couldn't let pass. loS MELANGE. He said " Paddy hold thim horses, and ye'll see some fun.' Of coorse I obeyed him, as I always had done. He hunted and huuited, and at last found the hole Where the groundhog did live and up to it sthole. Thin over the hole he sphread nice his vest, I didn't laugh out for I thought it wouldn't be best. Then he said ' Paddy, that's a foine scheme; Dang it boy! stop your laughin' and hold tighter that team.' Ye know that he thought the ground hog would stop At the vest, and he on it would have the dead dhrop. So he jumped at the baste and struck with a pole. But he missed it and it run in its hole. Said I ' father, bye, bye to the ground hog, he has left you alone. ' Yes I know Paddy and my vest has gone with him home. And with it twilve dollars in my old pocket book.' Och, will I ever forget the old man's sad look. He said, ' Here ye rascal get me the pick, Get along ye spalpeen, and hurry back quick.' MELANGE. rcg Then he dug up the ground without much to say, At last found his money, but was mad all the day. But there's my wife callin', I'm a-comin' Nell, No, bedad I ain't, there goes the workin' man's bell. Well Misther Davis to see old Oireland again I'll try, i\nd if once more I can see that green Isle I'm ready to die. TO MLSS Your heart is as cold, my lady, As the polar regions of Mars, But your eyes, somehow, my lady, Glisten like Heavenly stars. Your charms, we'll allow, are artistic ; Your character truly is chaste, Your bearing divinely majestic, Though your heart is a barren cold waste. I know I caught cold in your presence, I do not say from the winds of your heart, Still this, lady, is my true inference — They would wither with cold, Cupid's dart. Beware of the lonely sad ending That must come unto hearts like yours. Study, Oh study the blending Of love with your heart's icy shores ! November, i8yy. ro MELANGE, THE EXILE'S FATE. In a mine in damned Siberia, Slaved a Russian, weak and old, Ne'er a place existed drearier Than where he worked, midst damp and cold. 'Round a quiet, cosy, country hearth, In a distant cottage home, Dwelt children, with souls full of mirth,' And their mother, sad and lone. A soldier, was their brother — A soldier, 'way from home ; No lad could ere be bolder, And in war he brightly shone. But an exile was their father, In Siberia's foulest cave. Nor did his keeper bother For his wants, while there a slave. And when he sick with fever grew, His brutal master said : "Curse him, his hours on earth are few, 'Twere better he were dead." "He was banished here, our Captain read. For helping men escape. And I never doubted what he said — < See this, his awful fate." "Tis frightful, this black fever, 'Tis torturing, that is true — MELANGE. Stay ! Here's a cup of water, It needs must cool him through." In a few days, the prisoner, so nearly Free from Russia's thrall, Had once more, infirm. and wearily, To drag the exile's chain and ball. Once his guards he overpowered, And a dash for liberty made. But the other soldiers on him fired, So, by their Captain, bade. But they missed him, and the chase, It grew exciting hot, And they overtook him in the race— ^ He was sentenced to be shot. Next morning, all was silent When the ofKicer led him out, Yet he wore no air, defiant. As he sadly looked about. Though, when he beheld the man Who was to seal his doom. His features grew more pale and wan When he saw it was his son ! The hope he felt after that shock He quickly cast aside, And stood as motionless as rock, Which, to his son, implied That he was ready to be killed, And not afraid to die. 12 MELANGE. His God, this end of life, had willed. And his courage now did try. The boy, like an aspen leaf, then shook, As he gazed on his father, old, Then a comrade's hand, he gently took, But his touch was icy cold. The father, seeing that his boy Was trembling for his sake, Put on a look of calmest joy ; Then the silence