LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf ....'.?.'3 ^ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, WILLIAM WALTON, PRESIDENT OF THE BROOKLYN PRESS CLUB, THE PLUTOCRAT. A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS. / OTTO FREDERICK SCHUPPHAUS, NEW YORK : A. LOVELL & CO 185)2. p5 Z721 Copyright, 1892, by Otto Fhedehick Schupphaus. PEEFACE A DRAMA in lilfink vei'se may challenge criticism by sngg-esting a certain presnmption on the part of the authoi- ; l)nt the form having seemed fitting in the present case, the anthor saw no reason why he shonld defer to any literary superstition by choosing another. The Ijook looks for an audi- ence amid the thousands, aye, the millions, who watch with eager interest the greatest struggle waged in modern times — the struggle between the rich and the poor, between capital and laboi'. It appeals to all who like to hear the unfettered voice of the whole people, not of one class only. It has been the author's aim to be strictly impar- tial. How far he has succeeded is for the reader to judge. DRAMATIS PERSON^]:. West, a rich mfimifaetiiTer. Henry, his siiperintciident. Ida Field, a widow. Alice, her dangliter. Jack, ] Paul, George, Patrick, ^- woikiiigmeu. Peter, Charles^ Fred, Mary, a servant. Lawyer, porter, servants, and workingmeu. The many still must labor for the one ! Byron, "The Corsair THE PLUTOCRAT. ACT I. Scene I. Room in Mrs. FielcVs Rouse. Ida. Yes, Alice will be home to-day, I hear. How long it seems since last I saw lier ! Ali ! If she but knew how great has been my grief, How much it costs me to be far from her, And let her grow up under strangers' eyes. Then she might understand a mother's love ! But what will not an ardent mother do To see her darling happy and content ? If sorrow is the price of happiness, Tlien Heaven may grant that all shall yet be well ! Henry. Well, madam, you will proudly meet yom* child — An image, closely copied, of yourself. 8 THE FLUTOCILIT. She was no stranger at my micle's school. Before her gunny and ingenuous cliarm His pedantry quite melted. He loved her, She was his pride, and even his own gh-ls I lad not a better friend in him than she. AV'e all adored her — fairy she was called. The name is fitting ; she's as beautiful — As beautiful as is — Ida. An angel ! Henri/. No, Just let us say : as is her mother fail*. I am no flatterer, accept my word. But when I saw you first I truly thought 'Twas she, so does her face repeat your own. Ida. Your words cause more than mere embar- rassment. iSuch reckless compliment is dangerous ; And were your pretty phrases quite sincere They j'et would be in ti'utli love s labor lost. Our life is too distraught for em oty woi'ds ! Henry. Upon my honor, madam, you are wrong ! I am no gallant — as you think I am. You must perceive my rude facihty. If I have been offensive, pardon me. I may have been too blunt, but truth is truth ! I ;im no man with sleek society arts. THE rLVTOCHAT. 9 Grown up in earnest work among' my books, 1 could not seize the superficial gloss You'll find in gilded youths. But what I say Has honest meaning, is no soft deceit. Ida. I will believe your words ; you are sincere. And I can trust you. Yes, I am still young ; When yet a child I also was a wife. Yet care has seemed to make me quickly old. And thought of all that I have had to bear Imparts a sound of mockery to praise. Heuvy. AMiatever griefs have hurt you, I know not ; I only know I grieve to see j^ou sad. Forgive — I am impulsive. If you need A friend, beheve that I am one who would Be proud to stand wdth you against the world. I'm simple-hearted, yet I'm strong and true. It (juite unmans me thus to hear you sigh. If I can help you, speak ! You've naught to do But to command me. Ida. You are very kind. Your friendship cheers me, and your manly words Have won my confidence. If I had known A friend like you in years now sadly past, All might be well, but — ■ 10 THE PLVTOVRAT. Enter Mary, Mdnj. Mr. West is here. Idu. Mr. Henry, 3'ou iiiust leave me ! lie Must not suspect that you are here, and I Cannot explain. Quick ! let this curtain serve To hide you here. [Exit Henry. Elder West. ^Yest. How is my gentle friend ? I hope you're happy and enjoymg life. How flushed you look, my dear ! Did you shed tears For your dead husband ? True, he was a man Whom all the world could love, as strong and handsome As Adonis. Loving you so Avell ! He loved you with such love he fled away To die with strangers, far from Ikhuc and wife. He did not wish you near him then ; he feared The shock would kill you. Ah, he was so nol/le ! Doubtless, then, he died of love. Sad fate ! But all beloved by God, they say, die young ! Ida. I wish He'd love you more, then, ]Mr. West. West. And could you breathe so harsh a wish ? Your words Quite shock me. Surely yon can't mean — THE rLUTVCUAT. 11 Ida. Desist ! ^yest. But lieed, my gentle friend; are you not wrong- To heap abuse upt)n your truest friend? Was it not I who g-ave you strong support To Iji-ave this Hfe when all your friends wei-e gone ? And this though you refused my heart and hand, And did not hesitate to speak your hate. Is this a due reward for my great love ? Ida. If you have come to taunt me with account Of youi" good offices, go on, go on ! Make bleed anew the wounds now hardly healed. And spare me not ; just kill me incli by inch ! ^ doubt not that the torture pleases you. H>.s/. Speak not of pleasure, when you know so well j\Iy life is spent in work for others' weal, Not for my own. And yet, 'tis strange, the more I love, the more I'm hated ; even you, Who have all reason to show gratitude. You hate me more than all the rest combined. I've been your heartlessly rejected swain, But never have I thought of sweet revenge When I might well have taken it. To you I freely give the comforts of this life, 12 THE rLLTOCUAT. ►Still you persist ! But wliy should I coniplain ? My conscience is — Ida. Your conscience, did you say? You never had a conscience ! if you had It is not seen. O unctions hji^ocrite ! You know the reason of my hate. 'Twas you Who took my husband from me ! I know not By what foul means you made your schemes succeed. You broke his heart, j^ou made liim flee and die. He thought me false, distrusted me, who never Loved a man but him ! I did not see My husband till grim death had done its work. Then 'twas by your good grace — ^j^ou had revenge ! West. Revenge is sweet, 'tis very often said — I do not know. I only know that love Is sweeter — not that love of which your poets Sing romantic strains, but that true love. That love— Ida. Of serpents whose embrace is death ! ^Yest. Has such a sentiment kept you aloof ? I see it now ! But I am not so bad. And if I were a serpent, it were one That did not shine in many brilliant hues, And did not sting you to your very heart ! Ida. You cownrd! You can go too far ^^^th this ! THE rLUTOCBAT. 13 West. Weep, my fair friend; your feelings need the vent. I could weep with you, for I know your giief And feel it keenly. Call me vilest names ; All these offend me not, if they but give Some slight rehef to you. So goes the world ! Beauty and youth are naught if they're not paired With Mammon. Gold's the greatest of all kings, Yes, gold is very life, and gold is might ; It makes the greatest Avi'ong the greatest right. You have refused to profit by this truth, Your beauty has but been your luckless star. And now must Alice turn to do that well Wherein her handsome mother failed. And, How is my Alice ? Ida. She returns to-day. And on my knees here. West, I now implore you, Leave the girl to me ! If you but knew The long and bitter anguish of my soul ; If you could know how eagerly I long To clasp her to my heart ; if you could feel The thousandth part of a true mother's love — Then even your impassive heart might melt. Ah ! Let me have my child ! For once have pity ! Then I could forgive ! I can bear all. But let my child alone, let her be happy ! 14 THE FLUTOCBAT. West. Alice shall be happy, but with me ; And all that money buys is freely hers — Her costliest whims shall all be gratified. I hope you didn't forget your contract yet — The girl is mine, and she shall be my wife ! On that condition I have brought her up In eultiu'ed comfort and have cared for you. Now you as well must do your part. Ida. My part ! Cursed be that fatal hour of dark despair When I consented to the sinful scheme ! I only yielded in the feeble hope That Providence would kindly interfere — West. And I might die ; but Providence, my dear. Hasn't been so kind — to you ; I live, And come to claim my just and due reward. Now let the girl enjoy my princely wealth. Ida. How little men perceive of woman's heart ! You cannot buy her love with aU the riches You may own. We.sf. Yet money still is king ! That you still doubt it wlio have felt its might, (^uite daunts my comprehension, Ida ; for If money buys not love, at least it buys That semblance which is all I care to ask. THE I'/ATOCL'AT. 15 If she's in duty l)ound to love but me, Why shoTild she not? Ida. But duty is not love. West. Yet women, as you know, are soon inured To unions that at first may scarcely please ; And knots that wisdom binds with useful g'old Are always strongest. Well you know What 'tis to love, and what it is to bear The pangs of want. But not for me I speak ! If you prefer to see your lovely child Fight for herself the battle of this life, To see her float in momentary bliss, Then sink at last in ruin and despau-. It rests with you ; just say the word, my friend, And I'll retire. 1(1(1. You're right in all you say ; And yet the foi'ced alternative is harsh. God knows the strain the wish to save her want Has put upon my heart ; for I have yearned To give her golden gain though love be gone. But leave me now alone ; I am not well — My brain is whirling, leave me ! Wpsf. Is this, then, A bargain ? You will not deceive me now ? It is not safe for you and yours ! Farewell ! And may Grod bless you ! [Exit ^Ye.st. 16 I'HE VLVTOL'RAT. Enter Henry. Henry. Did I hear aright ? Is Alice sold — sold, like a slave, for gold '? Yes, worse than sold, she's — Ida. Sold him by her mother ! Yes, condemn me. What don't I deserve ? May God forgive ; from men I crave no grace ! Henry. What do yon say? Condemn yon? No, not that, Bnt I mnst feel the horror of your fate. O, for the power to crush the cruel hand That injures you ! To have the strength to hurl Him into deepest gloom ! Condemn you ? No, You're innocent ; I can believe but that. Idt(. You frighten me with your ingenuous faith. I know full well that I must bear the blame. My trials seem severe, for how could I Let Alice die in want and misery ? Perhaps 'twould have been better in the end. Why did I dream of fortune for my child ? Why longed I for revenge ^^\ day and night .' Why did I think of Alice as a means To ruin West as he has ruined us? Why did I let such wild, unruly thoughts Imbue my mind with such unholy aims ? THE rLVTOCUAT. 17 But as I've loved I've hated ! Clod forgive ! All this is past, to Tliee I leave revenge ; Give me but strength to find the right way now, And let my child's fate be the best it may, For mine has been a most unhappy one ! Heaven only knows — what words can never tell — What I've endured, and how I have atoned ; But I have borne it — borne it for my child. Now let the fruit be worth the sacx'iiice ! Henry. I understand your grief, I see its depth ; But do not be despondent, lose not hope ! Here 'stands a friend who only seeks the chance To save you from this loathsome suitor, this Great hypocrite in guise of friend. Keep heart, You have no right to kill yourself with grief ; Your life should not be wasted in despair. Ida. If you had seen what I have seen, my friend, You'd look on life in quite another light. I honor you, and be assm-ed that naught That might my daughter's lot improve shall go Undone. Doubt not my heart ! I've loved too well; But love alone can never give to us A perfect happiness. I won't find fault. But if, as I am told, you love my girl, Forget her ! And believe it for the best ! 18 THE FLVTOCIIAT. You are still yoiiiiy, you can and will forget. Make not still harder my but too hard task. Hinrij. Don't speak like that ! Forgive me if I say We cannot lean on sentiment. We must Use energy — not bow before defeat. We must do battle for Fortnna's smile, It will not do to merely Avait for it. I should not interfere did not your good Most certainly demand that some one sli(»nld. It is my sacred duty, and no man Can hold me l^ack. It is not for myself ; It is for yon as well as for your child, And yon not least, since snch distressing state Is more than yoTi can bear. Ida. I feel the strain. And I am grateful tov yoni' nolile words ; But now I feel too well it is too late ! Hcin-ij. Too late? Refuse that thought; thei'e's ample time To win the fight ! Take but a quick resolve, Cut every bond that binds you to this man. And leave with me the care for both of you. Leave me the struggle I will gladty make To bi'ing you peace, to make you quickly lose The memory of these cloiuls. Ida. Your words are nnisic, THE I'LI rocL'AT. 19 Yet tliey torture when I think the truth. I know too well that it can never be ! You do not know the man yon rage against : His craftiness and cunning- strike a blow Like cruel lightning. Well he knows the might His money brings ; and should you cross his path He'd crush you — blast the prospects of your life. You arc in his employ : one word from him And you wiU lose your place. Whom once he hates Will find no rest while he has strength to hurt. And more, instead of helping us, you help Increase the danger of worse blows for us. Ileiii'i/. I do not d()ul)t that he is all 3'ou say, But that shall not deter me in this cause. It is a crime to let him claim your girl, To sell her lieauty to a heartless \^Tetch ! LJa. That is a bitter truth. I know full well How galling is the thought of yielding her To one whom I so thoroughly despise. To you this rightly seems a monstrous thing : Alternatives force us to dreadful deeds. My daughter does not know the world, and I Have no intent of teaching her these things. He loves her in his way, no doubt of that. And with the riches that he has, can make Her life an easy and a pleasant one. 20 TBE FLUroCILlT. And then — and then — I know the thought is sin, But drowning- people often catch at straws — He's okl — he cannot Hve forever ! Hem-y. Old ! His age can never save the stain of \^Tong. Though Alice lived with all material gifts She still would suffer for the loss of love. That sinful bond, that gilded misery Would 1)reak her heart ; and hearts like hers are born For love, which is the sunshine of her life. Ida. But if she does not marry him she then Will feel the taste of poverty, and that Has power to imbitter the whole soul ; It sears the heart and makes the conscience hard ; It crushes out the thought of nobler things — And more in women than it does in men. I then l)ut choose what seems the smaller ill. Tis natural to seek the hammer's part Than to be made the hammer-beaten plate. Henry. It seems to me you fear this man too much. Is he a giant with a Titan's strength. That right dare not oppose his cruel might ? Ida. Yes, I do fear him, I confess to that ; I have no doubt that I should seal our doom If I ojiposed him. Yes, I fear him much : TUE I'LUTOCIUT. 21 Not for myself, but more for those I love. If he had seeu you here you Avould be marked, 'Twould be enough to make you lose yom' place. Henry. Your fear seems almost superstitious; but Don't fear for me — no need of that as yet ; I shall now try by deeds, and not by words. To merit your esteem, perhaps your love. I will defy this ravager of homes ! He's wronged you — that is plain and quite enough ; And if his power were ten times as great, He should yet pay for that. Ida. . Control yourself ! Think not of me ; I've learned to bear it all ; And I implore you, pray you, for your sake, Do nothing rash, be not so fierce ! Your rage WiR but destroy yourself, not injure him. And I should feel that I had been the cause. Be warned in time of my depressing fate — That those who loved me and whom I have loved Have met an early doom. Be warned in time ! Henry. [Aside] Yet death were welcome if it were for her ! [Aloud] Your views are gloomy, but I shall be warned. 22 THE rLUTOCUAT. Still let lue make one last and great endeavor; If I made no elfort I eonld feel Xo comfort in my after-life. To fail Is possible, hnt failing in a cause So good is ])etter than to fail to act. I still could have the vision of a true, A sweet, angelic woman blessing me. That thought can make me now serene, and fit For supei-human struggles. Trust my strength. Ida. You are a strange, a very strange young man, Unlike the ordinary types we meet. And yet your instincts, I can feel, are true. But those Avith loftiest aims are often known To be misled. The truest, noblest minds Ai-e in perpetual danger. True it is That common men stay in their common sphere, "While those with lofty aims can never rest. They strive to spur their common clay and fly, And often fall to depths of sad despair. Before you try to fight a man like West Remember all the chances of defeat. I must compose myself ; I'm now a i)roy To my emotions, and I need some rest; In such a state I should not greet my child. And she will soon be here. You'll pardon me If in the garden I collect myself. THE riATOCUAT. 23 And you, if nothiug calls you hence iu haste, Might linger till she comes. [Exit Ida. Henry. Am I a madman or am I a villain"? Who's this woman ? Who this creature fair That fills my breast with this soul-])uriiing fii*e ? What did she say of her depressing fate — '• That those who loved me and whom I have loved Have met an early doom." If she loves me Perhaps my end is near. But this is raving. Can she love one who deserves contempt ? Am I a madman or am I a villain ? Where's my sense of honor ? Has it gone '? Where is my pride, the master of my heart f Is it before her beauty dashed to pieces ? Where's my guardian angel, to withstand The mighty devil who has hold of me ? Here in the first hour of a strong temptation I'm a traitor to the truest, purest, And most trusting gii-1 that ever breathed ! Tliere is no punishment too hard for me ! I must despise myself : I am no man, I am a base, a mean, and heartless wretch ! I wrong them both, the mother and her girl ! But I will save them — save them fi-om this West, And then, perhaps, must save them from myself. Who am a danger also in their path. 2"! THE rLUTOCL'AT. Enter Alice. Alice. Where is my iiiotlier ? Henry ! Is it yon ? But how yon look ! What ails you, boj' '/ You're pale. Why don't you speak to me? Is this yom- welcome For your little Alice, home again ? Hein-i/. Your mother's in the garden, I believe. Alice. How bad you are to keep me in sus- pense. Quick, what has happened, haughty, naught}^ boy ! I hope yon did not lose the l)Ook I sent. Henrij. I lost myself — Alice. Do not torment me so. What makes you look so gi'ave ? What are j'oui- thoughts ? Yon will not tell ? O, then you do not love Me half so much as I do you. Henri/. Ah I dou't ! Don't say I do not love you. "Tis not true ! Dut well I know I never .shall deserve A love so pure as yours. Believe me, child, All ycnir sweet gentleness and charming grace Are thrown away u\Hm a woi-fhless lad, Who cannot reach the sunnnit of vour love. THE rLUTOCEAT. 25 Alice. Thank God that this is all ! I know your worth — It makes me prouder than the proudest girl. Be cheerf ulj and let sunlight have your face ; Kiss me for welcome, call me little pet, Then you'll forget your cares. Henvy. Alas, my pet ! You are too good. If you but knew the truth ! Alice. Don't he so solemn, it is not becoming ; You're not like yourseK, and I prefer Your usual mood. Be good, or I shall scold ! And now enough of that ; take me to her. [Exeunt. Scene II. A Garden. Alice. And was there ever happier giii than I ? A loving mother is the greatest boon, A mother who could move a heart of stone. I'm sui-e I don't deserve such happiness. Yet I can't love you more than I do now, My only, dearest mother ! Take my heart, 'Tis aU I have. Ida. And you have mine, my dear. Throughout the lonely years of separation Love for you has grown to gi-eater strength. Alice. And so it has with me. I'm angry quite At Uncle West, he came so many times, 2(j THE I'LL'TOCIUT. And brought me candy, dresses, books, and gems, But aiever brought me back to you. He said : " Yom- education first, and then the pleasure." Henry's uncle was to me a father, Yet I missed a mother's tender care. How often have I begged of Uncle West To bring you. How I scolded, wept, and raged, But all in vain ; he stood there hke a rock, Unmoved by tears. I don't know why, because In other things he was so generous. [To Henry] Now don't make such a face, you silly boy! Or are you even jealous of my uncle? Come ! Why are you so mysteiious ? Perhaps you've read a novel, fell in love With some fair heroine. A tragic thought ! But I absolve you, though I'm nuidly jealous. And exact that you shall tell her name. Who is she ? Let the fearful secret out ! Henry. [Aside"] Unconsciously you're very near the truth ; For real life has hardy heroines And l)eauty gi-eater than that set in books. [Aloud] No, no, I read no novels now — in fact, I hardly find the necessary time. Aliee. What a relief! This fear is off my mind ! THE PLUTOCRAT. '2.1 XoAV I'll 1 )e inen-y ; be you nieny too ! Don't look so very stupid, Heury, please ; ^^^lat win my mother tliiuk of you ? Henri). You're right, You're right, uiy dear, but she'll excuse the sin ; kShe is contented with 3'our love, she notes No mood of mine. You are her life and joy, And though you give to her your utmost love You cannot give her all that she deserves. 1(1(1. My child, you must be just ; jow do not know The many things that sometimes trouble men. We can't be always merry. Alice. He has been, W\\\ can't he be so now ? If he has troubles I must share them — it's my sacred right. [To Ileni'ul And I insist on it, I want to know, Or make more trouble for you, sir ! Heiuij. Ah, weU ! Here is a willful little chatterbox ! My earnest thoughts but touched prosaic busi- ness. Alice. Even so, it is my business still ! But let that pass. You keep your gloomy thoughts, And tell me something sweet. Ileiu'tj. In you I could 28 THE FLUTOCnAT. Find subjects sweet enoiigli if I might find Words fit to picture one too good for earth. Alice. Shall I take wings and fly away to heaven ? If I were safely there what would you do Without your little prattler ? Ida. Don't, my child ! Pray, tell me something of your life in school. Henry. Yes, do so, dear, I must go to my work, And, Alice, pray for my success this time. Alice. That I'U do willingly, with cheerful heart ; If it depends on that, then you may hope. For my best wishes always go with you. [Exit Henry. What can he mean? He truly frightened me! Ida. I cannot tell you, child, at least not now. Alice. If you know aU, then there can be no wrong. Ida. Yet for all that he acted a strange part ; I must confess I cannot fathom him. You're much attached to him, 'tis clearly seen : Your love seems even stronger than his own. Alice. Yes^ mother dear, my love is without bounds ; With every fiber of my heart I love ! THE PLUTOCRAT. 29 He'll marry me as soon as lie has won The battle for the money that he needs ; And thoug'h his sti'ngg'le lasted ten long years, Or longer still, I faithfully could wait. I(ki. 0, what a httle foolish girl you are, jMy hopeful child ! Just let me tell you now That all these hopes are built on shifting sand, And both of you are children — nothing more. Alice. I know his talent, and I do not doubt His triumph. Ida. Child, your foolishness must cease. 'Tis hard yoiu' dreams should vanish, but they must. You'll soon have grown a woman. Alice. Yes, I know. Yet, if I do, can't I then marry him ? He often swore he could but live with me. Why shoidd I kill him when I love Mm so f Ida. Men do not die of that peculiar ill. How many have thus spoken to yom* mother ! Most of them, I think, are still ahve. Alice. They're not like him, he never told a He. Ida. O, foolish cliild, think something of yom* future ! Alice. He's my future, he's my guiding star. And I shall foUow him through dai'k or light. From earliest years we have each other loved : 30 THE PLUTOCRAT. There is no truer, dearer lad tliaii lie. We played together, and he guarded me. When I was ill he watched for numy nights Faithfully at my bedside, reading tales. And in the morning he went off to work. Whenever it was sought to make him cease, He cried, I know, as if his heart woidd break. Wliy should I turn from such a love as that ? Ida. You take too seriously, my dearest child. What young men say. They are not ahvays true, And hke to fly from floAver to other flower. Alice, I can't distrust him, and I never will : Distrust him is Hke doubting of my life ; He is my all, and I can ti'ust in him. He is romantic — who finds fault with that ? — But that he's false I never can believe. And even if he ceased to love but me, I should resign to gixa my Henry joy Were my own heart to break in the attempt ! Ida. O AUce, how suldime, how good you aie ! I am ashamed to have you tortm'ed, child. Forgive me — I will try to set aright That which I've turned. Now go and see your room, How gayly I have dressed it for my gii'l ; 111 get some flowers and soon will join you there. THE flATOLUAT. 3t Alice. But fii'.st give me a hearty^ liearty kiss ! [Exit Alice. Ida. Shall I be ti'eaelierous to my only child, And undermine the bliss that fills her heart ? ^Inst I not spare her sueh a fate as mine, And let her worldly welfare be the aim That solely is to be considered now I Or shall I leave her in her happy dream, And thereby drag her to a certain doom ? But will her heart not l:)reak if I refuse To give consent to such a luckless match ? Have I a right, then, to deny her that For which I paid so dear? Is there no hope? Can't Henry save us f He has said he WM^uld, Though I don't see how he can meet the task. He lacks, it seems, not courage nor good-will. Yet some essential to complete success. But I will act myself, will try once more With all my might to move West's stubborn mind. If I should tell him of their mutual love, He cannot love or well demand a wife Who coiild ])ut hate him, though he turn her lieai-t Prom all she loved and ever cherished there. God give me strength for this, my last attempt, And bless me in my fight for my dear child ! [Exit Ida. 32 57/A' rLVTOCllAT. ACT II. Scene I. Entrance to Wests Private Office. George. O, save yom*self the trouble, Jack, mj' boy, Yon'U try in vain to move that fat old sinner. Jdcl'. I mnst risk it, George ; my poor wife's life Depends on the result. George. I A\dsh you luck ! [Aside] I'm sorry for his wife ; If it depends on West, her life is lost. [Exit George. Scene II. West's Private Office. Jar],-, (jood-niorning-, sir ; if I do not intrude, I'd like to ask a moment of your time. We.st. What is it. Jack ? Come to the point ! You know I can't afford to make a waste of time, For time is money. Jack. Yes, I will be short. T]ie thing is this : I ne.s/^. Be kind ! Who ever taught me to be kind ? Has ever auy one been kind to me ? From early childhood days I've been abused, Been trampled on and kicked, despised and shunned. For what ? Because I was a nameless waif. If kindness could be bred by cruel blows I should be kind, luit it cannot, my friend ; 'Tis mockery to say to me : Be kind ! Ida. Go not too far with this; restrain your hate. West Don't speak of hate ; the word is sinister. 48 THE rLVTOCBAT. Don't call an ugly child 1 )y ugly names : Speak rather of my duty — that is plain. It is my duty to remove this man. Moreover, I must warn all righteous folks That such a man is dangerous to employ. Ida. Pray, spare him ! Eather vent youi* wrath on me, And let this pair enjoy their blissful dream. West, liv^e a better life, God is not dead ! Fear His I'ebuke ! Though He waits patientty, If once the measure be too full. He then Can strike you but the harder for your sins. ^Yest. I don't believe my measure to be fuU ; It can still hold a goodly di'auglit, I think : If it runs over through a fault of mine, I've been a blockhead, and I'U humbly bow To whatsoever is liy Fate decreed. But I feel very well just now, my dear, In expectation of my happiness. I am quite sure you will not cross my path. For if you help this wild and daring man You are in danger too ; my righteous duty Then extends to you and yours as weU. And, verily, 'twoiild be a lasting shame When two such beauties had to beg for alms. May Heaven but tarn a thing so sad to see. Ida. You know too well my vulnerable point ! THE PL r rod! AT. 49 You know it is not for myself I fear ; You know you hurt me most iu those I love ; You know it, scoundrel, far too well ; you use The fact to further all 3'our wicked schemes. May God forgive, but I cannot forgive — I can't suppress my hate, 'twill choke me hei'e ! I must give vent to it, and if by words I could now kill you, 'twould be joy for me Were I for years to suffer and repent. Ah, my poor Alice, must it come to that f God ! canst Thou leave us in this demon's grasp ? If we are tried on earth so hard, O Lord, Then even heaven itself cannot console. West. How Ijeautif 111, how ravishingly grand ! I never saw such beauty in my hfe ! You are sublime, an angel still in -wTath ! And if, then, Alice loves this raving fool, I'll let them marry, if you'll be my wife. Ida. At this price, no ! For I would rather die Than marry you ! I loathe you so. West. You do ? I then shall stick to Alice, if I must : Then you're at least my handsome, doting mother, Wlio will have me for a lo\dng son. As for that coy, reluctant love of hers, I think that I can win it quite alone If you will promise not to interfere 50 TUE PLVTOCIiAT. And not to tell licr all about the past. I do not need your help — I'm strong" enough, And know the arts of little love-affairs. Ida. It tears my heart. I promise to obey ; But if you liarm a hair on Henry's head You will repent the hour — for in that boy I see a manly faith, a nol>le soul. I'd find no rest if any harm met him. Wesi. I'll harm no hair on your dear Henry's head, no, not one ! Though weU he'd spare one hair. Don't be afraid, I ^^'ill not pluck his hair : Except for him and you it has no value. Ida. Wicked monster, how I hate you now ! More than I ever hated you before ; And more than you and all on earth can hate ! But 'tis in vain ; therefore I go and leave My curse tenthousandfold with you ! West. A single hearty one will do, my dear; If not, relieve yourself, do not mind me. 1 am forgiving — you ought to foi'give, Or you will go to the fifth steep in heU, As sings the poet of infernal deeps. [Exit Ida. Ah, what a woman ! What a inarvelous gem ! "Were all like her, I could admire the sex ! I've hated her, and she deserved my liate ; THE J'LITOCIUT. 51 But had I hated her as she believes, She wouhl not ])e aiuoiig- the living now. With all my fiery hate I've loved her wildly — Whieh the most, the devil only knows ; Yet be it what it may, be't love or hate. She is my only heiress ; when I'm dead My gold may heal the wounds which hate iu- fliets. And it is hers by that which fools call right. Her husband was my partner : at the start He had the money, I, experience ; Before he died the tables were just turned, He had experience, I had the rest. [Exit Wrsf. Scene III. A Farfori/ Yard Henry. Yes, Jack, 'tis true ! You are to be discharged. But I will try my best to keep you here. Still, in the meantime, look for othei' work. He would not listen to my warm remonstrance. All my words in your behalf were lost. Jacl-. Then I can't even hope for other work. What did he tell yon ? He)!)'!/. Jack, leave that untold. Jack. But why not speak ? I shan't expect too mucli : 52 'THE I'LVTOCUAT. Tell nie the truth ; perhaps it might relieve To know the worst that can be said of me. Henry. Well, Jack, he said that you might hang yourself — Illustrate thus your views about this world Among the growling mob ! Jacl'. I thought as much. A pleasant man, a kind of humorist. So I should hang myself — a good advice : The man is right, it's not a bad idea. Heiir)/. I tell you this for your own good, friend Jack, To show you there's no hope of help from him. You know I have no power to keep you here ; I am a slave myself as much as you. If I could help you, Jack, it should be done, But I won't stay here longer than yourself. I may be forced to leave this place to-day ; And willingly my steps shall tm-n, for here. Where wrong and evil gain the victory, Is no good place for honest, feeling men. Yet don't despair, and hope for better days ! Jacl\ I won't despair. There must be yet a God. Good-bye ! [Exit Jacl\ Henry. Unhappy Jack ! Unhappy man ! Oppressed, enslaved, and toiUng all your life — THE I'LlTUCliAT. f,;} Oue long-continued struggle for your bread. And still the want of that disturbs your sleep, And fills your soul with bitter mental woe. Your independence is a flimsy sham ! Is this the much-blessed freedom you enjoy ? Cursed liberty, this liberty — to die ! ACT III. Scene I. Room in Mrs. FielcVs House. Ida. I knew your efforts would most surely fail; And I have had not more success than you. West promised nothing more than that he would Spare me the painful task of helping him. I won't be sacrificed, won't marry one Who has destroyed and wrecked my happy home. Henry. Is he still there to plague you with his love ? Is he still there to lift his eyes to you ? Let him but try to yet prolong the strife, And he shall fight with me for life or death. Across my body lies the way to you ; No other man shall ever own your heart ! lila. This tone, sir — God, what are the words I hear? 54 THE rLUTOCh'AT. Heii)'!/. I know you liatc liim ; if yoii say the word I'll kill him. Ida. You can talk of murder, then ? O, think of heaven ; may (rod forgive you, sir ! Nf'iiri/. With yQ your father, mother, husl)and — all ! Alice. I only say I thank you, uncle dear ; Pray show me now the way, and show me light. I cannot break the subject to them now. How, uncle, shall T meet them after this? THE I'LlTOriLlT. 71 West. Be quiet, and conceal your heart's fierce paiu. Dou't speak about the dreadful case to them — It is too painful for both sides, my dear — And leave the rest to me. We'll fly to Europe On the swiftest ship that rides the seas : Among new men, among new scenery You'll be my merry little pet again. Alice. Yoiw pet I'll be, but merry — no, not that. West. O, we shall see. I shall dispel the cloud That darkens now your life. You shall revive. Alice. No, uncle, I am wrecked, and ruin stares Me in the face. I am the shadow only Of ni}' former self. We.st. All this wiU change. You are exhausted ; tears stand in yoiu* eyes. Stay in your i-oom and think of me, my dear. Remember that you are my all ; weep not. Do as I tell you. Seek your strength in Heaven. Alice. Yes, uncle, I'll retire : I feel so cold, My heart is chilled, as if the arms of death Had stretched themselves about me, and held fast. heart, heart, why wilt thou bi-eak with grief ? Be calm, be icy calm ! [Exit Alice. We.st 'Tis done at last. Tlie farce is out, and I am glad indeed ; 72 THE FLU TO (I! jr. But uever have I had a liarder task. It is a risky game, but 111 succeed. So forward, then, retreat is now cut off. Thus far my part has been well played, 'tis true, But I can't rest, there is yet much to do Till all is gained, tiU Alice is my wife. 'Twas hard, I must confess, to watch the blow. I had no other means to gain my end. I'll win her heart, and not alone her hand. [Exit West. ACT IV. Scene I. A Tiiblic Hall. George. Friends, feUow- workmen : we are here to-night To organize and to devise a plan To better, if we can, our hapless state. We all know "West, we all know what he is : He'd let us starve and die without regret So long as he might multiply his dollars. Well we know that words are lost on him. And we must urge by deeds what words can't do. It is but justice, friends, for which we fight, And but liy laA\^ul means we'll win our right — A right that's born with every human soul. THE FLUrOCliAT. 73 A right eternal, tliat entitles ns At least to ample clothes and ample food. We claim the right to work for decent pay. PatricJi. Claim everything, and then get all you can. Peter. Before we start, let ns invoke God's aid. He is almighty : may He guide us right. Several worTiingmen. Yes, may God help us! Ask His mighty aid To stir West's soul, awake liis sleeping con- science. PairicTi. 'Faith, boys, look for nary soul in West ; I guess his soul is in Ms money-bag. Paul. A soul so heavy, with so great a weight, Is never likely to fly up to heaven. George. This is no time to jest: we have a task. We best attain our aim by well-planned strikes ; The risk is great, but nothing else can help. If strike we do, let's strike his money-bag — In other parts we cannot hurt our man. Fred. To strike is well, but whereon shall we live ? George. In times of peace we must prepare for war, And pubhc sympathy will greatly aid. 74 THE rLl'TOLRAT. Charles. Don't coiiut on public sympathy, good friend ; 'Tis well enough, but it will buy no bread. What does West care for public sympathy, The heart- and soid-devouring glutton ! He Can let the public speak without restraint. And laughs at us, scorns pul >lic sentiment. George. Naught but united action makes us strong • United, we can battle without help. Enter several Workingmen irifh Hexry. Ifen'coiiiers. We looked for Mr. Henry, l)rought him here, To ask for his advice. We know his grit. He'll tell us which is best — join with the Knights Or bring our forces to the Labor Union. Henry. I'm not in a mood to hear your tallv — I am disgusted with yoiu* faction fights ; And what advice can you expect from one Whose misery is greater than your own 1 Friends, let me go. Worlingnien. O, stay and give us help ! You always let us feel your sympathy. Henri/. Show me the way to help you in your plight. Your fight is nianfid, it is for the right ; THE riAioviLiT. 75 But wlu'i'e's the propliet who will lead you on, Who eau unite conflicting elements And warring- factions in your open camp f O, were you not so easily misled By heartless scoundrels taking your last cent, To lead a life of luxury and shame — The prostitutes of a most noble cause, Who but tear down what better men have built. Incite to violence and open crime. Who speak of progress, but do all they can To keep you wlu^-e you are. They know" too well That poverty and X)titience are not twins. Like poverty and crime. But who can wait When actual want is stariug in his face? Give me the man who is no demagogue. The patriot, the true American, A\nio will devote his whole life to your cause ; The man firm in adversity and luck, The iron-willed giant of intellect, Who can unite the toilers of the land, And dow^i an arrogant Plutocracy ; The man who's just to all, who serves the right For all his fellow-men, not for one class — (rive me the man, and I will follow him, Will greet him as the great nud true Messiah. Once I dreamt that I could ].)e the man. It should not be, it was not given me : 76 THE I'LL'TOCIUT. 'Twas but a dream, and that is over now — My com-se i.s i-un, my life is lived for naught. WorMngmen. Why can't you be the leader in our fight I Henry. It is too late, I fear, 'tis of no use : Plutocracy will soon destroy itself. The sturdy farmer and the artisan Will rise in anger and will crush the Moloch. Now's your time, your opportunity, To help the mighty cause ; if it is lost, A century might bring no other chance. The money-power is like one solid rock : Why can't you have a federation, men f Wliate'er you do, unite, friends, if you can. Decry all factions ; see but workingmen. WorMngmen. Hurrah for him ! for he is always right. Be this our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! [Exit Henry. Enter Jack. Paul. See, there conies Jack. Great heavens ! see how he looks ! Jack, what's the news, my boy? How is your wife? I hope she's well. Jarl; O yes. she is (|nite well. TUE I'LUIOCRAT. 77 No hunger more, uo cold : she's still and dead. All this I owe to great, to generous West. He has discharged me too — another blow. Perhaps he saw that I am getting old. And more than all, he gave me good advice : He thought to end my worldly cares at once. And set a good example to you, bo3^s, 'Twould be advisable to hang myself. No doubt he's right. Is he not always right ? WorMngmen. That is too much ! With all his misery To mock him heartlessly in dire distress ! Jacli. Is it too much "? It reaUy is too much. It must be so, if even you protest — You, who're contented with your paltry bread. Who've lived in chains from early childliood's days, Who hardly feel the fetters if not want Reminds you but too frequently of them. And is it then too much ? Why is't too much ? Have we a right to live! No, he is right. He knows too well the people whom he owns. He knows they're slaves and have a slavish mind. Are only good for meanest drudgery. Of freedom they know but the name, and not The meaning. Yes, he's quite right to down us. How can a man respect his ser^^le slaves? 78 THE rLVTOCRAr. He gave me good advice : I'll hang myself ; But I "v^dll tie the rope in such a way That his neck will be caught in the same sling. Paul. Remember, Jack, that you have childi"en. Jach. Yes. We have a poorhouse, have we not ? and there They're better off than they are now with me. Poor people's cliildren are but born, it seems, To fill these prisons with a motley crowd. But what is left to them ? Their sense of honor, Once awake, is kiUed in eai-liest youth. It is the wisdom of our governance That rogues and criminals are cared for, and That honest workingmen are left to starve ! Feter. We feel with you ; but this is not the hour To think of your revenge : leave that to Clod. We aU look up to Him. We suffer all. Heaven is our last, sole hope when all hopes fail. And in the end, what is all woi-ldly wealth? 'Tis naught, and can't redeem us. For our pain God will reward us — He is merciful. Jaclx. If thei'e's a God, and He can see such things, Then show me l)ut Ilis love, .show nu'rcy now. If He creates us but t(^ let us feel The deepest'depth of human misery, THE I'LvrovRAr. 79 Destroys us then just like a wooden toy, And if this earth is His gTeat masterpiece, I have enough of Heaven. Yes, I've enough. My poor dead wife and all my children sad Cry for revenge ! In Heaven they found no ear. But let it be. At least they'll find it here. Fetev. Yon lose your reason, Jack : try to be calm. May God forgive you, you have greatly sinned. Workiwjuien. But it is true, this is a wicked world. George. Ye fools, do not complain about this world. It is our will, our brutal ignorance, That makes it Avhat it is. We are to blame. We made it bad ; and we shall make it worse, If we're arrayed here in continual strife Against ourselves, wage war against oui' friends ; We'll make it worse, if, in our blind career, Low, petty jealousies and selfishness Prevent connected work, prevent success. Our enemies form one united host, And therein lies their crushing force and might. If we will only follow where they lead. We shall be stronger : we outnumber them, And we shall be a power in our land. 80 THE PLUTOCL'AT. Organization is the magic wand That forms our strength, insni'es onr victory. No need of \dolence if we unite ; Then right will be our only force and strength, 'Twill be respected if upheld by all. If we are one, both heart and soul, Stand firmly all for one and one for all. Then, friends, and not before that joyous hoiu'. Will dawn the morning of a bettei' day. We may not see it, but our children will. Let's stand together, let us organize. It is a glorions goal we're fighting for, And we can reach it if we only will. Worli'uujmen. Hurrah ! He's right. We'U form a mighty league ; And if West still will give no higher pay, We'll cease to work, we'll strike, and we shall win. Jacl'. Ye cowards ! Strike and starve — That is your doom. Delay till death shall strike! Wait till to- mori'ow — Let me strike to-day. [Exit 'Jacl-. Paid. Just let him go Until his anger shaU be cooled, poor Jack. He's raving now ; his reason will return, And may his peace of mind be soon restored. 'Twould be sheer madness to now keep him here. THE I'HTOCL'AT. 8l George. Then let's go lioiiie, and may Clod grant success, And that He will. A cause as just as ours Is always sure to win. AIL It ought to win, And it shall win ! It cannot meet defeat. And till the victory is won by right Be this our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! [Exeunt WorMngmen. Scene II. Room in Mrs. Field's House. Ida. What has resulted of your wooing siege ? West. That I am disappointed, I confess. But Rome was not erected in one day, And I have patience : you wiU witness that. Ida. I do know something of your qualities, Of what you have and what now you have not. West. Yes, yes, you know it, and I know it too : I have nuich money, but I have not you. Ida. And never will, thank God ! West. Then, hoj)e, farewell ! Ida. But tell me what she said. West. Not very much. Wliat said she ? Well, she called me uncle dear, And she knows well that I am no such man. Ida. And how did you begiu f West. That's hard to say. 82 TUE I'LUTOCRAT. I ljal)ljle(l of the s^'inpatliy of souls, Platonic love, and other nonsense too. I almost fear she did not understand. I'm hardly just the man for making love. And ti'uly, twice I l)lnshed ; but if I'm home, rU learn my part with utmost diligence. And you, my dear, might give me a slight hint How best to win a woman's fickle lieai't. I know that most are bought by boundless wealth, But you and Alice are another kind. In you I found my first and great rebuff. But haply you are two exceptions, not The rule. Ida. If tliis be true, the moral is. You'd better cease j^our wooing, leave us here To love and hate as we see fit to do. ^Vest. O, you do that without my leave, my dear ; I merely try to lead 3'ou on to one Who most deserves undying — Ida. Love or hate ? West. Is that so difficult to say, my friend ? With equal reasons both for love and hate, There is a doubt — 'tis for love's benefit. Therefore I say, one Avho deserves your love. Ida. You say so, but I don't. Enough of that. Now tell me. did vou mention Henrv's name ? THE rUTOiUAT. 83 West. Not ouce, my dear. T liardly tliouglit of him, Or, rather, kept in mind your gentle threat To tell our Alice some unpleasant tales. But what of him ? He is not in the race, His claim for happiness exists no more. L1\Tong — O, not at all ; you know, in righteous love We close our eyes to such a little joke, And keep quite still ; a kiss will never kill ; And then, we cannot help if we're so nice. If tliis enticed him to embrace us ; why. The world is not in danger for that much. 'Tis nothing bad — in fact, it was mere fun." But if tlie sinner were an older man. 84 THE FLVTOCIUT. One lean and lank, without attractions, then, " The gray old sinner has no sense of shame. The ugiy monster, the enfeel^led fright, To kiss a decent woman ! 'Tis a crune ! Fie, sliame ! No pardon ! He must pay for it ! To so insult us — us, whose innocence Cries for revenge ! O, what a shock it is ! " Ida. Your mad insinuations cannot hm't ; I am ahove your \ile vituperation. Noble is that youth, though once misled. West. Ah, yes, he's nol)le ; that will cover all. And he can take such little liberties. He is misled by his young, fiery heart. And what of that f If I should dare the same, I'm sure you'd pitilessly scratch my face. Ida. West, I believe you're right. West. I know I am. You didn't scratch him, did you ? Ida. O, how I hate Your oily insults ! West. Do not caU them that Because I often tell unwelcome truths. I know the world has always much indulged The sins of younger men, not those of old And ugly ones. I don't dispute that right. I know there is too gi'cat a difference Between a kiss from me and one from him. THE rLVTOCUAT. 85 But there is still auotlier side to view. Yoiu" pardon, friend, cannot decide this case — It has been given with too great a joy. But what will Alice think, is now the point. Will she be satisfied ? She has been wronged, Not you alone, dear friend. Ida. I grant 'tis so. If you had used some of your eloquence For right as you have done tiU now for WTong, You could have done much good on earth, dear sir. West. Is it a wi'ong for which I intercede ? True, I confess, your views are very strange. Ida. Why, right or wrong, if Alice knew it all, She'd grant forgiveness without much ado. West. I do not doubt that she would pardon him; But then her peace of mind were lost and gone, And could not be restored were she assured Of his true, steady love. Ida. I well know that. This fact alone can prompt me not to teU Wliat Alice ought to know. I must keep silence. Why do you torment me, West ? Wherefore Do you insist that I make known to her The wi'ong done in a moment of wild passion. When you know that it wiU break her heart ? 8G THE PLVTOCliAT. West. Yes, that is true — I diJ insist on that. And if I did, a lunisoii must have urged. The reason is that it might lielp me win ; But if you think 'twill do her real harm — And that it will, I only see too well — And if you think it shouhl not be di\'ulged, Then it shall stay our secret : that is all. It costs me much to do this, you must know, But I'll forget, and even will forgive. It is for Alice's sake and yours, my dear, Not in the least for hiin. Ida. That's a surprise : I hardly could expect as much as that. You make me think you're going to reform. West. Do I, then, need reform? I go to church — It is my only recreation now ; I'm member of a fashionable flock, Wliere all are sheep with heavy golden fleece, And where we're fleeced by fashion's strict de- mands. Ida. Is God to blame for thiMii ? Believe in Him ; And, if you can, think of a future life. West. I've thought of it, and pleasant was the thought As far as heaven is talked of ; l)ut in hell THE rLUTOVltAT. yy I couldu't believe. If God is merciful, He fathers not monstrosities of pain Which but the meanest cruelty can paint. Ma. You make religion suit convenience, sii', And fear has taught you this philosophy. West. If there can't be belief without a heU, I can believe in naught ; and verily I do believe in naught. Why should I fear Things which I do not see and cannot grasp ? Ida. So you believe iu naught, you say, and yet God, heaven, and hell are always on j-our Hps. West. 'Tis true, and they're sufficient for the crowd. If men ask for a gift or benefit, They are referred to heaven. They threaten me, I show them hell : it helps me wonderfully, For these men are only held in check By hope of a reward or fear of pain. Their piety is but mere selfishness — They're hirelings of a phantom, nothing else. Now, friend, teU me the truth : does not this fear In somewhat influence your actions too ? Ida. Yes, West, it does. I will not lie, it does. I am a sinner, yet my faith is strong. 'Tis true that virtue has its own reward. That we should do the good for love of it, 88 THE PLVTOCEAT. Not for our selfish motives and desires ; But merely doing rig-lit can never give Wliat we call happiness. It is not all. It must be all to those who lack belief, And even then their life is but a blank — Without strong faith it cannot have an aim. They must be satisfied to live like beasts ; Theii- pleasures even give them little joy, And soon they feel the more the want of hope. "We cannot find true happiness in life. You don't l)elieve in God and future bliss : Now tell me, West, what would you caU yom* life If your career on earth should now be closed ? Would you be satisfied with life or not "? West. Don't speak of that. In faith, you've got me there. I surely shoidd describe it as a fraud If I were now to die. With aU my work, I have not yet attained what I desire. And not one hour in my eventful life Has been a happy one. No, now to die. So near my aim, so near my happiness — No, now to die would make my life a blank ; And if there is no hell to ])unish me. Tins thought is worse than all the hells can be. Ida. It only shows the truth of what I said — Shows that vou hick and need that solace true THE FLUTOCIiAT. 89 Wliicli but religion gives. If strong in faitli, We're every moment ready to leave earth. West. Yes, you are liapp}" fools ! I'm not like you. Ida. You can be if you will. West I'll try to-morrow. 1(1(1. No, to-day is tlie accepted time : Who knows what ill to-morrow's dawn may bring ? West. And will you be my teacher, pretty friend ? T(hi. If I can help you to a better life, I'll do it with the utmost pleasure, West, For well you know your life has needed change. West. My heart's enlisted, take my hand ; be^ lieve, I will reform, I will reform for you. And now, fareweE, my dearest, gentlest, best, My only faithful friend. Farewell, farewell. I must attend to weighty things at once. [Exit West Ida. O God, can I believe my eyes and ears ? Grant what he said is really meant by him. For it would end oui' troubles and our grief. God, Thou didst wonders, and dost wonders stiU, And if Thou wilt, Thou canst refoi'm him too. [Exit Ida. ut, mother, let me go. Ida. O, do not go. How pale you are! What ails you, darling? Speak ! Your smile is not my merry daughter's smile. My poor, dear child, pray tell me why you're sad. Alice. No, mother, no, I'm very happy now. THE PLUTOCRAT. 97 And soon I shall be happier still with Him, My Maker, who will take me back again From this life to a never-ending jo}'. Pray send for Henry — I must see him yet Before my earthly mission is fulfilled. Before I go I'U seal the happiness Of you and him, the most beloved of friends. Ida. Ah, now I see. I understand you now. My God, why did I once beheve the wretch ? But you're deceived, my child, you are deceived, And all West told you has been worse than lies. Henry forgot himself — 'tis but too true — Yet he has never ceased to love you, dear, And here before my God I swear to you I never loved him more than mothers love The future husband of their dearest child. O God, destroy the treacherous, fiendish wretch. Who ruined me and now will ruin her ! [Rings for Servant. Enter Servant. Quick ! go and summon Mr. Henry here, Tell him to come without the least delay. Alice. Did I hear right? Or am I in a dream ? O no, 'tis a mistake. Is West not good ? Has lie not been to me a faithful friend ? 98 I'llJ^ riA'TOCUAT. I(l(t. He is the devil in a liuinaii sliMi)e. .My life lie made a lone:, nneeasing' ])aiii ; Your father, I believe, was killed ])y liiin, .Vnd now he wants to roh nie yet of yon. jly curse on him, the WTecker of my life ! Alice. What did I hear? Dear mother, pray be calm. He a deceiver ? Then he is a fiend ! Men cannot i)lay such wretched, risky part. Ida. I did not wish to ever tell you this ; I strove to carry my deep gi-ief alone. Thus to preserve your heart's sweet innocence, Ag'ain my sacrifice has been in vain ! Enter Henry. Henri/. Can y(ni still i^ardon me for what I've done ? Ida. I must refer y(m to my dauV(' luT more than cVr before. Could I describe the agony i)r()found That scorched my Ijrain in these few dreary hours, You would dismiss me with one word of hope, And bring \n\ torment to a sudden close. One ray of light I've found in my dark course : I've saved you fi'om the clutches of that fiend. ]My new invention will free you from care. And you are rich. Am I forgiven f Speak ! Then I will go — go, never to return. Alice. But if I want to keep you, Henry dear! Hetiry. Ah, Alice, do not play with me like this. Our iron age produces no such souls. Your Christian faith dethroned the Grecian god ; For one mistake men are now doomed to hell ! Alice. I'm l)ut a simple^ and a foolish girl ; Yon give me pain, 3'ou make me sad, 'tis true, Yet is there need to tell you how I love ? Yes, love you more than all words can express. ]5etween us nauglit is changed ; we're as before. But make your peace witli Heaven, pray to our God, And He \W11 hear you in His l)Oundless grace. Henri/. But, Alice dear, you can forget, still love ? I see there is a God ; I liave been blind. The god dwells in vour heart — his name is Love. 100 '^'liJ^ I'LUTOCIiAI. We all must worship at his altar, or We reap but pain, but niiseiy and woe. Such souls as yours, my child, no mortal's are. 'Tis love that keeps this shaky world intact, Without it we are naught but moi'tal elay. Enter Workingmen and Servants. Paul. Is Mr. Henry here ? Henry. Yes, here I am. What is it, Paul ? What do you want, my friends ? FaMl. We've come to tell you, sir, that West is dead. Henry, Tdu, Alice. West dead? Impossible! Fanl. Yes, West is dead. He's dead, and though a heartless, wicked man, It was indeed an awfid end foi' him, Ida. How did it happen, tell me, my good man ! Paul. We were awakened by the cry of fire ; And rising, soon our sleepy eyes l^eheld A sea of flame reflected in the clouds. We hurried to the scene of the big blaze. It was West's house — fast burning to the ground. The servants all were saved, but West was not ; And soon we saw him at a window high. His life depended on a lucky leap ; He knew it too, we saw it in his face. THE rLL'TOClUT. K)! He wore his usual calm. No cry or nioau, No prayer or curse, escaped liini. Hard as tliut, He measured still the distance to the earth, When something happened which I'll ne'er forget. The women screamed, '' The devil ! See him there ! " The hardest men were chilled, chilled to the bones, \^'lien a dark figure, blackened by the smoke. Approached West from behind, and then tried hard To drag his victim with him to the fire. It was a fearful battle fought up there, And still grim Fate decreed that West should win; And calm and cool he hurled Jack to his grave. Again he tried to make that fearful leap ; He still looked down on us with stern disdain, His scornful smile seemed still to say, " Be- ware ! You shan't forget, and you'U repent this hour." Wlien with an awful crash the walls came down. And both are buried in that tomb of fire. May God be merciful and save their souls ! Enter Lawyer, wJw sjiecds to Ida. Henry. Then he is dead, this all-defying man, Wlio tauntingly has challenged his dire fate. 102 ^'^^' J'LCTOCL'JT. He has deserved it, but I pity liim ; His awful eud pays for liis sins and debts. Ida. The judg-meut falls. Oni- (lod is stern and just. Long- He has waited, but the man was hard, His eup was full, was floating to the l)rini. I told him so, he only laughed at me, And unprepared he's gone to meet his doom. But all his sins to me. Lord, wipe them out, They are forgiven. Let us all forgive. And may he find forgiveness mth Thee too, [To Woi-l-iH(/iH(ii] And now a word to you, my honest friends : I must believe that I'm your mistress now. This gentleman, who has been West's attorney, Says that West has willed his all to me. It is a solenni trust that I accept, And with God's help I will now try my best To heal the many wounds wdiioh West has torn. Not for myself I take his riches, friends ; From now each is my child, your mother I, And all will be devoted to your good. God grant me all the strength to do my work. With my new son's and with my daughter's aid. Hfin-i/. Yes, numnts of gold and seas of blood freed black ; Good-will alone can make the wliitc slaves free. Tin: I'l.rrocUAT. lo;; M'orkiiKjiiieii. L()ii<>' live our mistress aud the happy pail' ! For freedom's cause begins a glorious fight; Out riug- our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! [Curtain falls. The End.