"Come in—"

The door opened; a man entered and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he cried out—"See here—My name is Jean Valjean. I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was released and am now on my way to Pontarlier. This evening when I came into these parts, I went to an inn and they turned me out. I went to another and they said "Be gone." I went to the prison; the jailer would not take me in. I went to a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and drove me off as though he had been a man. I went to the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no stars. I returned to the city. Yonder, in the square, a good woman tapped me on the shoulder and told me to knock here, and I have knocked. What is this place? Do you keep an inn? Are you willing that I should remain?"

"Ah, Madam Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place."

"No, that's not it. I'm a galley-slave—a convict—Here's my yellow passport, read that, but no—I can read, I learned in the galleys. [Reads.] 'Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys. Five years for burglary and theft and fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four different occasions. He—is—a very—dangerous—man'—There, that's what bars me out. Will you give me something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?"

"Madam Magloire, you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove—Now sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We will sup in a few moments and your bed will be prepared while we are supping."

"What, you call me sir—You do not drive me out? A bed, with sheets, like the rest of the world? It has been nineteen years since I slept in a bed. Pardon me, monsieur inn-keeper,—what is your name?"

"I am only an old priest who lives here."

"Then you will not demand my money of me?"

"No—keep your money. How much have you?"

"One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous."

"How long did it take you to earn that?"

"Nineteen years."

"Nineteen years! Madam Magloire, you will place the silver fork and spoon as near the fire as possible. The north wind blows harsh on the Alps to-night. You must be cold, sir."

"Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not despise me? You receive me into your house? You light your candles for me? Yet I have not concealed from you who I am."

"You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house. This is the house of Jesus Christ. That door does not ask of him who enters, whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry, you are welcome. But do not thank me; do not say that I receive you into my house. You are more at home here than I am. Everything in this house belongs to you. Besides, what need have I to know your name, for I knew that before you told me."

"What! You knew what I was called?"

"Yes, you are called 'my brother.'"

"Oh—stop! I—was very hungry when I came in here, but now—my—my hunger is all gone. Oh—you are—so—good—to me."

"You have suffered much. You have come from a very sad place—but listen! There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of one repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you emerge from that place with thoughts of evil and wrath against mankind, you are to be pitied; but if you emerge with thoughts of peace and good will, you are more deserving than any of us. But now, Monsieur, since you have supped, I will conduct you to your room. This is your room, sir. May you pass a good night, and to-morrow before you leave us you must drink a cup of warm milk."

"Ah, is this true? Do you lodge me close to yourself like this? How do you know that I am not a murderer?"

"That is the concern of the good God. Good night, brother. Good night."

FOOTNOTE:

[78] An adaptation from "Les Miserables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.



LASCA

ANONYMOUS

I want free life, and I want fresh air; And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, The crack of the whips like shots in a battle, The mellay of horns and hoofs and heads That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; The green beneath and the blue above, And dash and danger, and life and love. And Lasca!

Lasca used to ride On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side, With blue serape and bright-belled spur; I laughed with joy as I looked at her. Little knew she of books or of creeds; An Ave Maria sufficed her needs; Little she cared, save to be by my side, To ride with me, and ever to ride, From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. She was as bold as the billows that beat, She was as wild as the breezes that blow; From her little head to her little feet She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro By each gust of passion; a sapling pine, That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, And wars with the wind when the weather is rough Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. She would hunger that I might eat, Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; But once, when I made her jealous for fun, At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, One Sunday in San Antonio, To a glorious girl on the Alamo, She drew from her belt a dear little dagger, And—sting of a wasp!—it made me stagger! An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound Her torn rebosa about the wound, That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown—a deep, deep brown— Her hair was darker than her eye; And something in her smile and frown, Curled crimson lip and instep high, Showed that there ran in each blue vein, Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, The vigorous vintage of old Spain. She was alive in every limb With feeling, to the finger tips; And when the sun is like a fire, And sky one shining, soft sapphire, One does not drink in little sips. The air was heavy, the night was hot, I sat by her side, and forgot—forgot The herd that were taking their rest, Forgot that the air was close opprest, That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon— That once let the herd at its breath take fright, Nothing on earth can stop the flight; And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, Who falls in front of their mad stampede! Was that thunder? I grasped the cord Of my swift mustang without a word. I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. Away! on a hot chase down the wind! But never was fox-hunt half so hard And never was steed so little spared; For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on; There was one chance left, and you have but one, Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance, And if the steers in their frantic course Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your star; if not, good-by To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, And the open air and the open sky, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande!

The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, Clinging together, and—what was the rest? A body that spread itself on my breast. Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard on my lips were prest; Then came thunder in my ears, As over us surged the sea of steers, Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could rise— Lasca was dead! I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep; And there she is lying, and no one knows; And the summer shines and the winter snows; For many a day the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head; And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, And the sly coyote trots here and there, And the black snake glides and glitters and slides Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree; And the buzzard sails on, And comes and is gone, Stately and still like a ship at sea; And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are like the things that were. Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?



MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR

JULES VERNE

Russia was threatened by a Tartar invasion. The commander of the Russian troops was the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke, now stationed at Irkutsk. Suddenly all communication between him and the Czar was cut off by the enemy, under the leadership of Ivan Ogareff, a traitor, who had sworn to betray Russia and to kill the Grand Duke. It became necessary to send a messenger to the Grand Duke to warn him of his danger, and Michael Strogoff was chosen for that purpose. He was brought before the Czar, who looked this magnificent specimen of manhood full in the face. Then: "Thy name?"

"Michael Strogoff, sire."

"Thy rank?"

"Captain in the Corps of Couriers to the Czar."

"Thou dost know Siberia?"

"I am a Siberian."

"A native of—?"

"Omsk, sire."

"Hast thou relations there?"

"Yes, sire, my aged mother."

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter which he held in his hand: "Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no one but him."

"I will deliver it, sire."

"The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter."

"I will traverse it."

"Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet thee on the way."

"I will beware of him."

"Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke." (Hands him letter.)

"This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke."

"Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land."

That very night Michael Strogoff started on his perilous journey. His path was constantly beset with dangers, but not until he reached Omsk did his greatest trial come. He had feared that he might see his mother in passing through the town. They stopped only for dinner and the danger was almost past, when, just as they were leaving the posting-house to renew their journey, suddenly a cry made him tremble—a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul—and these two words rushed into his ear, "My son!" His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him! Trembling she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him. Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself—when the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself and mother, in this unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, and among them were perhaps spies, and was it not known that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the Corps of Couriers to the Czar? Michael Strogoff did not move.

"Michael!" cried his mother.

"Who are you, my good woman?"

"Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?"

"You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you."

Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said, "Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?"

Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms. But if he yielded now, it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.

"I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman."

"Michael!"

"My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Horparoff, a merchant of Irkutsk," and suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed in his ears.

"My son! My son!"

Michael Strogoff remembered—"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land," and he had by a desperate effort gone. He did not see his old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when the Postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son! It was impossible! As for being herself deceived, it was equally impossible. It was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not recognized her, it was because he would not, because he ought not, because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then, her mother feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I unwittingly have ruined him?

"I am mad," she said to her interrogators. "This young man was not my son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall end in finding him everywhere."

This occurrence, however, came to the knowledge of Ivan Ogareff, who was stationed in the town. To obtain possession of any official message, which, if delivered, would frustrate his plans, and to detain the courier was his great desire. He succeeded in arresting Michael Strogoff, and then sent for Marfa to appear before him. Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, and waited.

"You are Marfa Strogoff?" asked Ogareff.

"Yes."

"Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?"

"No."

"Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the Czar, has passed through Omsk?"

"I do not know."

"And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son, was not your son?"

"He was not my son."

"And since then, have you seen him among the prisoners?"

"No."

"If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?"

"No."

"Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to me."

"No."

"All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall have passed before you."

On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa, who was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh.

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her dress torn off, left her back bare. A saber was placed before her breast at a few inches' distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself up and waited.

"Begin," said Ogareff.

The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand stopped the Tartar's arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.

"Michael Strogoff!"

"Ivan Ogareff!" and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow across the face.

"Blow for blow." Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them.

"This man is reserved for the Emir's judgment. Search him."

The letter bearing the imperial arms was bound in Michael's bosom; he had not had time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff.

"Your forehead to the ground!" exclaimed Ogareff.

"No!"

Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the ground by a blow from Michael's fist.

"Who is this prisoner?" asked the Emir.

"A Russian spy," answered Ogareff.

In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then he pointed to the Koran which was brought him. He opened the sacred book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in loud voice, a verse ending in these words: "And he shall no more see the things of this earth."

"Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp; then look while you may!"

Michael Strogoff's punishment was not death, but blindness. They drew a red-hot saber across his eyes, and the courier was blind! After the Emir's orders were executed, thinking they had robbed Michael Strogoff of all power to do further harm, the Emir retired with his train, and Michael was left alone. But his desire to reach the Grand Duke was not quenched by this terrible calamity. He understood that Ivan Ogareff, having obtained his seal and commission, would try to reach the Grand Duke before he, himself, could possibly get there, carrying a false message, which would betray all Siberia. Michael, after disheartening trials in finding a trusty companion, finally succeeded and pushed on towards Irkutsk, only hoping he might reach the place before Ogareff should betray the city. At last, after a most painful fourteen days' journey, he is at the very gate of the Governor's palace. Entrance is easy, for confusion reigns everywhere. But Michael is in time. With his trusty companion he goes distractedly through the passages. No one heeds him. Michael opens one of the doors and enters a room flooded with light, and there he stands face to face with the one whose villainous hand would one instant later have betrayed all Siberia! "Ivan Ogareff!" he cries.

On hearing his name pronounced, the wretch starts. His real name known, all his plans will be frustrated. There is but one thing to be done; to kill the one who had just uttered it. Ogareff rises and sees the blind courier! Thinking he has an immense advantage over the blind man, he throws himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael's breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man's knife turns aside the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff's brow; he draws back a step and again leaps forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael's knife has parried the blow from the traitor's useless sword. Mad with rage and terror, he gazes into the wide open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes which seemed to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which did not, could not, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him.

Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: "He sees! He sees!"

"Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your life! It is a duel I offer you! My knife against your sword!" The tears, which his pride in vain endeavored to subdue, welling up from his heart, had gathered under his eyelids, and volatilized on the cornea, and the vapor formed by his tears interposing between the glowing saber and his eyeballs had been sufficient to annihilate the action of the heat and save his sight. Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but mustering up all his courage he springs forward. The two blades cross, but at a touch from Michael's knife the sword flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground. The crash of the steel attracting the attention of the ducal train, the door is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar's courier. Then in threatening voice, "Who killed this man."

"I," answered Michael.

"Thy name? I know him! He is the Czar's courier."

"That man, your highness, is not a courier of the Czar! He is Ivan Ogareff!"

"Ivan, the traitor?"

"Yes."

"But who are you, then?"

"Michael Strogoff."

"And you come?"

"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land!"



MRS. TREE[79]

LAURA E. RICHARDS

Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign of her great age. As she herself said, she had her wits and her teeth, and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been to market and had brought all the news with her marketing.

"Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree—he give me a turn just now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable time.

"'I ain't no notion,' says he.

"'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says.

"'Just what I say,' says he.

"'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know. She has consid'able kin 'round here.

"'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I lef her in the burying ground, that's all I know.'

"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses."

Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree sat alive and alert and called:

"Direxia!"

"Yes'm. Jest a minit. I'm seein' to something."

"Direxia Hawkes!"

"How you do pester me, Mis' Tree; there's a man at the door and I don't want to let him stay there alone."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know, he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Most likely he's stealing the umbrellas while here I stand!"

"Show him in here!"

"What say?"

"Show him in here and don't pretend to be deaf when you hear as well as I do."

"You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree—he's a tramp, I tell ye, and the toughest looking"—

"Will you show him in here or shall I come and fetch him?"

"Well! of all the cantankerous,—here! come in, you! She wants to see you," and a man appeared in the doorway—he was shabbily dressed, but it was noticeable that the threadbare clothes were clean. Mrs. Tree looked at him and then looked again.

"What do you want here?"

"I ask for food, I'm hungry."

"Are you a tramp?"

"Yes, Madam!"

"Anything else?"

Just here Direxia burst in with "That'll be enough—you come out in the kitchen and I'll give you something to eat in a paper bag and you can take it away with you."

"I shall be pleased to have you take supper with me, sir! Direxia, set a place for this gentleman."

"I—cannot, Madam!—I thank you, but you must excuse me."

"Why can't you?"

"You must excuse me! If your woman will give me a morsel to eat in the kitchen, or perhaps I had better go at once."

"Stop! Direxia, go and set another place for supper! Shut the door! Come here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead puppy on it. There! I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you like tramping, now?"

"Pretty well; it's all right in the summer, or when a man has his health."

"See things, hey, new folks, new faces, get ideas, is that it?"

"That begins it, but after a while,—I really think I must go. Madam, you are very kind but I prefer to go."

"Cat's foot!"

The shabby man laughed helplessly and just then Direxia stuck her head in at the door and snapped out, "Supper's ready!"

The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream—half unconsciously he put the old lady into her chair—then at a sign from her he took the seat opposite—he laid the damask napkin across his knees and winced at the touch of it as at the touch of a long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked on easily, asking questions about the roads he traveled and the people he met. He answered briefly. Suddenly close at hand a voice spoke.

"Old friends!"

The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held.

"It's only a parrot! Sit down again. There he is at your elbow. Jocko is his name. He does my swearing for me. My grandson and a friend of his taught him that, and I have taught him a few other things besides. Good Jocko! Speak up, boy!"

"Old friends to talk; old books to read; old wine to drink! Zooks! Hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!"

"That was my grandson and his friend. What's the matter? Feel faint, hey?"

"Yes, I am—faint. I must get out into the air."

"Nothing of the sort! You'll come upstairs and lie down."

"No! no! not in this house. Never! never!"

"Cat's foot! Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm! Do as I say! There!"

And as they passed up the stairway the parrot cried, "Old friends!" And Direxia said, "I'm going to loose the bulldog, Mis' Tree, and Deacon Weight says he'll be over in two minutes."

"There isn't any dog in the house, and Deacon Weight is at Conference, and won't be back till the last of the week. That will do, Direxia; you mean well, but you are a ninny-hammer. This way! This is my grandson's room—he died here—what's the matter—feel faint—hey?"

"Yes!—I do—"

"Come, Willie—come lie down and rest on Arthur's bed—you are tired, boy."

"Mrs. Tree, if you would not be so kind it would not be so hard—I came—to—rob—you."

"Why, so I supposed, or thought it likely. You can have all you want, without that—there's plenty for you and me. Folks call me close, and I like to do what I like with my own money. There's plenty, I tell you, for you and me and the bird. Do you think he knew you, Willie? I believe he did."

"God knows! When—how did you know me, Mrs. Tree?"

"Get up, Willie Jaquith, and I'll tell you. Sit down; there's the chair you made together, when you were fifteen. Remember, hey? I knew your voice at the door, or I thought I did. Then when you wouldn't look at the bead puppy, I hadn't much doubt; and when I said 'Cat's foot!' and you laughed, I knew for sure. You've had a hard time, Willie, but you are the same boy."

"If you would not be kind, I think it would be easier. You ought to give me up, you know, and let me go to jail. I'm a drunkard and a vagrant, and worse—but—you won't—do that—you won't do that."

"No! I won't. Hark, there's some one at the door—it's 'Malviny Weight.' Now you lie down and rest—yes, you will—that press there is full of Arthur's clothes—then you come down and talk to me—You do as I tell you, Willie Jaquith, or I'll set the parrot on you; remember when he bit you for stealing his apple,—there's the scar still on your cheek. Greatest wonder in the world he didn't put your eye out. Served you right if he had, too—Yes, Malviny, I'm coming!"

And as Mrs. Tree descended the stairs she was met by Mrs. Weight, who broke out saying:

"I've waited most an hour to see that tramp come out. Deacon's away, and I was scairt to death, but I'm a mother and I had to come. How I had the courage I don't know, when I thought you and Mis' Tree might meet my eyes both layin' dead in this entry. Where is he? Don't you help or harbor him now, Direxia Hawkes! I saw his evil eye as he stood on the doorstep, and I knew by the way he peeked and peered that he was after no good. Where is he? I know he didn't go out. Hush! Don't say a word! I'll slip out and round and get Hiram Sawyer. My boys is to singing-school, and it was a special ordering that I happened to look out at the window just that moment of time. Where did you say he—"

"Why, good evening, Malviny, what was it you were saying?"

"I'm sure, Mis' Tree, it's not on my own account I come. I'm the last to intrude, as any one in this village can tell you. But you are an ancient woman, and your neighbors are bound to protect you when need is. I see that tramp come in here with my own eyes, and he's here for no good."

"What tramp?"

"Good land, Mis' Tree, didn't you see him? He slipped right in past Direxia. I see him with these eyes."

"When?"

"'Most an hour ago. I've been watching ever since. Don't tell me you didn't know about him bein' here, Mis' Tree, now don't."

"I won't."

"He's hid away somewheres! Direxia Hawkes has hid him; he is an accomplish of hers. You've always trusted that woman, Mis' Tree, but I tell you I've had my eye on her these ten years, and now I have found her out. She's hid him away somewheres, I tell you. There's cupboards and closets enough in this house to hide a whole gang of cutthroats in—and when you're abed and asleep they'll have your life, them two, and run off with your worldly goods that you thought so much of. Would have, that is, if I hadn't have had a special ordering to look out of the winder. Oh, how thankful should I be that I kept the use of my limbs, though I was scairt 'most to death, and am now."

"Yes, they might be useful to you, to get home with, for instance. There, that will do, Malvina Weight. There is no tramp here. Your eyesight is failing; there were always weak eyes in your family. There's no tramp here, and there has been none."

"Mis' Tree! I tell you I see him with these—"

"Bah! don't talk to me! There is no tramp here and there has been none—what you took for a tramp is a gentleman that's come to stay over night with me—he's upstairs now—did you lock your door, Malvina—There are tramps about and if Ephraim's away—well, good-night, Malvina, if you must go. [She goes out.] Now, Direxia, you shut that door and if that woman calls again to-night you set the parrot on her."

The next morning found Mrs. Tree an early riser and it was with eagerness she greeted her visitor.

"You are better this morning, Willie, yes, you are—now go on and tell me—after all your bad luck you took to drink. That wasn't very sensible, was it?"

"I didn't care," said William Jaquith. "It helped me to forget a bit at a time. I thought I could give it up any day, but I didn't. Then—I lost my place, of course, and started to come East, and had my pocket picked in Denver, of every cent I had. I tried for work there, but between sickness and drink I wasn't good for much. I started tramping. I thought I would tramp—it was last spring, and warm weather coming on—till I'd got my health back, and then I'd steady down and get some work, and come back to mother when I was fit to look her in the face. Then—in some place, I forget—I came upon a King's County paper with mother's death in it."

"What!"

"O! I know I wasn't fit to see her—but I lost all hope then."

"Why don't you give up drink?"

"Where's the use? I would if there were any use, but mother is dead."

"Cat's foot—fiddlestick—folderol—fudge! She's no more dead than I am. Don't talk to me! Hold on to yourself now, Willie Jaquith, and don't make a scene; it is a thing I cannot abide. It was Maria Jaquith that died, over at East Corners. Small loss she was, too. None of that family was ever worth their salt. The fool who writes for the papers put her in 'Mary,' and gave out that she died here in Elmerton just because they brought her here to bury. They've always buried here in the family lot, as if they were of some account. I was afraid you might hear of it, Willie, and wrote to the last place I heard of you in, but of course it was of no use. Mary Jaquith is alive, I tell you. Now where are you going?"

"To mother!"

"Yes, I would! Sit down, Willie Jaquith; do as I tell you! There! feel pretty well, hey? Your mother is blind."

"Oh, mother! mother! I have left her alone all this time."

"Exactly! Now don't go into a caniption, because it won't do any good. Here comes Direxia with your breakfast—you eat it and then we'll go and see your mother."

Out of doors the morning was bright and clear. Mrs. Malvina Weight, sweeping her front chamber, with an anxious eye on the house opposite, saw the door open and Mrs. Tree come out, followed by a tall young man. The old lady wore the huge black velvet bonnet, surmounted by a bird of paradise, which she had brought from Paris forty years before, and an India shawl which had pointed a moral to the pious of Elmerton for more than that length of time. Mrs. Weight's curiosity knew no bounds when she saw them turn into the old Jaquith place. She would have been more astounded if she could have heard Mrs. Tree begin at once with:

"Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit!"

"Mrs. Tree! Is this you?" asked Mrs. Jaquith; "my dear soul, what brings you out so early in the morning? Come in! come in! who is with you?"

"I didn't say any one was with me! Don't you go to setting double-action ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old enough to. How are you? Obstinate as ever?"

"Take this chair, it's the one you always like. How am I obstinate, dear Mrs. Tree?"

"If I've asked you once to come and live with me, I've asked you fifty times," grumbled the old lady, sitting down with a good deal of flutter and rustle. "There I must stay, left alone at my age, with nobody but that old goose of a Direxia Hawkes to look after me. And all because you like to be independent. Set you up! Well, I shan't ask you again, and so I've come to tell you, Mary Jaquith."

"Dear old friend, you forgive me, I know. You never can have thought for a moment, seriously, that I could be a burden on your kind hands. There surely is some one with you, Mrs. Tree! Is it Direxia? Please be seated, whoever it is."

There was a slight sound, as of a sob checked in the outbreak. Mrs. Tree shook her head fiercely. The blind woman rose from her seat, very pale.

"Who is it? Be kind, please, and tell me."

"I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your talk. I had a visitor last night, Mary—some one came to see me—an old acquaintance—some one who had seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if you don't sit down,—well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!"

The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of appeal,—of welcome, of love unutterable,—and in a moment more her son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again, "Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word.

FOOTNOTE:

[79] An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen.



THE PORTRAIT

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman upstairs.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet:

Nobody with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above.

Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died.

The good young priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lips grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone; I thought of the pleasant days of yore. I said, "The staff of my life is gone; The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold, dead bosom my portrait lies Which next to her heart she used to wear,— Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there.

"It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept; For each ruby there my heart hath bled; For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said, "The thing is precious to me, They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be, If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet. There, stark she lay on her carven bed; Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart; I dared not look on the face of death, I knew where to find her heart.

I thought, at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side; And at once the sweat broke over my brow, "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

Opposite me, by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved.

"What do you here, my friend?" ... The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead. "There is a portrait here," he began; "There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I. "A month ago," said my friend to me; "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" He answered ... "Let us see."

"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love."

We found the portrait there in its place; We opened it, by the tapers' shine; The gems were all unchanged; the face Was—neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at least! The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest, Who confessed her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept; For each ruby there my heart hath bled; For each pearl my eyes have wept.



THE TELL-TALE HEART

A MURDERER'S CONFESSION

EDGAR ALLAN POE

True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture—a pale-blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid my life of him forever.

Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! and then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon the bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked) I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed crying out—"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the spot.

Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed; I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous; so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.

And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound could be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected anything wrong.

When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear? Then entered three men who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and the officers had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct; it continued and gained definitiveness—until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I grew very pale; but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder. And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?

They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed—tear up the planks! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous heart!"



THE UNCLE

H. G. BELL

I had an uncle once—a man Of threescore years and three, And when my reason's dawn began, He'd take me on his knee, And often talk, whole winter nights, Things that seemed strange to me.

He was a man of gloomy mood, And few his converse sought; But, it was said, in solitude His conscience with him wrought; And then, before his mental eye, Some hideous vision brought.

There was not one in all the house Who did not fear his frown, Save I, a little, careless child, Who gamboled up and down, And often peeped into his room, And plucked him by his gown.

I was an orphan and alone— My father was his brother, And all their lives I knew that they Had fondly loved each other; And in my uncle's room there hung The picture of my mother.

There was a curtain over it— 'Twas in a darkened place, And few or none had ever looked Upon my mother's face; Or seen her pale, expressive smile Of melancholy grace.

One night—I do remember well, The wind was howling high, And through the ancient corridors It sounded drearily; I sat and read in that old hall; My uncle sat close by.

I read—but little understood The words upon the book, For with a sidelong glance I marked My uncle's fearful look, And saw how all his quivering frame In strong convulsions shook.

A silent terror o'er me stole, A strange, unusual dread; His lips were white as bone—his eyes Sunk far down in his head; He gazed on me, but 'twas the gaze Of the unconscious dead.

Then suddenly he turned him round, And drew aside the veil That hung before my mother's face; Perchance my eyes might fail, But ne'er before that face to me Had seemed so ghastly pale.

"Come hither, boy!" my uncle said— I started at the sound; 'Twas choked and stifled, in his throat, And hardly utterance found; "Come hither, boy!" then fearfully He cast his eyes around.

"That lady was thy mother once— Thou wert her only child; O God! I've seen her when she held Thee in her arms and smiled— She smiled upon thy father, boy, 'Twas that which drove me wild!

"He was my brother, but his form Was fairer far than mine; I grudged not that;—he was the prop Of our ancestral line, And manly beauty was of him A token and a sign.

"Boy! I had loved her too—nay, more, 'Twas I who loved her first; For months—for years—the golden thought Within my soul was nursed; He came—he conquered—they were wed— My air-blown bubble burst!

"Then on my mind a shadow fell, And evil hopes grew rife; The damning thought stuck in my heart, And cut me like a knife, That she, whom all my days I loved, Should be another's wife!

"I left my home—I left the land— I crossed the raging sea; In vain—in vain—where'er I turned, My memory went with me; My whole existence, night and day, In memory seemed to be.

"I came again, I found them here— Thou'rt like thy father, boy— He doted on that pale face there, I've seen them kiss and toy— I've seen him locked in her fond arms, Wrapped in delirious joy!

"By Heaven! it was a fearful thing, To see my brother now, And mark the placid calm that sat Forever on his brow, That seemed in bitter scorn to say, I am more loved than thou!

"He disappeared—draw nearer, child!— He died—no one knew how; The murdered body ne'er was found, The tale is hushed up now; But there was one who rightly guessed The hand that struck the blow.

"It drove her mad—yet not his death— No—not his death alone; For she had clung to hope, when all Knew well that there was none; No, boy! it was a sight she saw That froze her into stone!

"I am thy uncle, child—why stare So frightfully aghast?— The arras waves, but know'st thou not 'Tis nothing but the blast? I, too, have had my fears like these, But such vain fears are past.

"I'll show thee what thy mother saw— I feel 'twill ease my breast, And this wild tempest-laden night Suits with the purpose best. Come hither—thou hast often sought To open this old chest.

"It has a secret spring; the touch Is known to me alone; Slowly I raise the lid, and now— What see you, that you groan So heavily? That thing is but A bare-ribbed skeleton."

A sudden crash—the lid fell down— Three strides he backward gave, "Oh, God! it is my brother's self Returning from the grave! His grasp of lead is on my throat— Will no one help or save?"

That night they laid him on his bed, In raving madness tossed; He gnashed his teeth, and with wild oaths Blasphemed the Holy Ghost; And, ere the light of morning broke, A sinner's soul was lost.



VI

SCENES FROM THE DRAMA

The selections in this division are cut, condensed, and adapted for practical use as dramas or monologues. In some cases lines of the text as well as explanations are written in to connect the scenes for clearer unity. For scenes from Shakespeare and readings from the Bible, already universally printed and accessible, see the indexes and directions as to the omissions of lines in various cuttings in Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings," published by Messrs. Ginn & Company.



THE BELLS

HENRY L. WILLIAMS

ACT III, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Hans Matthis, keeper of "the Merry Andrew"; Dr. Frantz, the magnetizer; the Judge.

SCENE: Alsatia, in a hamlet at the foot of the mountains; Christmas, 1868; a room in an inn. Matthis, a prosperous burgomaster, recalls with friends the murder of a Polish Jew, fifteen years before. He wonders that the murderer has never been apprehended. The sound of sleigh bells is heard and the apparition of the Jew appears. Matthis is prostrated by the incident and consults a mesmerist, Dr. Frantz, who assures him that he has power to compel a criminal to divulge his secret thought. Matthis isolates himself and sleeps alone to avoid eavesdropping. On the night of his daughter's wedding he makes payment of her dowry, and as the money is laid on the table a sleigh bell falls from among the gold coins. He seeks his own room, falls asleep and dreams that he is before the court and that Dr. Frantz is mesmerizing him.

Enter MATTHIS

MAT. Happy fellow! happy fellows all of them! A man may play against fate if he only prepares his cards—I hold none but good ones in my hand. Ha, ha! They have their skins full of my best wine, and go home happy as kings. Ha, ha! there'll be some funny flounderings in the snow before they reach home. It's singular what magic is melted into wine—one draught, and all the clouds are sunshine. It's dark! it's very dark—and, though the wind has fallen, the fine snow sweeps down the road like a train of phantoms. All is well! You may shake hands with yourself, Hans Matthis! you have triumphed over both the world and Heaven! I am so sleepy! If I rest here a—a moment? Ah! One is always drowsy in cold weather. No one can hear me if I speak—in a dream—no one—the Jew!—dreams, nonsense! [Sleeps.]

Enter DR. FRANTZ and the JUDGE

DR. F. My lord, it is the will of this tribunal which leads me here, not mine.

JUDGE. Can you place that man in the mesmeric sleep?

DR. F. I can. But he is strong-willed, and the task may be hard.

MAT. No, no! I have no fear. [Shudders; aside.] Matthis, if you fall asleep you will be lost!

DR. F. [to MATTHIS]. I will that you should sleep! [Makes magnetic passes while looking at MATTHIS.]

MAT. No, no!

DR. F. It is my will. He sleeps. What must I ask?

JUDGE. What he did on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago.

DR. F. I command you to be on the night of December the four-and-twentieth, year 1853.

MAT. [softly]. Yes.

DR. F. What is the hour?

MAT. It is half-past eleven o'clock.

DR. F. Speak! It is my will!

MAT. The customers have left the inn. Catherine and little Annette have gone to bed. Kaspar comes in and says—the fire in the lime-kiln is drawing well. I answer: "Very good. Go to bed. I'll go have a look at it." He goes up stairs. I am alone with the Polish Jew, who is warming himself at the stove. All are asleep in the village. All I heard was the sleigh-bell jingling on the Polander's horse in the shed. There was two feet of snow on the ground. I thought of my want of money. If I did not have three thousand francs by the end of the month, the inn would be taken from me. I thought—no one is on the road—'tis night, and the Polander will be all alone in the snow. He is well-built, and strong. [As if he saw the man before him.] I warrant he will hold out stoutly if any one touches him. Ah! he looks at me with his little gray eyes. I must do my work! Yes. I shall risk it! I go out. It is black as ink, except for the falling snow. There would be no footsteps in the road. I search his sledge—he might have had pistols! but there are none. I will do it! Hark! no—not a sound, save a child crying—a goat bleating—and the tramp overhead of the Polander in his chamber. I went in. He comes down, and puts six francs on the table. I give him change. He looks a long look at me, and asks how far to Mootzig? Four short leagues, say I—and wish him a merry journey! He answers: "God bless you!" [Pause.] Ho, ho! the belt! the money-belt! He goes—he has gone! [MATTHIS stooping, goes a few steps as if following a trail.] The axe—where is the axe? Ah! here—behind the door! How cold it is! Still falls the snow, and far above, I see the shooting stars. Haste, Matthis, for the prize—the money-belt! I follow—out of the village—to the open—how cold it is! [Shivers.] Yonder looms up the big bridge—there ripples the rivulet out of sight under the snow. How the dogs bayed, on Daniel's farm! and the blacksmith's forge glowed red on the hill-side like a setting sun. Matthis, slay not the man! You are mad! You will be rich, and your wife and child will want for nothing! The Polander had no business to flaunt his money-belt in your face, when you owe money! The bridge! I am already at the bridge! And no one! how still it is! how cold! though I am warm—Hark! one o'clock by the village church! and the moon is rising! Oh! the Jew has passed, and I am right glad of it! No! what do I hear? the bell! the sleigh-bell. I shall be rich, I shall be rich, rich, rich! [The bell tinkles.] Down! I have you, dog of a Jew! He has his score settled! Not a finger stirs. All is over! Ah! Away rushes the horse with the sledge! but silently—the bell has been shaken off! Hark, hark—a step! No! only the wind and a fall of snow. Quick, quick, the money-belt! 'tis full! it bursts with my eager clutch! ah! the coins have fallen! here, here and there! And now for home! no, no—the body—it must not tell its story! [Rolls up the mantle and puts it on his shoulder.] Hush! the kiln, the lime-kiln. It is heavy! Into the fire. Jew! fire and flames for the Jew! Oh! what eyes! with what eyes does he regard me! Be a man, Matthis, look! look boldly! not even his bones are left! Now, away with the belt—pocket the gold—that's right! No one will ever know. The proofs are gone forever!

DR. F. What more shall he be asked?

JUDGE. No more. Wake him and let him see himself. [MATTHIS sits in the chair as at first.]

DR. F. Awake! I will it.

MAT. Where am I? Ah, yes—what have I done? Wretch! I have confessed it all! I am a lost man!

JUDGE. You stand self-condemned! Inasmuch as Hans Matthis, on the morning of the 25th of December, 1853, between the hours of midnight and one o'clock, committed the crime of murder and highway robbery upon the person of Baruch Koweski, with malice prepense, we condemn him to be hanged by the neck till death shall ensue. And may Heaven have mercy on his soul! Usher, let the executioner appear and take charge of the condemned. [Curtain.



THE LADY OF LYONS

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON

ACT II, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline.

Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman. Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding compact.

Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons.

Enter MELNOTTE as the Prince of Como, leading PAULINE

MEL. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit—not birth.

PAULINE. Why, yes; but still—

MEL. Still what, Pauline?

PAULINE. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past.

MEL. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.

PAULINE. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you, prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race!

MEL. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers—it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!

PAULINE. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness.

MEL. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world; Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies, As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate!

PAULINE. My own dear love!

MEL. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no books That were not tales of love—that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?

PAULINE. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue! Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly, Who would not love thee like Pauline?

MEL. Oh, false one! It is the prince thou lovest, not the man; If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power, I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline, That is not love.

PAULINE. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince! At first, in truth, I might not have been won, Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride; But now—oh! trust me—couldst thou fall from power And sink—

MEL. As low as that poor gardener's son Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?

PAULINE. Even then, Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught By the poor glittering of a garish flame; But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star Lures us no more; and by the fatal light We cling till death!

MEL. Angel! [Aside.] O conscience! conscience! It must not be—her love hath grown a torture Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant, And—ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me. I have business with these gentlemen—I—I Will forthwith join you.

PAULINE. I obey, sweet Prince. [Exit separately.



ACT III, SCENE II

CHARACTERS: Pauline, Claude, and the Widow Melnotte, the mother of Claude.

SCENE: Melnotte's cottage, widow bustling about, a table spread for supper.

WIDOW. So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately. She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice; which her love only could forgive. Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that's almost as good. [Knock at door.] Ah! here they are.

Enter MELNOTTE and PAULINE

WIDOW. Oh, my boy—the pride of my heart!—welcome, welcome. I beg pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so!

PAULINE. Good woman, I really—why, Prince, what is this?—does the old lady know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof of your kind heart; is it not?

MEL. Of my kind heart, ay!

PAULINE. So you know the Prince?

WIDOW. Know him, madam? Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!

PAULINE. Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild about her.

MEL. Madam, I—no, I cannot tell her; what a coward is a man who has lost his honor! Speak to her—speak to her—[to his mother] tell her that—O Heaven, that I were dead!

PAULINE. How confused he looks!—this strange place!—this woman—what can it mean?—I half suspect—who are you, madam?—who are you? can't you speak? are you struck dumb?

WIDOW. Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all.

PAULINE. All! what! My blood freezes in my veins!

WIDOW. Poor lady—dare I tell her, Claude? Know you not, then, madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?

PAULINE. Your son! hold—hold! do not speak to me. [Approaches MELNOTTE.] Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak—one word—one look—one smile. I cannot believe—I who loved thee so—I cannot believe that thou art such a—no, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word! Speak.

MEL. Leave us. [To WIDOW.] Have pity on her, on me; leave us!

WIDOW. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee of whom I was so proud! [Exit.

PAULINE. Her son—her son!

MEL. Now, lady, hear me.

PAULINE. Hear thee! Ay, speak—her son! have fiends a parent? speak, That thou mayst silence curses—speak!

MEL. No, curse me; Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.

PAULINE [laughing wildly]. This is thy palace, where "the perfumed light Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air is heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?" This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom! O fool—O dupe—O wretch! I see it all. The by-word and the jeer of every tongue In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch Of human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me, And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot— It cannot be; this is some horrid dream; I shall wake soon. [Touching him.] Art flesh? art man? or but The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real. What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee, That thou shouldst crush me thus?

MEL. Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride— That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold— The evil spirit of a bitter love, And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee; I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy Tended, unmark'd by thee—a spirit of bloom, And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy. And from that hour I grew—what to the last I shall be—thine adorer! Well, this love, Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell—how maidens, sprung from kings, Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the scepter. My father died; and I, the peasant born, Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate; And, with such jewels as the exploring mind Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart— Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages. For thee I sought to borrow from each grace, And every muse, such attributes as lend Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, And passion taught me poesy—of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty! Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes! Men call'd me vain—some mad—I heeded not; But still toil'd on—hoped on—for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.

PAULINE. Why do I cease to hate him!

MEL. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And set them to thee—such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name—appended by the burning heart That long'd to show its idol what bright things It had created—yea, the enthusiast's name, That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn; That very hour—when passion, turn'd to wrath, Resembled hatred most—when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos—in that hour The tempters, found me a revengeful tool For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm— It turned and stung thee!

PAULINE. Love, sir, hath no sting. What was the slight of a poor powerless girl To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge? Oh, how I loved this man!—a serf—a slave!

MEL. Hold, lady! No, not a slave! Despair is free. I will not tell thee of the throes—the struggles— The anguish—the remorse. No, let it pass! And let me come to such most poor atonement Yet in my power. Pauline!—

PAULINE. No, touch me not! I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant; And I—O Heaven!—a peasant's wife! I'll work— Toil—drudge—do what thou wilt—but touch me not! Let my wrongs make me sacred!

MEL. Do not fear me. Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altar My vengeance ceased—my guilty oath expired! Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. I am thy husband—nay, thou need'st not shudder!— Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights. A marriage thus unholy—unfulfill'd— A bond of fraud—is, by the laws of France, Made void and null. To-night sleep—sleep in peace. To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine, Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home. The law shall do thee justice, and restore Thy right to bless another with thy love. And when them art happy, and hast half forgot Him who so loved—so wrong'd thee, think at least Heaven left some remnant of the angel still In that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother!

Enter WIDOW

Conduct this lady (she is not my wife; She is our guest—our honor'd guest, my mother) To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue Never, beneath my father's honest roof, E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now I think thou wilt believe me. Go, my mother!

WIDOW. She is not thy wife!

MEL. Hush, hush! for mercy's sake! Speak not, but go.

[Exit WIDOW. PAULINE follows, weeping—turns to look back.

All angels bless and guard her!



RIP VAN WINKLE[80]

WASHINGTON IRVING

ACT I, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk, in order to have him sign away his property; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper.

SCENE: The village inn; present, Von Beekman, alone.

Enter RIP, shaking off the children, who cling about him

RIP [to the children]. Say! hullo, dere, yu Yacob Stein! Let that dog Schneider alone, will you? Dere, I tole you dat all de time, if you don'd let him alone he's goin' to bide you! Why, hullo, Derrick! How you was? Ach, my! Did you hear dem liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to laugh my outsides in every time I tink about it. Just now, as we was comin' along togedder, Schneider and me—I don'd know if you know Schneider myself? Well, he's my dog. Well, dem liddle fellers, dey took Schneider, und—ha, ha, ha!—dey—ha, ha, ha!—dey tied a tin kettle mit his tail! Ha, ha, ha! My gracious! Of you had seen dat dog run! My, how scared he was! Vell, he was a-runnin' an' de kettle was a-bangin' an'—ha, ha, ha! you believe it, dat dog, he run right betwixt me an' my legs! Ha, ha, ha! He spill me und all dem leddle fellers down in de mud togedder. Ha, ha, ha!

VON B. Ah, yes, that's all right, Rip, very funny, very funny; but what do you say to a glass of liquor, Rip?

RIP. Well, now, Derrick, what do I generally say to a glass? I generally say it's a good ting, don'd I? Und I generally say a good deal more to what is in it, dan to de glass.

VON B. Certainly, certainly! Say, hallo, there! Nick Vedder, bring out a bottle of your best!

RIP. Dat's right—fill 'em up. You wouldn't believe, Derrick, but dat is de first one I have had to-day. I guess maybe de reason is, I couldn't got it before. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! Well, here is your good health und your family's—may dey all live long and prosper. [They drink.] Ach! you may well smack your lips, und go ah, ah! over dat liquor. You don'd give me such liquor like dat every day, Nick Vedder. Well, come on, fill 'em up again. Git out mit dat water, Nick Vedder, I don'd want no water in my liquor. Good liquor und water, Nick Vedder, is just like man and wife, dey don'd agree well togedder—dat's me und my wife, any way. Well, come on again. Here is your good health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper!

NICK VEDDER. That's right, Rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl."

RIP. Drown my sorrows? Ya, dat's all very well, but she don'd drown. My wife is my sorrow und you can't drown her; she tried it once, but she couldn't do it. What, didn't you hear about dat, de day what Gretchen she like to got drownded? Ach, my; dat's de funniest ting in de world. I'll tell you all about it. It was de same day what we got married. I bet I don'd forget dat day so long what I live. You know dat Hudson River what dey git dem boats over—well, dat's de same place. Well, you know dat boat what Gretchen she was a-goin' to come over in, dat got upsetted—ya, just went righd by der boddom. But she wasn't in de boat. Oh, no; if she had been in de boat, well, den, maybe she might have got drownded. You can't tell anyting at all about a ting like dat!

VON B. Ah, no; but I'm sure, Rip, if Gretchen were to fall into the water now, you would risk your life to save her.

RIP. Would I? Well, I am not so sure about dat myself. When we was first got married? Oh, ya; I know I would have done it den, but I don'd know how it would be now. But it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. Don'd you know, Derrick, when a man gits married a long time—mit his wife, he gits a good deal attached mit her, und it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. But I don'd know, Derrick. I am afraid if Gretchen should fall in de water now und should say, "Rip, Rip! help me oud"—I should say, "Mrs. Van Winkle, I will just go home and tink about it." Oh, no, Derrick; if Gretchen fall in de water now she's got to swim, I told you dat—ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo! dat's her a-comin' now; I guess it's bedder I go oud! [Exit RIP.

ACT II, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Rip Van Winkle; Gretchen, his wife; Meenie, their little daughter.

SCENE: The dimly lighted kitchen of Rip's cottage. Shortly after his conversation with Von Beekman, Rip's wife catches him carousing and dancing upon the village green. She drives him away in no very gentle fashion, and he runs away from her only to carouse the more. Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-bars with her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception, but seeing only his little daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, and who also loves him very tenderly.

RIP. Meenie! Meenie, my darlin'!

MEENIE. Hush-sh-h. [Shaking finger, to indicate the presence of her mother.]

RIP. Eh! what's de matter? I don'd see not'ing, my darlin'.

MEENIE. 'Sh-sh-sh!

RIP. Eh! what? Say, Meenie, is de ole wild cat home? [GRETCHEN catches him quickly by the hair.] Oh, oh! say, is dat you, Gretchen? Say, dere, my darlin', my angel, don'd do dat. Let go my head, won'd you? Well, den, hold on to it so long what you like. [GRETCHEN releases him.] Dere, now, look at dat, see what you done—you gone pull out a whole handful of hair. What you want to do a ting like dat for? You must want a bald-headed husband, don'd you?

GRETCHEN. Who was that you called a wild cat?

RIP. Who was dat I called a wild cat? Well, now, let me see, who was dat I called a wild cat? Dat must 'a' been de same time I come in de winder dere, wasn't it? Yes, I know, it was de same time. Well, now, let me see. [Suddenly.] It was de dog Schneider dat I call it.

GRETCHEN. The dog Schneider? That's a likely story.

RIP. Why, of course it is a likely story—ain't he my dog? Well, den, I call him a wild cat just so much what I like, so dere now. [Gretchen begins to weep.] Oh, well; dere, now, don'd you cry, don'd you cry, Gretchen; you hear what I said? Lisden now. If you don'd cry, I nefer drink anoder drop of liquor in my life.

GRETCHEN [crying]. Oh, Rip! you have said so many, many times, and you never kept your word yet.

RIP. Well, I say it dis time, and I mean it.

GRETCHEN. Oh, Rip! if I could only trust you.

RIP. You mustn't suspect me. Can't you see repentance in my eye?

GRETCHEN. Rip, if you will only keep your word, I shall be the happiest woman in the world.

RIP. You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop so long what I live, if you don'd cry.

GRETCHEN. Oh, Rip, how happy we shall be! And you'll get back all the village, Rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little house so nicely; and you and I, and our little darling Meenie, here—how happy we shall be!

RIP. Dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. Go in de odder room, go along mit you; I come in dere pooty quick. [Exit GRETCHEN and MEENIE.] My! I swore off from drinkin' so many, many times, and I never kept my word yet. [Taking out bottle.] I don'd believe dere is more as one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. It's a pity to waste it! You goin' to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de last one, remember dat, old feller. Well, here is your goot held, und—

Enter GRETCHEN, suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him.

GRETCHEN. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief!

RIP. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor.

GRETCHEN. Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoundrel. [Throwing away the bottle.] That's the last drop you ever drink under this roof.

RIP [slowly, after a moment's silence, as if stunned by her severity]. Eh! what?

GRETCHEN. Out, I say! you drink no more here.

RIP. What? Gretchen, are you goin' to drive me away?

GRETCHEN. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have sold everything that ever belonged to you for liquor. Thank Heaven, this house is mine, and you can't sell it.

RIP [rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the gravity of the situation]. Yours? Yours? Ya, you are right—it is yours; I have got no home. [In broken tones, almost sobbing.] But where will I go?

GRETCHEN. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the mountains. There's the door—never let your face darken it again.

RIP. What, Gretchen! are you goin' to drive me away like a dog on a night like dis?

GRETCHEN. Yes; out with you! You have no longer a share in me or mine. [Breaking down and sobbing with the intensity of her passion.]

RIP [very slowly and quietly, but with great intensity]. Well, den, I will go; you have drive me away like a dog, Gretchen, and I will go. But remember, Gretchen, after what you have told me here to-night, I can never come back. You have open de door for me to go; you will never open it for me to return. But, Gretchen, you tell me dat I have no longer a chare here. [Points at the child, who kneels crying at his feet.] Good-by [with much emotion], my darlin'. God bless you! Don'd you nefer forgit your fader. Gretchen (with a great sob), I wipe de disgrace from your door. Good-by, good-by!

[Exit RIP into the storm.

FOOTNOTE:

[80] Adapted by Mr. A. P. Burbank.



THE RIVALS

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

ACT I, SCENE II

CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop, with her bad grammar and ludicrous diction; Lydia Languish, in love with Beverley; Sir Anthony Absolute, choleric, but kind-hearted.

SCENE: A dressing room in Mrs. Malaprop's lodgings.

Enter MRS. MALAPROP, LYDIA, and SIR ANTHONY

MRS. MALAPROP. There, Sir Anthony, there stands the deliberate simpleton, who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling.

LYDIA. Madam, I thought you once—

MRS. M. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think at all: thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow—to illiterate him, I say, from your memory.

LYD. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.

MRS. M. But I say it is, miss! there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle, as if he had never existed; and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman.

LYD. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus?

MRS. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friend's choosing?

LYD. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that, had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.

MRS. M. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman. But, suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?

LYD. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.

MRS. M. Take yourself to your room! You are fit company for nothing but your own ill humors.

LYD. Willingly, ma'am; I cannot change for the worse.

MRS. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you! [Exit.

SIR A. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. On my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library: from that moment, I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!

MRS. M. Those are vile places, indeed!

SIR A. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge!

MRS. M. Fie, fie, Sir Anthony! you surely speak laconically.

SIR A. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a woman know?

MRS. M. Observe me, Sir Anthony—I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman; for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments; but, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; above all, she would be taught orthodoxy. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.

SIR A. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you; though I must confess, that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question.—But to the more important point in debate—you say you have no objection to my proposal?

MRS. M. None, I assure you. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side.

SIR A. Objection!—let him object, if he dare!—No, no, Mrs. Malaprop; Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple—in his younger days, 'twas "Jack, do this,"—if he demurred, I knocked him down; and, if he grumbled at that, I always sent him out of the room.

MRS. M. Aye, and the properest way, o' my conscience!—Nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations; and I hope you will represent her to the Captain as an object not altogether illegible.

SIR A. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. I must leave you; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl—take my advice, keep a tight hand—if she rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about.

MRS. M. Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her from under my jurisprudence. [Exit.

ACT II, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute, his son.

SCENE: Captain Absolute's lodgings.

Enter SIR ANTHONY and CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE

CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.

SIR ANTHONY. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, hey?

CAPT. A. Yes, sir; I am on duty.

SIR A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long.

CAPT. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may continue so.

SIR A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.

CAPT. A. Sir, you are very good.

SIR A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.

CAPT. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensations even of filial affection.

SIR A. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention; and you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks.

CAPT. A. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. I cannot express the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army.

SIR A. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses.

CAPT. A. My wife, sir!

SIR A. Aye, aye, settle that between you—settle that between you.

CAPT. A. A wife, sir, did you say?

SIR A. Aye, a wife—why, did not I mention her before?

CAPT. A. Not a word of her, sir.

SIR A. Upon my word, I mustn't forget her, though! Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage,—the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference?

CAPT. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me!

SIR A. What's the matter? Just now you were all gratitude and duty.

CAPT. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife.

SIR A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands.

CAPT. A. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady?

SIR A. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly.

CAPT. A. Sure, sir, that's not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of!

SIR A. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of.

CAPT. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that on this point I cannot obey you.

SIR A. Hark you, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience; I have been cool—quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led—when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy.

CAPT. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you.

SIR A. Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live!

CAPT. A. Nay, sir, but hear me.

SIR A. Sir, I won't hear a word—not a word!—not one word! So, give me your promise by a nod; and I'll tell you what, Jack,—I mean, you dog,—if you don't—

CAPT. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to—

SIR A. Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose; she shall have a lump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's mu-se-um; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she shall be all this, sir! yet I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty!

CAPT. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed!

SIR A. None of your sneering, puppy!—no grinning, jackanapes!

CAPT. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life.

SIR A. 'Tis false, sir! I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sir!

CAPT. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.

SIR A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please! It won't do with me, I promise you.

CAPT. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.

SIR A. I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog! But it won't do!

CAPT. A. Nay, sir, upon my word—

SIR A. So, you will fly out? Can't you be cool, like me? What good can passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! Don't provoke me! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! You play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! But, mark! I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. If not, don't enter the same hemisphere with me; don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light, with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest! I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you! I'll never call you Jack again! [Exit.

CAPT. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hand.

ACT III, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute.

SCENE: The North Parade. Captain Absolute has discovered that the lady whom his father so peremptorily commanded him to marry is none other than Lydia Languish with whom he, under the name of Beverley, was plotting an elopement.

Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE

CAPT. A. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed!—Whimsical enough, 'faith! My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away with! He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I'll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but I can assure him, it is very sincere.—So, so, here he comes. He looks plaguy gruff! [Steps aside.

Enter SIR ANTHONY

SIR A. No—I'll die sooner than forgive him! Die, did I say? I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper—an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! This is my return for putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since! But I have done with him—he's anybody's son for me—I never will see him more—never—never—never—never.

CAPT. A. Now for a penitential face! [Comes forward.

SIR A. Fellow, get out of my way!

CAPT. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you.

SIR A. I see an impudent scoundrel before me.

CAPT. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will.

SIR A. What's that?

CAPT. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.

SIR A. Well, sir?

CAPT. A. I have been likewise weighing and balancing, what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.

SIR A. Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you, you shall be Jack again!

CAPT. A. I am happy in the appellation.

SIR A. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture—prepare! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?

CAPT. A. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?

SIR A. Worcestershire! No! Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop, and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment?

CAPT. A. Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember ever to have heard the name before. Yet, stay: I think I do recollect something. Languish, Languish! She squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl?

SIR A. Squints! A red-haired girl! Zounds, no!

CAPT. A. Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person.

SIR A. Jack, Jack! what think you of blooming, love-breathing seventeen?

CAPT. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent: if I can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire.

SIR A. Nay, but, Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting, more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh! Jack! Jack!

CAPT. A. And which is to be mine, sir; the niece, or the aunt?

SIR A. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you! When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Odds life! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.

CAPT. A. Not to please your father, sir?

SIR A. To please my father—zounds! not to please—Oh! my father? Oddso! yes, yes! if my father, indeed, had desired—that's quite another matter. Though he wasn't the indulgent father that I am, Jack.

CAPT. A. I dare say not, sir.

SIR A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful?

CAPT. A. Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back; and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favor of two, I would not wish to affect a singularity in that article.

SIR A. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! you're a walking block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on! Odds life, I've a great mind to marry the girl myself!

CAPT. A. I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady, 'tis the same to me—I'll marry the niece.

SIR A. Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, or—but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie—I'm sure it must. Come, now, off with your demure face; come, confess, Jack, you have been lying, ha'nt you? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you ha'nt been lying and playing the hypocrite.

CAPT. A. I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you, should be so mistaken.

SIR A. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you; come along, I'll never forgive you, if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience; if you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself! [Exeunt.

ACT IV, SCENE II

CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop; Lydia; Captain Absolute known to Lydia as "Beverley"; Sir Anthony; Servant.

Enter MRS. MALAPROP and LYDIA

MRS M. Why, thou perverse one!—tell me what you can object to in him?—Isn't he a handsome man?—tell me that. A genteel man? a pretty figure of a man?

LYD. She little thinks whom she is praising. [Aside.] So is Beverley, ma'am.

MRS. M. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't become a young woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman.

LYD. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [Aside.

MRS. M. Then he's so well bred;—so full of alacrity and adulation!—He has so much to say for himself, in such good language, too. His physiognomy so grammatical; then his presence so noble! I protest, when I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play:—"Hesperian curls—the front of Job himself! an eye, like March, to threaten at command! a station, like Harry Mercury, new"—Something about kissing—on a hill—however, the similitude struck me directly.

LYD. How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her mistake! [Aside.

Enter SERVANT

SERV. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am.

MRS. M. Show them up here. [Exit SERVANT.] Now, Lydia, I insist on your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your good breeding, at least, though you have forgot your duty.

LYD. Madam, I have told you my resolution; I shall not only give him no encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him.

[Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door.

Enter SIR ANTHONY and CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE

SIR A. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate the frowns of unrelenting beauty,—and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. I don't know what's the matter, but if I had not held him by force he'd have given me the slip.