BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
Thefollowing letter (never before published) fromMrs. Mercy WarrentoMrs. Lincolnwill be found interesting. Mrs. Lincoln was the eldest sister of Josiah Quincy, Jr., to whom allusion is made in the letter. Her husband, a brother of General Lincoln, died before the Revolution, and she resided, during the war, with her father, Josiah Quincy, at Braintree, now Quincy, in the mansion, now the summer residence, of President Quincy. One of her letters to her brother, Samuel Quincy, who left Boston with other loyalists, published in "Curwen's Memoirs" (page 562), is full of eloquence. She afterwards married Ebenezer Storer, of Boston, and died, at the age of ninety, in 1826, a few weeks after the decease of her early friend, John Adams. She was for many years a correspondent of Mrs. Adams, and a life-long friendship subsisted between them. They were often together at the family mansion at Quincy, where, in 1824, she welcomed Lafayette to her father's residence. The present Mrs. Quincy's mother, Mrs. Maria S. Morton, was there on that occasion. This lady had resided at Baskenridge, New Jersey, during a seven years exile from New York, where her husband, an eminent merchant, left part of his property, devoting the profits of the sale of the rest to the cause of American independence. He died during the war, leaving Mrs. Morton with six children. Washington and all his officers were frequent guests at her house, and some of the stirring incidents of the campaign in New Jersey occurred in her immediate neighborhood. She was born at Raub, on the banks of the Rhine, and lived to the age of ninety-three, passing the last twelve years with her daughter. She retained her powers to the last, and often beguiled the attention of President Quincy's children with the narrative of the times when, as he used to say, "the women were all heroines." She died at his residence at Cambridge.
Plymouth,June 3, 1775.Dear Mrs. Lincoln: If the tenderest sympathy would be any alleviation to your sorrow, when mourning the death of a beloved brother, the ready hand of friendship should soon wipe the starting tear from your eye. Yet, while I wish to console the disappointed father, the weeping sister, and the still more afflicted wife, I cannot restrain the rising sigh within my swollen bosom, nor forbear to mix my tears with theirs, when I consider that, in your valuable brother, America has lost a warm, unshaken friend.[B]Deprived of his assistance when, to all human appearance, had his life been spared, he might have rendered his country very eminent service.By these dark dispensations of Providence, one is almost led to inquire why the useful, the generous, the spirited patriot is cut off in the morning of his days, while the base betrayer of his country, the incendiary, who blows up the flames of civil discord to gratify his own mad ambition, and sports with the miseries of millions, is suffered to grow gray in iniquity.But who shall say to the Great Arbiter of life and death, to the righteous Sovereign of the Universe, why hast thou done thus?Not surely man, whose ideas are so circumscribed, and whose understanding can grasp so little of the Divine government, that we are lost at the threshold, and stand astonished at the displays of Almighty power and wisdom. But shall we not rely on Infinite goodness, however severe may be our chastisement, while in this militant state, not doubting that, when the ball of Time is wound up, and the final adjustment of the wise economy of the universe takes place, virtue, whether public or private, will be crowned with the plaudits of the best of beings; while the vicious man, immured in his cot, or the public plunderer of nations, who riots on the spoils of the oppressed and tramples on the rights of man, will reap the reward of his guilty deeds?The painful anxiety expressed in your last letter for the complicated distresses of the inhabitants of Boston, is experienced, in a greater or less degree, by every heart which knows anything of the feelings of humanity. But He who is higher than the highest, and "seeth when there is oppression in the city," I trust will deliver us. He has already made a way for the escape of many, and if speedy vengeance does not soon overtake the wretched authors of their calamities, we must consider them as the scourge of God, designed for the correction of a favored people, who have been too unmindful of his goodness; and when they shall be aroused by affliction to a sense of virtue, which stimulated their worthy progenitors to brave the dangers of the sea, and the still greater horrors of traversing a barbarian coast, in quest of Freedom denied them on their native shore, the modern cankerworms will, with the locusts and other devourers which infestedthe nations of old, be swept, with the besom of destruction, from the face of the American World.I hope my friend will not again be obliged to leave her habitation for fear of the ravages of an unnatural foe; yet I think we must expect continual alarms through the summer, and happy will it be for the British Empire, of which America is a part, if this contest terminate then. But, whether it be a season of war or the sunshine of peace, whether in prosperity or affliction, be assured Mrs. Lincoln has ever the best wishes of her real friend,Mercy Warren.
Plymouth,June 3, 1775.
Dear Mrs. Lincoln: If the tenderest sympathy would be any alleviation to your sorrow, when mourning the death of a beloved brother, the ready hand of friendship should soon wipe the starting tear from your eye. Yet, while I wish to console the disappointed father, the weeping sister, and the still more afflicted wife, I cannot restrain the rising sigh within my swollen bosom, nor forbear to mix my tears with theirs, when I consider that, in your valuable brother, America has lost a warm, unshaken friend.[B]Deprived of his assistance when, to all human appearance, had his life been spared, he might have rendered his country very eminent service.
By these dark dispensations of Providence, one is almost led to inquire why the useful, the generous, the spirited patriot is cut off in the morning of his days, while the base betrayer of his country, the incendiary, who blows up the flames of civil discord to gratify his own mad ambition, and sports with the miseries of millions, is suffered to grow gray in iniquity.
But who shall say to the Great Arbiter of life and death, to the righteous Sovereign of the Universe, why hast thou done thus?
Not surely man, whose ideas are so circumscribed, and whose understanding can grasp so little of the Divine government, that we are lost at the threshold, and stand astonished at the displays of Almighty power and wisdom. But shall we not rely on Infinite goodness, however severe may be our chastisement, while in this militant state, not doubting that, when the ball of Time is wound up, and the final adjustment of the wise economy of the universe takes place, virtue, whether public or private, will be crowned with the plaudits of the best of beings; while the vicious man, immured in his cot, or the public plunderer of nations, who riots on the spoils of the oppressed and tramples on the rights of man, will reap the reward of his guilty deeds?
The painful anxiety expressed in your last letter for the complicated distresses of the inhabitants of Boston, is experienced, in a greater or less degree, by every heart which knows anything of the feelings of humanity. But He who is higher than the highest, and "seeth when there is oppression in the city," I trust will deliver us. He has already made a way for the escape of many, and if speedy vengeance does not soon overtake the wretched authors of their calamities, we must consider them as the scourge of God, designed for the correction of a favored people, who have been too unmindful of his goodness; and when they shall be aroused by affliction to a sense of virtue, which stimulated their worthy progenitors to brave the dangers of the sea, and the still greater horrors of traversing a barbarian coast, in quest of Freedom denied them on their native shore, the modern cankerworms will, with the locusts and other devourers which infestedthe nations of old, be swept, with the besom of destruction, from the face of the American World.
I hope my friend will not again be obliged to leave her habitation for fear of the ravages of an unnatural foe; yet I think we must expect continual alarms through the summer, and happy will it be for the British Empire, of which America is a part, if this contest terminate then. But, whether it be a season of war or the sunshine of peace, whether in prosperity or affliction, be assured Mrs. Lincoln has ever the best wishes of her real friend,
Mercy Warren.
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One of the early adventurers in the Valley of Ohio River was Isaac Williams. After he became a resident of the West, he explored its recesses, traveling along the shores of the Mississippi to the turbid waters of the Missouri. In 1775, he married a youthful widow, Rebecca Martin, the daughter of Joseph Tomlinson, of Grave Creek. Her first husband had been a trader with the Indians, and was killed in 1770. She was born in 1754, on the banks of the Potomac, in Maryland, and removed to Grave Creek with her father's family in the first year of her widowhood. Since that time she had lived with her unmarried brothers, keeping house for them, and would remain alone in their dwelling while they were absent on hunting excursions. She was young and sprightly in disposition, and had little knowledge of fear. In the spring of 1774, she paid a visit to her sister, who had married a Mr. Baker, and resided upon the banks of the Ohio, opposite Yellow Creek. It was soon after the celebrated massacre of Logan's relatives at Baker's station. Rebecca made her visit, and prepared to return home as she had come, in a canoe alone, the distance being fifty miles. She left her sister's residence in the afternoon, and paddled her canoe till dark. Then, knowing that the moon would rise at a certain hour, she neared the land, leaped on shore, and fastened her craft to some willows that drooped their boughs over the water. She sought shelter in a clump of bushes, where she lay till the moon cleared the tree tops and sent a broad stream of light over the bosom of the river. Then, unfastening her boat, she stepped a few paces into the water to get into it. But, as she reached the canoe, she trod on something cold and soft, and stooping down discovered, to her horror, that it was a human body. The pale moonlight streamed on the face of a dead Indian, not long killed, it was evident, for the body had not become stiff. The young woman recoiled at first, but uttered no scream, for the instinct of self-preservation taught her that it might be dangerous. She went round the corpse, which must have been there when she landed, stepped into her bark, and reached the mouth of Grave Creek, without further adventure, early the next morning.
In the ensuing summer, one morning while kindling the fire, blowing the coals on her knees, she heard steps in the apartment, and, turning round, saw a very tall Indian standing close to her. He shook his tomahawk at her threateningly, at the same time motioning her to keep silence. He then looked around the cabin in search of plunder. Seeing her brother's rifle hanging on hooks over the fireplace, he seized it and went out. Rebecca showed no fear while he was present; but, immediately on his departure, left the cabin and hid herself in the standing corn till her brother came home.
Her second marriage was performed with a simplicity characteristic of the times. A traveling preacher, who chanced to come into the settlement, performed the ceremony at short notice, the bridegroom presenting himself in his hunting-dress, and the bride in short-gown and petticoat of homespun, the common wear of the country.
This Rebecca Williams afterwards became famous among the borderers of Ohio River for her medical skill, and the cure of dangerous wounds. She was with Elizabeth Zane at the siege of Fort Henry, at Wheeling, and there exercised the healing art for the benefit of the wounded soldiers. In 1777, the depredations and massacres of the Indians became so frequent that the settlement at Grave Creek was broken up. It was in a dangerous locality, being on the frontier, and lower down the river than any other.
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In December, 1777, when the British army was in possession of Philadelphia, and the Americans in winter quarters at Valley Forge, Major Tallmadge was stationed for some time between the two armies, with a detachment of cavalry, for the purpose of observation, and to circumscribe the range of the British foraging parties. The horses of his squad were seldom unsaddled, nor did they often remain all night in the same position, for fear of a visit from the enemy.
At one time the major was informed that a country girl had gone into Philadelphia with eggs, to obtain information. It is supposed she had been employed for that purpose by Washington himself. Desirous of seeing her, Tallmadge advanced towards the British lines, and dismounted at a small tavern called "The Rising Sun," within view of their outposts. In a short time, the young woman came from the city and entered the tavern. She communicated the intelligence she had gained to the major; but their conversation was interrupted by the alarm that the British light horse were approaching. Stepping to the door, Tallmadge saw them riding at full speed chasing in his patroles. No time was to be lost, and he threw himself on his horse. The girl besought him to protect her: he told her to mount behind him, which she did, and they rode three miles at full speed to Germantown. There was much firing of pistols during the ride, and now and then wheeling and charging; but the heroic damsel remained unmoved, nor uttered oneexpression of fear after she was on horseback. Tallmadge mentions her conduct with admiration in his journal.
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On the approach of winter, when the British army retired from the active service of the field, they were usually distributed, while in possession of Long Island, in the dwellings of the inhabitants within the lines. An officer, at first, visited each house, and, in proportion to its size, chalked on the door the number of soldiers it must receive. The first notice the good hostess commonly had of this intrusion was the speech, "Madam, I am come to take a billet on your house." The best mansion was always reserved for the quarters of the officers. In this way were women forced into the society of British officers, and, in order to conciliate their good will and protection, would often invite them to tea, and show them other civilities.
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The "New London Gazette," dated November 20, 1776, states that several of the most respectable ladies in East Haddam, about thirty in number, had met at the house of J. Chapman, and, in four or five hours, husked about two hundred and forty bushels of corn. "A noble example," says the journal, "and necessary in this bleeding country, while their fathers and brothers are fighting the battles of the nation."
Lossing records a similar agreement on the part of the Boston women.
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The "New York Spectator," April 13th, 1803, forty-seven years old, announces the arrival in New York of Mrs. Deborah Gannett, the "Deborah Samson" whose memoir appeared in a former number of the "Lady's Book." It says: "This extraordinary woman served three years in the army of the United States, and was at the storming of Yorktown under General Hamilton, serving bravely, and as a good soldier. Her sex was unknown and unsuspected, until, falling sick, she was sent to the hospital, and a disclosure became necessary. We understand this lady intends publishing her memoirs, and one or more orations which she has delivered in public upon patriotic subjects. She, last year, delivered an oration in the Theatre at Boston, which excited great curiosity and did her much credit."
This curious confirmation of the account given of her in the memoir alluded to should be a sufficient answer to the ill-natured criticism of the "London Athenæum," which, reviewing "The Women of the American Revolution," endeavors to throw discredit on the whole story, by ridiculing it as utterly improbable and romantic, though the critic does not bring proof to controvert a single statement, nor assign any ground for his doubt but "we surmise."
BY ROBERT JOHNSON.
I knowa cot, beneath whose eaveThere is a hawthorn tree,Where playmates young were wont to weaveSpring's earliest flowers for me:That old familiar cot and tree,The oaken bench and shade,Are ever present now with meAs when we met and played.Beneath that ancient tree and cotWe lisped our earliest prayer,And ours was then the happiest lot,Blest by a mother's care;Those gentle looks and tones still live—Though time that group has riven—As when we said "Father forgive,"As we would be forgiven.Home is a spot where memory clings,As by a spell, through life;For there's a voice whose tone still bringsJoy mid the world's dark strife:We launch youth's bark and trim the sail,Life's ocean o'er to roam,But that same voice, throughout the gale,Is whispering still of home.Ask him, with sickness sore oppressed,Who cheered his hope when dim,He'll tell youshe, in whose loved breastGlowed sympathy for him:The soothing voice, the gentle tread,And ever silent prayer,The pillow smoothed to ease the head—All tell a mother's care.Ask him who, on the ocean dark,In unknown seas did roam,When first he spied the nearing bark,If he thought not of home?He'll tell of thoughts that thrilled his heartWhile bounding o'er the wave;The joys that none but home impartLent courage to the brave.He thought of her, his early choice,The parting hour, the sigh,The hand that pressed, the trembling voice,Sad face, and tearful eye;And while he walks the deck at night,He ever sees that starWhose beam reflects where joys more brightStill win him from afar.
Country Characters
BY JARED AUSTIN.
Oneof my earliest village reminiscences is a vision of old Captain Garrow, in his old-fashioned, square-skirted coat, plush shorts, silk stockings, shoe buckles, and, to crown the whole, his venerable tie-wig. He was a character, the captain. He was a relic of a past age, an antique in perfect preservation, a study for a novelist or historian. Born in Massachusetts before the rebel times, he had taken an active part in the Revolution; served as commissary, for which his education as a trader had qualified him; and the rank of captain which was attached to the office had given him the title he bore in his old age. When the war was over, his savings (very moderate, indeed, they were, for the captain was as honest as daylight) were invested in a stock of what used to be called English goods, but what are now, through the increase of manufactures in our own country, denominated dry goods; I think it rather fortunate for our village that the worthy captain pitched upon it for his residence, and for the sale of his well-selected English goods. His strict old-fashioned notions of commercial honor and punctuality gave a tone to the whole trade of the place, which lasted for a long time. His modest shop was a pattern of neatness and economy. His punctual attendance at all hours, his old bachelor gallantry to the lady customers, and his perfect urbanity to all, furnished an example to younger traders; while his stiff adherence to the "one price" system, while it saved the labor and vexation of chaffering, gave a stability to his establishment which made it respectable in the view of all sensible people.
Worthy Captain Garrow! well do I remember you at the meridian of your glory, the head "merchant" of our village, the acknowledgedarbiter elegantiarumin all matters of chintz and linen, and lace and ribbons, and all theet ceterasof ladies' goods. Your opinion was law; for you were known to be the soul of honor, and your word in all engagements was reckoned as good as another man's bond.
But, in an evil hour, an invasion of Goths and Vandals came down upon us in the shape of cheap English goods' merchants. They inundated the place with gaudy, worthless trash at half price, gave unlimited credit, sold at almost any price you would offer, and seemed only anxious to have all the villagers' names in their books, and to double the consumption of English goods. The consequence was that the thoughtless part of the population desertedthe worthy captain's shop, which henceforward received the custom only of the old steady-going people. His ancient-looking wooden tenement, with its weather-beaten sign, was put out of all countenance by the new brick stores, and flaring gilt signs, and plate glass windows of his rivals. The captain, however, foreseeing the result, bore it all with a dignity and quiet worthy of his character. He "guessed" that the importers in Boston and New York were destined to suffer at a future day; and so it turned out; for, after charging many thousand dollars in their books to people who were not very punctual about payment, his rivals, one by one, all failed; their stocks were sold out by the sheriff, and their book debts were handed over to the lawyers by assignees.
After the lapse of a few months, a new swarm of cheap merchants succeeded them, with precisely the same result. Meantime, the captain kept the noiseless tenor of his way, and maintained the original character of his own modest establishment. He had grown rich, but exhibited none of the airs of a presumptuous millionaire. He was too dignified to be insolent.
Well do I remember, on a certain day, when the captain, now quite an old man, was near the close of his career, calling at his shop with my cousin Caroline, commissioned by her mother to purchase with ready money a piece of Irish linen. When she had examined the captain's stock, and was about to make a purchase, she happened casually to remark that Irish linen was sold sometimes at a lower price.
"O yes, my dear," answered the captain—he always called a lady, old or young, "my dear"—"O yes; you can buy Irish linen over the way, where the big sign is, for less money. They will sell it to you, I dare say, at half price, and cheat you at that. But their goods are not like mine. They will generally take less than they ask you at first; but I never have but one price. I was bred a merchant before chaffering came into fashion. You can go and trade with them if you like, however."
Poor Caroline, who had not been aware of the captain's weak point, hastened to apologize, concluded her purchase, and was careful in future to respect the captain's sensitiveness on the subject of cheap goods.
Ere I left my native village to become a wanderer over the wide world, the captain had been gathered to his fathers. Having no relatives, he directed the executors of his will to apply his handsome fortune to the establishment of an asylum for orphans, which still remains a monument of his sterling goodness and public spirit.
BY ADALIZA CUTTER.
Dearest, my sad and lonely breastIs full to-night of thoughts of thee,And as the tired dove seeks its nest,With its dear little ones to be,E'en thus my weary spirit turnsTo thee, for whom it fondly yearns,And flies unfettered o'er the sea:Upon thy breast it folds its wing,And there its sweetest song doth sing.I am thinking of those twilight hoursWhen, hand in hand, we used to rove;When little birds in sylvan bowersAwoke the echoes of the grove;When flowers closed up their dewy eyes,And o'er us arched those cloudless skies,Smiling upon our mutual love:And oh, my heart doth sadly yearnFor hours that may no more return!More and more sadly, day by day,I miss thy gentle loving tone,And long to soar far, far away,To meet once more my loved, my own.I sit to-night with tearful eyeFixed on that star in yonder sky;But oh, it shines on me alone!For she who watched its pale soft beamWith me, has gone like some bright dream.I sometimes take my lute to singThe simple songs we loved so well;But when I touch each quivering string,Sad, mournful sounds arise and swell;For she whose presence could inspireMy heart with such poetic fireHas kissed her last, her sad farewellUpon my cheek, and left me hereTo shed alone the silent tear.I take my books; but bard and sageHave half their beauty lost for me,And tears fall fast upon the pageThat I so oft have read with thee.And then I throw those books aside,While faster still the tear drops glide,That by my side thou canst not be.Poor heart, be still, nor sigh in vainFor joys that may not come again!Where, where art thou? Oh, well I knowWhat joy my presence would impart!What rapture in thine eye would glowTo clasp me to thy loving heart!For in that noble heart of thineBeats the same love that throbs in mine;Nor time shall bid that love depart.Meet me in Heaven! my heart's warm prayer,Ilove thee here—I'lllove thee there!
BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.(Concluded from page 245.)
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Scene I.—Rose Hill. The garden beforeProf. Olney'shouse.Young Henry BoltonandIsabelle;she is weeping.Timemorning.
Scene I.—Rose Hill. The garden beforeProf. Olney'shouse.Young Henry BoltonandIsabelle;she is weeping.Timemorning.
Henry Bolton(aside).
I cannot leave her in this agony,(looks at his watch,)And yet the hour is nearly out. O Time!Turn back thy sands! take months from out my lifeFor moments spared me now. I cannot leave her.(To her.) Dear Isabelle, be comforted; I'll goAnd tell my father this sad tale you've told me.Fear not; he has a soul of nobleness—He will consent; and, when you are my wife,You'll have a host of friends.
Isabelle.
No! no! dear Henry;This must not, cannot be. I've given my wordTo him who hitherto I deemed my father,And who has been a father in his care—He's dying now—that I will take his charge,Will teach his pupils, and insure a homeTo his poor wife and Alice, whom I loveAs an own sister. They gave me a home,Else I had been cast off e'en as the weedIs cast to perish. No! I must be firm;My duty is made plain; I must stay here.
Henry Bolton.
Oh! say not so, dear Isabelle! be mine.Would you waste youth, and health, and lovelinessIn this unthankful and laborious life?No! no! It must not be; I will provideFor these.
Isabelle.
Oh, Henry, torture me not thusForcing my heart to strive against my soul.Your generous love but humbles me the more.Do not mistake me: 'tis not pride, but duty,That tells me we must part—and part for ever.
Henry Bolton.
And you say this to me! You never loved me—While I have given to you my heart, soul, mind—Made you the idol of my earthly hopes,My dream of angel-blessedness above!You never loved me!
Isabelle(weeping).
Ah! it may be bestThat you should thus believe—should doubt my love.Tis but another grief for me to bear;And I had rather suffer than inflictA pang on you. But, Henry, if I wereAn heiress, with a fortune and a name,And friends to love and flatter me—I'd speakOf my heart's love for you: I cannot now—A nameless, homeless, and forsaken child.Oh! let me be forgiven if I keepThe station heaven appointed me—alone!Some must be sufferers in this world of care—Victims for others, wearing out their lives,Like the poor Greenlanders, in night and winter.But God will strengthen all to bear their lot,If patiently they take the burden up.(Weeping bitterly.)
Henry Bolton.
This must not, shall not be, dear Isabelle;Hear reason, if you will not love. Last nightA vile attempt was made to burn this house,And carry you away. Dare you live here,When there'll be none to guard you? Isabelle,You must be mine at once—give me the rightTo keep you, like a jewel, in my bosom,Where not an eye but loves you shall behold you.Oh! say you will be mine.
Isabelle.
It would be vain:Your father never would consent. A yearYou've promised him to wait—and, ere that timeIs passed, you may forget the nameless girl.
Henry Bolton.
I will not wait a day. My word was passedWhen I believed this home of yours was safeNow—not a day. I go to ask my father.If he refuses me, I leave his house.I am of age to answer for myself.
Isabelle(calmly).
Oh! not for me and mine must this be done:You must not leave your home and friends for me.Your future would be marred for ever, HenryNo! leave me to the care of Providence.
Henry Bolton.
Dear Isabelle, with you I have the world.I'll hire two cottages together, love—And we'll have one—your friends shall have the other.The garden-plots shall join, and you and AliceMay have the flowers in partnership, as here.The flower of love will bloom spontaneouslyBeneath your smiles—and fortune's smiles I winIn winning yours. Come with me to your father,The good and honest Olney. He will consent.[Exeunt into the house. Scene, closes.
SCENE II.—The drawing-room atJudge Bolton's.EnterJudge Bolton.
Judge.
The day of destiny for me has come!Strange how the aspect of the outer worldChanges beneath the changes of the soul!This morning is a glorious one to sense!But Hope, the sun that lights the inner man,And warms the mind to noble energy,Giving the will its giant power to sweepThe clouds of doubt and dark distrust away,Even as the risen sun the morning mists—Hope comes not to my soul!(EnterRev. Paul Godfrey.)Ah! Godfrey, welcome!You look as you had brought her in your heart,This truant Hope, to render her to me.I never felt the worth of friends till now.My life has been one long unclouded day.I had almost forgotten my dependenceOn Him who sends the sunshine as the storm.
Godfrey.
A dangerous state. The Bible tells us, truly,That "They who have no changes fear not God."And fear is the beginning of our love,And love brings trust, and trust true confidence—Not in our own deserts, or powers, or wealth,But confidence, if we pursue the goodWith firm resolve, that all will work for good.This, the true wisdom, man but seldom learns,Except 'tis taught him by adversity.Thank God that this, your trial, has not comeAs punishment of your misdeeds—but sent,As 'twere, like Job's of old, to try your faithIn truth and justice and God's righteousness!Keep your integrity—all will be well.EnterDr. Margravehastily.
Dr. Margrave
Joy! joy!—the clue is found!
Judge.
What? Where's the child?
Dr. Margrave
The child! Inquire for the young lady now—For such, I trust, you'll find your Isabelle.I've seen the nurse who carried her away:'Twas she who sent for me—that dying woman.Let doctors take encouragement from this,That in their duties they will gain rewards.
Judge.
But Isabelle, my ward—where is she now?
Dr. Margrave
I'd leave my bed again to-night to seek her,Only it would be groping in the dark.Pray, do not look so sad—we'll find her yet;I have the clue, here is the deposition—I took it from the dying woman's lips.She died an hour ago. She hither cameTo find you out and own her crime.
Judge.
The child—Where did she leave her?
Dr. Margrave
Have a moment's patience.The woman said she did not dare to carryThe child among her kindred at the West;They would have found the imposition out,As Isabelle resembled not her daughter.And so the woman traveled to Virginia,And there, with a kind family, she leftThe orphan to her fate.
Judge.
With whom?
Dr. Margrave
The nameShe has forgotten—but she left a token,Half of this severed chain (takes out half a necklace), with "Isabelle"Engraven, as this has "De Vere" upon it.
Judge.(snatching the chain).
Ah! this was Isabelle's—her mother's, too!This is a clue indeed. I'll go at onceTo seek her out and find the other half.
Godfrey(taking it out).
'Tis here. And thus may Truth be ever foundBy all who seek her earnestly, and waitHer advent in the time and way appointed!The way is righteousness—the time is God's.
Judge.
I am confounded by these miracles.Explain—where did you find this precious token?
Godfrey
'Twas given me by Professor Olney—heIt was who took the little IsabelleAnd reared her as his own.
Judge.
What Isabelle?That daughter of the pedagogue my sonIs seeking for his wife?
Godfrey
The very same.And Romeo did not love his Juliet moreThan your son loves this charming Isabelle;And she, like Juliet, loves him in return.
Judge.
Thank Heaven for this!
(EnterHenry Bolton.)
Ah! here he comes! Now, Henry,What says your lady-love? Is she inclinedTo trust your constancy for one long year?
Henry Bolton.
I cannot wait the term; and I have comeTo ask your pardon, and retract my word.Isabelle has no home; Professor OlneyIs not her father.
Judge.
Ay, I've heard the story.And you resign her now?
Henry Bolton.
Not while I live!I mean to marry her at once—to-day;Before this only father she has knownIs dead:—he will die soon.
Judge.
Wed her! this unknown!Ah! Henry, this to me! Why, you are mad!
Henry Bolton.
My father, I have told you my resolve;You've heard me own my love for Isabelle;To have your approbation of my choiceWould fill my cup of earthly happiness;But I shall marry her e'en though the actBring banishment from you.
Judge.
You promised, Henry,To wait a year.
Henry Bolton.
And so I would have done.To gain your favor, I would suffer thisDelay and cross of love. But now I feelThat duty, honor, manly sentimentCompel me to the side of Isabelle.She is alone; I must and will protect her.
Judge.
She has no name.
Henry Bolton.
She shall have mine: a nameMy father has made honorable.
Judge.
Henry,You have no fortune. How support your wife?
Henry Bolton.
I'll work. I have been flattered for my talents,But never yet have had an aim or motiveTo test their worth and energy. I'll work.The rich man's son may live in idleness,The great man's son reflects his father's light,And thus their genius and their noblest powersAre often unemployed, obscured, and lost.'Tis better I should have to make my way;And with my guiding angel, Isabelle,And the example of my noble father,I surely shall succeed.
Godfrey.
Give me your hand.You are God's noblest work, an honest man;True to the witness your own spirit bears;And so does every man's, would they but hearAnd follow as you do—that worth is won,And not inherited. 'Tis circumstanceThat makes the difference in our mortal lot;And Providence arranges this at will.How kind the lot that gives you Isabelle!
Judge.
My son! my son! may you be worthy of her,And love her alway. Know she is the oneThat, in your boyhood, was your "little wife!"The Isabelle De Vere we mourned as dead.You stand amazed; but all shall be explained.
Henry Bolton.
Oh, let me go and tell her!
Godfrey.
I'll go with you:And, as we go, will make the mystery plain.
Judge.
And bring her here. Order the carriage, Henry,And bring her home with you. Tell her I longTo fold her to my heart and call her daughter.[ExitYoung BoltonandGodfrey.
Dr. Margrave.
How strangely and how wisely ProvidenceDirects the course of life! How oft we seeThat bitter medicine was kindly given.Had Isabelle remained your ward, brought upWith Henry here, they might, indeed, have married;But never would have felt such certaintyOf true, unbribed affection as will beThe blessing and the memory of their life.
DennisandMichaelare heard singing as they enter.
DennisandMichael(song)
The rogue and the ruffian love darkness and night,But we will go forth when the morning is bright,And the joy of the world shall the happiness beOf Dennis O'Blarney and Michael Magee.
Dennis(seeing theJudge).
Bless your honor's house—the rogues are taken.
Michael.
They've taken Captain Pawlett and another.
Dennis.
The other murdering villain entered here.
Michael.
The officers are coming now to search.
(As theOfficersenter, the report of a pistol is heard.Lucy Boltonand the maidRuthrush in.)
Judge(catchingLucyin his arms).
What is it, Lucy? What has happened, bird?
Lucy.
Oh, father, he is killed!