Chapter V: Part 5

If thou hast gained a place within my bosom. Be witness ministering spirits of mercy, how dear a place you hold in my affections! Name thy request, and thou shalt see it granted, even with the blood that mantles at my heart.

RUTH.

Then stay at home I pray thee. Spare thy grief worn frame from future toil. Art not thou all my stock of happiness? my only comfort in this distant land? Then guard the treasure with a jealous eye, lest I in losing thee should lose my all. What shame! what just derision would Judah’s daughters cast on Ruth, who sent her mother to the field to glean and staid ignobly idle here at home.

NAOMI.

Then go my child, and Heaven prosper thee.

RUTH _and a Company of Village Maids_.

FIRST VILLAGER.

But say; what first informed thy reason? oped thy eyes, to own the same laws which guide our nation?

RUTH.

My mind was roused at hearing the miracles wrought for your ancestors. Oft while the wondrous theme flowed from Naomi’s tongue, I thought an angel spoke. When righteous Abraham offered up his son; when Godlike Joseph saved his cruel brethren; when Moses, snatched from the devouring flood, rescued the chosen race from haughty Pharaoh:—my heart approved, and wished to share their virtues; But when my astonished mind reviewed the miracles; the glory, power, and wisdom of Jehovah:—I saw our Gods were impotent to save—the works of men and spirits of darkness—I scorned their worship, and from that moment prized Naomi far above the reverend forms to whom I owe my being.

_Enter_ REBECCA. _All the maids rise._

REBECCA.

The sun has hardly past his midday path, retire not therefore damsels. I have come to enjoy with you the innocent mirth, which healthful labor only knows. Let not my presence check your decent joy, but let the song the tale, again go round.

FIRST VILLAGER.

We were listening to a tale of virtuous woe; the history of this worthy Moabite.

REBECCA.

I have heard her story, and admire her virtue. (_to Ruth_) May God a recompense on thee bestow, for all thou hast left, and make this country dearer than thine own.

RUTH.

Accept my thanks. Tho’ words are poor to express my gratitude, for all this kindness shown a stranger.

REBECCA.

Thy merits claim it all. But say. Does no heart rending sigh affect thy bosom, for those dear friends thou hast left and left forever?

RUTH.

My heart oft wanders to my friends and parents, and could my wishes bring them to thy country, or bend their faith to thy most holy laws, my happiness would be too great for mortals. But now I cannot wish myself in Moab, lest softening luxury and their persuasion, should wean my heart from all those sacred duties I owe my God, and my best friend, Naomi.

REBECCA.

(_Aside._) Angelic woman! she far exceeds my son’s description of her. (_to the maids_) Take lessons from her, O ye maids of Judah! who so oft forget your duty to the Lord! his daily gifts remind you of his goodness.—I thought I heard a soft, melodious voice, warbling sweet music as I passed this way. It would much delight me would you sing again.

SECOND REAPER.

It was Ruth who sang to please your noble son, when tired with labor, he reposed awhile, and entertained himself with our discourse.

REBECCA.

I thought to have found him here when I came in. Say will you sing again to please a friend, warm in affection, though of sudden growth?

RUTH.

Alas! my voice so long attun’d to woe, but ill accords with harmony. But my poor talents are ever at command, when worth invites, or friendship sues.

RUTH _sings_.

Tho’ tender and young, my fortune is gone,
My husband I’ve lost to increase my sad moan.
A gleaner alas! to the fields I must go.
To ask of the swains some relief from our woe.
My story would soften the heart of a churl,
O pity a hapless girl.

2nd.

The blessings of plenty press your basket and store
Then distribute those gifts to the stranger and poor;
Your friends too smile round you, but I to my cost,
Now reckon them o’er by the tears for their loss.
My story &c.

3rd.

Tho’ a wanderer from my country I roam,
From the blessings of plenty, and the pleasures of home,
Yet Naomi’s fond love would repay all my care,
Could I chase from her mind the mists of despair.
Her story &c.

4th.

Then steel not your bosoms against my sad tale
But think on my years; they will surely prevail—
My tears kindly dry, and O may you ne’er know,
The horrors of want, or the heart ache of woe.
Our sorrows &c.

REBECCA.

A thousand thanks my charming friend. I will no longer keep thee from thy labor.

(_Scene draws_)

PL. XVIII.—MARIA TALLMADGE

Daughter of Colonel Tallmadge, and wife of John P. Cushman, of Troy,
Pupil, 1802
]

NAOMI _alone_.

The sun has almost reached his western gate. My child will soon return. How slow the hours move by when she is gone. I feel my heart begins again to know, a mother’s fondness, and a mother’s fears. Ah! let me check this growing love, lest it should ope new springs to wound my peace.—But cease my vain repining. What! Shall we from Heaven’s grace receive the cup of bliss, and yet our share of ill refuse? and are afflictions aught but mercies in disguise? the alternate cup; medicinal, tho’ bitter? and by love’s own hand, for salutary ends administered?

But were these ills indeed;—can fond complaint arrest the wings of time? Can grief command that setting sun, to roll his flaming orb back to yon eastern coast, and bring again the hours of yesterday? or from the dark, cold grave, the buried corse restore to light and life?

Blessed spirits farewell! Yet, yet a few short days of erring grief; of human fondness sighing in the breast, and sorrow is no more.—The evening hour comes on. How mild! how grand! On yonder hill I can enjoy its beauties, and meditate more fully Heaven’s beneficence. (_exit._)

_Enter_ RUTH _with a basket_.

RUTH.

Naomi is not here! Where shall I find her? (_sits down her basket and enter two women_)

FIRST WOMAN.

Boaz commanded that we bring you this.

SECOND WOMAN.

And begs you would always glean within his fields, and ample harvests shall repay your toils.

RUTH.

Reward him, God of strangers, for his goodness!—Tell him Ruth thanks him for this kindness shown her, and prays Naomi’s God may bless him too.

(_the two women go out_)

Why is my heart so pleased with this days labor? His flattery oped an avenue to love. Oh! Mahlon! Am I growing cold to thee? To the dear day that weeps thy sacred dust, I vowed a lasting fond remembrance (_sings_) I have a silent sorrow here &c. O Boaz! Boaz! why so like my Mahlon? If ’tis a crime to love thee! O! thou sole arbiter of fate! Thou God supreme, all just, all wise, who bidst what still is best in cloud or sunshine; whose severest hand woundst but to heal, and chastens to amend! Correct my heart, if any wrong desires, unjust sensations cause this tumult here!

(_enter_ NAOMI)

NAOMI.

Welcome my daughter! Thou hast soon returned, and amply loaded. Heaven has sped thy efforts, and moved some generous heart to assist thy labors. Say: to whose liberal hand my thanks are due?

RUTH.

Boaz he is called, whose goodness crowned my labors, whose humane heart pitied a stranger’s fortune.

NAOMI.

O God of Abraham! shower thy blessings on him, and double all this kindness on his head. I know him well. He is near of kin to us, once with my sons was linked in sacred friendship.

RUTH.

I thought I viewed my Mahlon’s likeness in him. The same his manly port and dignity, tempered with smiles of sweet benevolence. He bid me seek no other field but his, and promised liberal harvests to my toils. I thanked him for this kindness shewn a stranger, he praised me for the love I bear thee, and said ’twas for thy sake he noted me.

NAOMI.

Follow his counsels as thou wouldst a brother’s. Remain fast by his maidens, nor let them meet thee in another’s field. So shall his friendship make our lives as happy as any earthly fortune now can make them.

(_enter Rebecca_)

REBECCA.

All hail, Naomi! Welcome to thy country, and still more welcome; for bringing this sweet damsel. My son, struck by her charms, and still more by her virtues, solicits your consent and hers, to make him happy. (_to Ruth_) Say, will thy heart, where sweet compassion reigns, where noble friendship sheds its purest light; consent once more to wed a son of Judah, and add new honors to our chosen race?

NAOMI.

Ah say, my daughter! Wilt thou make him happy? this generous man, this most deserving kinsman. I prayed that Heaven would shower its favors on him, and could it bless him more than by giving thee?

RUTH.

I once believed no second vows would win me or charm my heart, from the lost lord [- -illegible- -] my fond affections; but my lord [- -illegible- -] seemed returned once more, when [- -illegible - -] my eyes gazed on the noble Boaz. his liberal hand bespoke a generous heart, and I with pride and pleasure shall accept, a second husband from God’s chosen people.

REBECCA.

Thy sweet compliance wins my best affections, and I will haste to make my son most happy.

(_music_)

SONG SUNG AT MY EXHIBITION IN PLACE OF THE FIRST HERE.

I

Sons of Judah hear a stranger!
Deign my sorrows to remove;
Music! aid a hapless gleaner;
Tune their hearts to deeds of love.
Peace and plenty on thee shower;
Want attends my day of woe.
I have tasted pleasure’s power,
More the depths of grief to know.

II

Then in pity soothe the gleaner!
Let not age implore in vain.
I’ve a mother, had you seen her
[-illegible-] you’d give the golden grain.
[-illegible-] the smiles of fortune cheer’d us;
[-illegible-] and friendship bless’d our board.—
[illegible] long since those tongues that jeer’d us,
[illegible] have trembled at a word.

III

Oh! how fallen is the gleaner!
Pity then a stranger’s fate.
Though I’m poor, I might be meaner,—
Vice doth near my steps await.
Stranger hast thou tasted sorrow?
No. Thy heart forever gay,
Lookst with hope upon tomorrow,—
Yields itself to joy this day.

IV

Wealth is thine and friends and power—
All which earth or Heaven can give
Whilst round us misfortunes lour—
Gleaning all our means to live
Poverty will wound the keener,
More the use of wealth we know:
Pity then the hapless gleaner
Pity, and thy gifts bestow.

THE TWO COUSINS.

MRS. LEYSTER.
CONSTANTINIA. } her two daughters.
HELEN. }
ALICIA, their cousin.
MRS. SYDNEY.
HARRIOT.

* * * * *

CONSTANTIA.
ALICIA.
MRS. LEYSTER.
MRS. SYDNEY.
HARRIOT.
M. PECK.
C. ROCKWELL.
MRS. MCNEIL.
M. HOFFMAN.
M. BEECHER.

_Scene I._

(MRS. LEYSTER _and_ CONSTANCE.)

MRS. LEYSTER.

My dear Constance, young as you are, I hope and believe I may depend on your prudence. I am a happy mother, in being able thus early to place a confidence in my child!

PL. XIX.—“THE SACRIFICE OF ISAAC”

Partly embroidered in chenille, and partly painted in water-colors,
by Zerviah Miner, Pupil, 1823
]

CONSTANTIA, (_kissing her hand with tears in her eyes_.)

Oh, Mama, never, never will I abuse it; my heart promises, and you may depend upon that heart, which owes not only the power of keeping a secret but everything it owns of goodness to you!

MRS. LEYSTER, (_affected_.)

My dear child!

CONSTANTIA.

But Mama, I hope I am not inquisitive, but you seemed to say you would tell me—

MRS. LEYSTER.

What disturbed me; I will, my dear, indeed I will read to you your Aunt’s letter.

(MRS. LEYSTER, _reading a letter_.)

My system of education I find at last to be erroneous. Alicia has deceived my expectations; she has been imprudent and disingenuous; I should be very miserable if I thought her faults proceeded from the heart, as it is I am truly unhappy. I gave her a yearly allowance for clothes and pocket money, upon a solemn promise that she would never purchase anything without immediate payment. For the first quarter, she bought many expensive trifles and was in want of many necessary articles. I remarked on this folly, and hoped she had corrected it. I was myself guilty for not inspecting her accounts. For some time past, I have observed her to be greatly dejected, and discovered that she had run greatly in debt; this has been partly owing to her intimacy with some extravagant girls, who ridiculed her scruples. I wished to break this connection, and wish you, my dear sister, to take charge of her for six months. I know your affectionate heart will not refuse me this favour.

CONSTANTIA.

My dear mama, I hope you intend to receive my cousin; poor Alicia, how I pity her. Don’t you think Mama, she will be happy here in the summer?

MRS. LEYSTER.

No my dear, although she is but thirteen, she has been introduced, by a mistaken indulgence, into company; she has acquired a relish for dissipation; and lost the desire, which young people naturally have, for the charms and liberty of the country. But your cousin will be here tomorrow; we must endeavor to make the country pleasant to her.

_Scene II._

(ALICIA _and her maid_ BETTY.)

BETTY.

Pray, Miss, I understand you are going into the country to your Aunt Leyster’s; how long may you be going to stay?

ALICIA.

Longer than I like, I assure you, Betty. My mama is determined I shall stay six months.

BETTY.

Six months, why you will be moped to death. I wonder my mistress thinks of taking you to such a place.

ALICIA.

I shall have a melancholy time indeed, for their is no saying any thing to Mamma. I never saw her so obstinate in my life.

BETTY.

To be sure, madam Leyster is a good sort of a woman. But la, Miss you will be tired to death. Why, they say, she does nothing from morning till night, but read the bible and say her prayers.

ALICIA.

And do you think that is true, Betty?

BETTY.

To be sure I do. Why, they say, Miss, that Madam Leyster has never been in London, since the death of the Colonel, but once, and that was at your christening. So you may be sure that she is an oddity.

ALICIA.

Then she has no card parties.

BETTY.

Card parties, la, bless you Miss, I dare say their’s not a house within six or seven miles of her.

ALICIA.

Well, I shall have a charming time of it, but their’s no persuading Mama. I don’t know what’s come to her; so you may pack up my things, let’s see. I shall take my pink lutestring, and my blue satin slip; then there is my spotted book muslin, and my fine jaconet with sprigs; as for the striped muslin, you will not forget that.

BETTY.

La, Miss, what will you do with so many clothes?

ALICIA.

I desire you to put up all that I mention, and don’t forget my hat with the white feathers. The only entertainment I shall have will be the pleasure of dressing and undressing myself.

BETTY.

Very true, Miss—

ALICIA.

I felt quite bad enough when I was at school, and I am sure I shall feel ten times worse, now I am agoing to my aunt’s. Oh, Betty, don’t forget to run to the library and ask for those twenty volumes of new novels that I have bespoke, and tell the librarian to put in a dozen plays beside.

BETTY.

Yes, Miss.

_Scene._

(ALICIA _and_ CONSTANCE.)

CONSTANCE.

How should you like to employ yourself, cousin?

ALICIA.

It is indifferent to me.

CONSTANCE.

Are you too much tired with your journey, to take a stroll in the garden? We shall have yet a light half hour.

ALICIA.

Yes, it is early to have done tea.

CONSTANCE.

In London, I suppose you are later?

ALICIA.

Oh dear, yes; we have never done tea there till between eight and nine.

CONSTANCE.

Then what hour do you sup?

ALICIA.

That depends on where we are. My mother is early, we sup before twelve. The Seymours never till near one; and if one is at a ball, three or four is the usual hour.

CONSTANCE.

Why, then you must lose half your day in bed.

ALICIA.

Oh, we rise as early as other people. It is of no use to be up before one’s friends are stirring.

(_Enter_ MRS. WOODFORD.)

MRS. WOODFORD.

Miss Alicia, I am about returning to London. Have you any message to send to your mama?

(ALICIA _crying, but does not speak_.)

MRS. WOODFORD.

Have you any letter written?

ALICIA.

I will write soon.

CONSTANCE.

You may have some particular message to say to Mrs. Woodford. I will leave you.

(_Exit_ CONSTANCE.)

ALICIA.

Oh, Mrs. Woodford, you will soon see London and my dear mother, and I am left in this horrid place.

MRS. WOODFORD.

Don’t weep my dear, your aunt is a charming woman and you will soon be very happy in the country. Good morning; I shall tell your mother that I left you well.

(_Exit_ MRS. WOODFORD.)

PL. XX.— A CHART OF THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, BY MARY ANN LEWIS

The original is 6 feet long and 1 foot 9 inches wide. The centuries
and years are given down the sides, and the names of the emperors,
kings, queens, etc. are inserted in
their proper places along the curved lines
]

ALICIA, (_walking about and crying_.)

Happy in the country! That is impossible.

(_Enter_ CONSTANCE.)

CONSTANCE.

Dear cousin—

ALICIA.

Have I not even the privilege of being alone? I am not used Miss Leyster, to be thus intruded upon! Ah, I am indeed very little used to anything I can expect to meet with here!

CONSTANCE.

My dearest cousin, I beg you to pardon me, if I am an intruder. I came to see if I could do anything to comfort you; but if you wish me gone, I will leave you, but why should you wish it? Suffer me to be your friend; suffer me if possible, to make you happy!

ALICIA.

You are very good; better than I either expected or deserved. You know I have much to lament; leave me, pray, my dear, I will soon come down.

_Scene III._

(CONSTANTIA, _and_ ALICIA, MRS. LEYSTER, MR. _and_ MRS. SYDNEY. MR.
SYDNEY _writing at a desk_.)

MRS. SYDNEY, (_speaking to a servant, who enters_.)

Tell Edward and Harriet, their little friends have come. I am sorry, Mrs. Leyster, you did not bring Helen; she is nearer my daughter’s age, than Constance.

(_Enter_ HARRIET SYDNEY, _running into the room_.)

HARRIET.

Mama, Ned says he won’t come!

MRS. SYDNEY.

Very pretty indeed! Pray what is he doing?

HARRIET.

He is making a cart, and when it is done, we are going to draw it about the court, full of stones.

MRS. SYDNEY.

We! What, have you been helping him?

HARRIET.

Yes, I have, and you cannot think how droll it will be.

MRS. SYDNEY.

However that is, you will please to sit down now. Don’t you see Miss Leyster, and here is Miss Wyndham her cousin from London.

HARRIET (_advancing with her head poked down and her finger in her
mouth_.)

MRS. SYDNEY.

Do, Mr. Sydney, speak to her! Do you see she does not mind me?

MR. SYDNEY.

How now, Miss! What’s here to do? Why don’t you do as your mother bids you? I shall take you in hand presently, if you don’t behave better. Don’t speak to her, Miss Wyndham; she is not worth your notice.

HARRIET _sidles into a chair, with her finger still in her mouth, and
muttering says_.

How d’ ye do, Miss?

(_Enter young_ SYDNEY, _crying_.)

MR. SYDNEY.

What’s the matter Ned? What do you cry for?

NED.

O! my mouse! My mouse!

MR. SYDNEY.

Well, what’s the matter with your mouse?

NED.

Oh, Papa, Jack Williams has snatched it away!

MR. SYDNEY.

Jack Williams snatched your mouse away? I’ll Jack Williams him, a young rascal! Where is he?

NED.

Run down the lane, Papa!

MR. SYDNEY.

Come my dear, don’t cry, and I’ll soon fetch it back again. If Mrs. Leyster will excuse me for a few moments.

NED.

And I’ll go too, Papa, and give him a good threshing; when you are there, he won’t dare to strike again.

(_Exit._)

MRS. SYDNEY.

Harkye Ned; bring none of your nasty mice here. I hate the very sight of them. Don’t you want to go, Miss Harriet? I suppose you would help your brother beat Jack Williams.

(HARRIET _looks sulky_.)

MRS. SYDNEY.

Harriet, will you take Miss Leyster and Miss Wyndham into your playroom, but I suppose you have done with toys, now, young ladies.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Constantia is always happy to do whatever her young companions like.

MRS. SYDNEY.

Ay, ma’am, you seem very happy in your children; I am sure I can never keep mine in order, though I believe I take as much pains and scold them as often as anybody.

(_Scene changes to a playroom_; HARRIET, CONSTANTIA.)

HARRIET.

How cross Mama is! She always scolds so when anybody’s here. Don’t you think she is very ill natured?

CONSTANTIA.

Pardon me for contradicting you; I do not think so, indeed.

HARRIET.

What, not ill natured to hinder me from doing the cart when it would have been so nice and so pretty?

CONSTANTIA.

Probably she thought you would overheat yourself; beside, she wished me to have the pleasure of talking with you.

HARRIET.

Oh, but she knows I hate to sit _stuck up_ with the _company_. I don’t so much care, now you and I are together; but you looked so grave when I came in, I thought I should not like you. I am sure if I had been you, I should have laughed!

CONSTANTIA.

At what should I have laughed?

HARRIET.

Oh, to hear Mama scold so, and to see me look so like a fool.

CONSTANCE.

Indeed, I was very sorry; it is such a sad thing to incur the displeasure of ones mother.

HARRIET.

Oh, not at all; I don’t care, she won’t say any more to me; and if I had cried then, I knew she would let me go; but I was ashamed because you and your Mamma were there, besides, I was a little afraid of Papa. Does your papa humour your brother more than he does you?

CONSTANTIA.

I hardly know what you mean; Papa humours neither of us.

HARRIET.

Why, he looks very good natured.

CONSTANTIA.

He is indeed, much too good natured to humour his children; he is uniformly kind and indulgent when we behave well, and constantly strict and resolute when we deserve his displeasure.

HARRIET.

Well, that seems very odd! As to Ned, Papa never contradicts him nor Mama neither; but he does me and is as angry as can be sometimes.

PL. XXI.—FIRST KNOWN DIPLOMA ON TWILLED SILK

Probably engraved by Tisdale
]

CONSTANTIA.

What a pretty bird! It is a goldfinch, I see.

HARRIET.

Yes, and a fine songster, I assure you.

CONSTANTIA.

Did you take him from the nest?

HARRIET.

No, he was about a year old when I had him. Ned caught him in a trap in the winter.

CONSTANTIA.

Poor thing was he not very uneasy when he was first confined?

HARRIET.

Oh, I don’t know; he used to flutter about sometimes, but we did not mind that.

CONSTANTIA.

He is very tame now; he does not seem at all disturbed when I stand by the cage.

HARRIET.

That is because he does not see you.

CONSTANTIA.

Not see me! How is that?

HARRIET.

Because he is blind.

CONSTANTIA.

Blind! Ah, poor little creature. By what accident did that happen?

HARRIET.

No accident at all; Ned did it on purpose.

CONSTANTIA.

On purpose; oh, how could he be so cruel?

HARRIET.

He did it to make him sing the better, with a red hot knitting needle.

CONSTANTIA, (_pale and shuddering_.)

Oh, how shocking. Were you not grieved?

HARRIET.

Not I; I liked it, because it is my bird. If I had not liked it, it should not have been done, I promise you.

CONSTANTIA.

Is it possible you should have given your consent? Oh, if you knew how melancholy it is to be blind!

HARRIET.

La! Why a bird does not mind, you know.

CONSTANTIA.

Not mind! Do you think, then, they do not feel? Do you think they have no pleasure in seeing the light? Why then, do they sing when it first dawns?

HARRIET.

Oh, that is because it is natural to them.

CONSTANTIA.

Yes, to rejoice in the daylight! Ah, poor little wretch! Would I could restore you to sight!

HARRIET.

But you cannot think how much better he sings!

CONSTANTIA.

I should not wish to hear him; I should think every note a melancholy expression of his sorrow, or a reproach to me for having caused it.

HARRIET.

What odd notions you have! Where did you pick them up?

CONSTANTIA.

If you mean the notion of hurting no creature whatever, I gained it, as I did all I know, from my father and mother.

HARRIET.

Well, I declare I am sorry; but nobody ever told me it was cruel, so how should I know?

NED. (_without_)

Harriet, Harriet, come here. I have something droll to show you. The cat is playing with a mouse.

(MRS. LEYSTER, ALICIA, CONSTANTIA _and_ HELEN. CONSTANTIA _seated at a
table, drawing_.)

ALICIA.

Cousin, do you draw?

CONSTANTIA.

A little, but I am very fond of it.

ALICIA.

So am I, though I have not practised lately; if you will give me a pencil I will try.

CONSTANTIA.

Oh, willingly.

(_They sit down to draw._)

HELEN.

Come, Constance, tell us what you did at Mr. Sydney’s last night.

CONSTANTIA.

Nothing agreeable, I can assure you. I went with Miss Sydney into her playroom, but her books were torn to pieces, and then we came back into the drawing-room to see the cat play with a mouse.

HELEN.

The cat play with a mouse; but did she not hurt it? Mama always says “poor thing” when old Tom catches one.

CONSTANTIA.

Oh yes, she hurt it enough, I believe, but they did not mind that, as Miss Sydney said, when I asked her if her goldfinch was not unhappy, when they first confined him.

HELEN.

Not mind hurting anything! I fancy this Miss Sydney is not very good!

CONSTANTIA.

No, truly, for if you had been there, when she first came into the room!

HELEN.

Why, what did she do?

CONSTANTIA.

Her hat was half torn off, her hair was tangled, and her face was dirty; and she came in bawling, just like this, (_mimicking_) “Mama, Ned says he won’t come.”

ALICIA, (_laughing_)

Ah! that is just like her, with her arms swinging and her mouth open.

HELEN.

But did she not speak to you.

CONSTANTIA.

No, nor to Mamma, neither; and then she almost cried because she wanted to help her brother to make a cart!

HELEN.

To make a cart! Was that a proper employment for a young lady?

CONSTANTIA.

No, indeed! and when she was told to speak to me, she came with her head poking down, and her finger in her mouth, muttering so, “How d’ ye do, Miss?”

HELEN.

Oh dear, how strange!

ALICIA.

Ah, that is exactly her; but now, Constantia, tell us how she looked when her mamma asked her, if she would not like to help her brother beat Jack Williams.

CONSTANTIA.

Oh, she pouted out her lips so; then she crammed her fingers into her mouth; and then leered round to see if I was looking at her! But, Alicia you remained in the parlour, how did Mr. Ned get his mouse again?

ALICIA.

Oh, you never saw such a cowardly fellow; when he overtook the boy and found the mouse’s leg was broke, he beat and scratched the boy without mercy and the boy durst not return the blows because Mr. Sydney was by. At last Mr. Sydney said, “Come away, Ned, let him alone now; but if he affronts you again, I will horsewhip him handsomely.” “Do it now, Papa,” said Ned, “Do it now!” and Mr. Sydney never told him he was wrong.

MRS. LEYSTER.

In telling us that, Alicia, have you not told us the very reason of Master Sydney’s behavior?

ALICIA.

What, that his father did not teach him better? Yes, I believe so!

MRS. LEYSTER.

Tell me, then is he most an object of ridicule or pity?

ALICIA, (_after hesitating a moment_.)

Of pity, to be sure!

MRS. LEYSTER.

And Constantia, do you not think the same cause may have produced the same effect in Miss Sydney?

CONSTANTIA.

Yes, Mamma, for she said nobody had ever told her it was wrong to torment her bird.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Then why have you ridiculed her?

CONSTANTIA.

I—I—did not mean any harm, Mama!

MRS. LEYSTER.

Did you not mean to make her appear an absurd, ridiculous character? Did you not mean to make your cousin and sister laugh at her?

CONSTANTIA.

Yes, Mama.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Could you have done her a greater unkindness? In making people ridiculous, we injure them extremely. If your cousin and sisters were to hear of Miss Sydney ten years hence, they would connect with her name the awkward, disagreeable idea you have given them of her character. They might unguardedly express the opinion they had formed of her to others, and thus punish her for faults she had long since corrected. Do you perceive to what an extent this might injure her?

CONSTANTIA.

I have indeed been very wrong. I beg of you to forgive me.

MRS. LEYSTER.

I allow that Miss Sydney’s conduct was very blameable and therefore to me, in whom you have a perfect confidence, I admit you to remark upon it, but not with ill-nature or severity. I expected from the goodness of your heart, pity and generous allowance for the faults of Miss Sydney, who wants the advantages you are more happily possessed of. Do you believe that without better instruction and example, you would have conducted better than Miss Sydney?

CONSTANTIA.

Oh, no indeed, I must be both ungrateful and presumptuous if I could believe it.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Personal ridicule, in general arises from envy or ill-nature, a mean desire of lowering those virtues we cannot reach, or a mean vanity of exposing those follies from which we feel ourselves free. Who is there in whom nothing ridiculous can be found?

CONSTANTIA.

I see, Mamma, I have committed a great fault. Will you forgive me?

MRS. LEYSTER.

Since you have not been wilfully and obstinately wrong, I forgive you. But you must remember mine is not the only forgiveness you must seek.

CONSTANTIA.

Miss Sydney’s, you mean, Mama?

MRS. LEYSTER.

No, that would wound her feelings. But do you remember who has said, “Do unto others as you would wish others to do unto you?”

CONSTANTIA.

Yes, I see how very guilty I have been and I pray God to forgive me.

PL. XXII.—MRS. PUNDERSON, PUPIL
]

HELEN.

Permit me to observe, since I do not do it from perverseness, on what you said, what is there ridiculous in you?

MRS. LEYSTER.

You pay me a great compliment, Helen, which for once I will accept. But you will perhaps scarcely believe so striking a picture was once drawn of me, by a young mimic of my acquaintance, who was not aware of my seeing her, that I could not help laughing at it myself. My little cough, the trick I have of leaning my head forward, and the slow manner I have in talking, were imitated and made to appear ridiculous.

HELEN.

Oh, Mama, but these are not ridiculous.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Not in themselves perhaps, but by a little exaggeration which a true mimic never spares, they become so.

CONSTANTIA.

Oh Mamma, what an odious character. I shall never mimic anybody again.

ALICIA, (_during this scene, is greatly affected_.)

CONSTANTIA.

My dear cousin, what is the matter with you?

ALICIA.

Nothing.

CONSTANTIA.

Alicia, that cannot be.

MRS. LEYSTER.

My dear child, compose yourself, and don’t strive to conceal an emotion, which does you so much credit. You have been affected by the reproof I have given Constance. Is it not so?

ALICIA.

Oh yes ma’am, it is so like I have been, so faulty, so absurd.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Since you feel that my dear girl, you sufficiently prove that your heart was not wrong.

ALICIA.

Ah madam, you are very good, you read my heart and I am afraid you despise me; you must, for I have shown such contempt of all that is rational.

CONSTANTIA.

Dear Alicia, I am sure Mama loves you.

MRS. LEYSTER.

To own an error is the surest sign of amendment.

ALICIA.

How good you are to encourage me. Yes, if you can forgive and love me, I shall be happier than I have ever been.

MRS. LEYSTER.

We cannot be happy with a sense of an error in the heart, however stifled by pride. Shall I tell you, my dear niece, in what respect I think you most blameable?

ALICIA.

I shall be willing to hear and I hope to amend.

MRS. LEYSTER.

I have avoided hitherto, my dear, speaking of the cause which brought you here; till I could gain your confidence, till Constantia could gain your love. I hope you now consider her as your sister and me as your maternal friend.

ALICIA.

Ah, if you will permit me.

CONSTANTIA.

Oh, my dear cousin, what joy you give me.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Henceforth, I hope we shall be happy in each other. Permit me then, my dear girl, to tell you, you have never seemed sufficiently sensible of the fault which brought you here, till this morning. Am I deceived, or may I attribute the tears you have shed, as tokens of sorrow for having betrayed your mother’s confidence?

ALICIA.

No my dear aunt, you are not deceived. When you reproved Constance for a slight indiscretion compared to mine, I felt how greatly I had offended my affectionate mother, whose forgiveness I never sought, but with sullen pride, left her reluctantly.

MRS. LEYSTER.

There is yet one thing of which I fear you are not yet fully sensible. I mean the fault of contracting debts.

ALICIA.

But—you think—perhaps—

MRS. LEYSTER.

Hear me, my dear. In the first place, the allowance your mother made you, was really an ample one. Even if it had not been, as she who knew what you could afford to spend, thought it such, you had no right to exceed it. To be happy, we must learn to live within our income. Not only justice requires this, but our own comfort, for nothing can be so harassing as a consciousness of owing what we have not been able to pay.

ALICIA.

Oh, I am well aware of that, but I knew I should be able to pay at some time or other.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Yes my dear, but consider if everybody acted thus; those you employ would have no ready money to pay those who work for them. Many poor persons, who live by their daily earnings, must perish with want. Add to this, you pay more than you ought for every article and are entirely precluded giving anything in charity.

ALICIA.

Pardon me, dear aunt; I always gave a little out of what I had.

MRS. LEYSTER.

But what right had you to give money, which of right belonged to another? Every person should pay their honest debts, before they can be truly charitable. You feel this mortifying, but is it not just?

ALICIA.

I believe so—

MRS. LEYSTER.

It is indeed humiliating to feel that one has wantonly thrown themselves on the forbearance of others, who if they please, may expose us to everybody, as a person who wants justice so much as to contract debts they know they cannot pay.

CONSTANTIA.

Oh, Mama.

ALICIA.

Nay, I deserve it all; I feel that I do.

MRS. LEYSTER.

Believe me, my dear Alicia, my earnest manner arises only from my sincere wish to convince you of your error. When once a person has contracted a habit of buying whatever strikes their fancy, or of overstepping their income a little every quarter, ruin is the certain consequence. The sum though trifling at first, will accumulate every year and finally consume the principal. Add to this the distress our extravagance or carelessness may bring upon the labouring poor, and you will say the want of economy is no trifling sin.

ALICIA.

Ah madam, I am fully convinced. I will immediately write to my mother and tell her so. I will acknowledge my punishment is just. But why do I say, punishment? I am convinced this visit, which I thought such a misfortune, will prove the happiest event of my life.

CONSTANTIA.

I am sure it will of mine, since of a cousin I had never seen, I hope I have now a friend whom I shall always love.

ALICIA (_looking at_ MRS. LEYSTER.)

Am I worthy to be her friend?

MRS. LEYSTER.

Yes, my dear girl, you have an excellent heart, and that is the great security for all.

ALICIA.

Ah, then, embrace me, my dear cousin, my friend, my sister! Now for the first time in my life, I know what friendship is.

MRS. LEYSTER (_wiping her eyes_.)

It is true, virtue alone is the sure basis of friendship. Without it, we may form intimacies, connections and even unworthy confidences, but friendship can only subsist between those who love virtue.

PL. XXIII.—EMBROIDERED BY MRS. PUNDERSON WHILE AT THE SCHOOL
]

JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER.[39]

Mostly, as far as I can judge, in Miss Sarah Pierce’s handwriting. (Mrs. Gray.)

In another copy (written, evidently for use, in a schoolgirl’s hand) the characters are entered as,—

JEPHTHAH W. TALMADGE
BETHULAH C. BEECHER
ELIZABETH A. P. BRACE
MAHALAH J. PARMELEE
TIRZAH M. BUEL
PEDAZAR J. C. LANDON
ELZAPHAN H. GOULD
AGNES E. VERPLANK

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. JEPHTHAH Judge of Israel, PEDAZAR One of the rulers of Israel, ELZAPHAN A priest, BETHULAH Wife to Jephthah, ELIZABETH Daughter to Jephthah, MAHALAH The widow of Jephthah’s brother, TIRZAH Mahalah’s daughter, AGNES A convert from a heathen family, Three small children from heathen families under the care of Agnes. Attendant.

_Act I._

_Scene 1._

(BETHULAH _discovered in melancholy attitude_; ELIZABETH _singing at her
work_.)

SONG.

SILENT O MOYLE.

Silent, oh Jordan, be the roar of thy waters,
Break not ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While murmuring mournfully, Jephthah’s lone daughter,
Tells to the night star her tale of woes.

2

When shall she hear the jubilee ringing,
When, O! peace thy white flag unfurled,
When with God’s own people, praise be ringing,
Ah, will it be in this stormy world?

3

Sadly, oh Jephthah, thy daughter sits weeping,
While far from loved Israel, her days pass away,
Yet still her dear country she visits, while sleeping,
Sweet visions that flee the dawning of day.

4

When will the star o’er Ephraim’s mount shining,
Give to these eyes the friends held most dear,
Oh, when shall we in sweet praise combining,
Tune our loved harps unwet by a tear.

ELIZABETH.

Why is my mother’s brow o’ercast with grief
Why wells the frequent tear adown her cheek?
Has thy Elizabeth done aught to pain thee,
Or has my song awaked the fond remembrance
Of thy loved country and thy happy home.
My father too, of late seems lost in thought
Nor heeds my prattle that was wont to please
Would I were worthy to partake thy sorrows
To share thy confidence, divide thy cares,
And prove the filial love which warms my heart.

BETHULAH.

My child, our woes are not of that light nature
Which fond solicitude, by sharing lessens
Else would thy mother tell each secret grief
And on thy filial bosom rest for comfort.
Then seek not to distress thy gentle nature
With tales of woe which thou cans’t not redress
But let the wretched heathen of this valley
Employ thy care; on them bestow thy pity
Haply some not born for eternal glory
May hear thy voice, and learn that Israel’s God
Formed yon bright orbs which they now vainly worship
One precious soul rescued by thy instruction,
From idol worship, will sooth thy latest hour
And gild with brighter joys the bliss of heaven.

ELIZABETH.

Mother, dearest mother, trust me I pray,
Thy secret grief consumes thy precious life
And can I rest while ignorant of the cause?
The sad reality will pain me less
Than the vague terrors which now haunt my mind.
Does any new misfortune threat my father,
Or is our country scourged with foreign foes?
Is any secret great event impending
O’er my loved father or my country’s peace?
Thy precepts graved upon my inmost soul
Have taught me truth and prudence doubly shine
When in one breath they blend their useful empire
And though presumption is the fault of youth
Yet still methinks I shall not shame thy council
If thou wilt trust me with the secret cause
Which clouds my father’s face and thine with grief.

BETHULAH.

No secret woes, my child, oppress our hearts,
The cause, alas, is known to neighboring nations
And even remotest climes have heard of Israel
Her highly favored tribes, her grievous sins
And the just vengeance of offended heaven
We hid thy country’s sufferings from thy knowledge
Wishing to spare thy youthful mind from anguish
We would not blast the opening bloom of youth
By unfolding scenes which riper reason shuns
As filled with woes too mighty to be borne
But since thy gentle spirit feels such alarm
I briefly will relate the direful tale
Which fills with keen distress all Jacob’s race.
Thy infant mind can scarce retain the time
When Jephthah lived, first of the race of Gilead
Till envious hate of his most cruel brethren
Drove him amidst their desert wilds and forests
To seek that shelter Israel would not give
Here we have lived a peaceful, happy life.
The rude inhabitants, thy father’s virtues
Have humanized, refined and taught the worth
Of civil laws and righteous government.
_Their barbarous manners softened into virtue_,
They look to Jephthah as friend, a father,
And next thyself and country share his love.
To me was left the pleasing, anxious task,
Of teaching thy young mind the path of knowledge
And if a sigh has e’er escaped my lips
When thinking what my early fortune promised
Twas for thy sake, bred in this lonely station,
Whose birth was hailed first of the maids of Gilead.

ELIZABETH.

My dearest mother, let no thought of me
Disturb the tranquil hours of this sweet vale
What is there to be envied midst the great
Can costly domes or splendid garbs avert
The shafts of envy or the touch of pain
Or make one honest heart respect their owners
Had my dear father still remained in Israel
The affairs of state befitting his high rank
Would with unceasing care have filled his mind
And robbed domestic life of half its comforts.
The frequent woes which harass Jacob’s race
Would perhaps e’er this have laid him with his fathers
And made the humble shepherd’s lot our envy.

BETHULAH.

Most true, my child. In this discern the cares
Which with unwonted gloom our brows o’erspread
Israel ungrateful to their Heavenly Father
Forsake his altars and forget his laws
Pride violence and rapine waste the land.
To inbred evils terrible to bear
Are joined proud Ammon’s and Philistia’s bands
Who waste the land, and spare nor sex nor age.
The few who still remember their Creator
In sackcloth clad, raise the repentant voice,
Implore his mercy a forgiving grace.
As former sins afflict their guilty minds,
The injustice done thy father, stings their conscience
As humble suppliants they implore forgiveness
And entreat your sire to lead his chosen troops
To shield his country from proud Ammon’s force
His doubtful mind now ponders their request
His patriot bosom burns to save his country
But latent fears of their returning hatred
Repress the generous ardour of his soul.

ELIZABETH.

Ah, sure he will not hesitate to fly
When his loved Israel calls for succour
When thousands of our nation ask for aid
Who ne’er united with his envious foes
To persecute and drive him from his country
But now I rejoiced in this obscurity
Which saved my father from dread war’s alarms
But since my suffering brethren need his aid
Dear as he is I yield him for their safety
And my suppliant voice unite with theirs
To urge his presence in the tented field.

(_Enter an attendant._)

ATTENDANT.

Madam two women ask to be admitted
And to your private ear relate their sorrows

BETHULAH.

Whence come they, what is their dress and mien?

ATTENDANT.

They both are clothed in Israel’s mourning garb
One venerable by years, but more by grief
The other young and beauteous as the morn
Her gentle mien, a face bedewed with tears
Melt every heart to pity, may they have leave to enter?

BETHULAH.

Conduct them hither. Thy outcasts Israel
Shall find a shelter in my humble shed.

ELIZABETH.

Some sad, disastrous tale of wrongs and woe
I stand prepared to hear, Oh my loved country
Tho’ a stranger to thee, thou still art dear
“Dear as the blood which mantles in my heart.”

(_Enter_ MAHALAH _and_ TIRZAH.)

BETHULAH.

What do I see, the stern Athobat’s wife
Mahalah here.

MAHALAH.

Yes, the proud Mahalah who spurned thy virtues,
And despised thy tears. An humble suppliant now
Implores thy succour and forgiving love,
If stern revenge is harbored in thy breast
Our mighty woes will drive the demon hence
And thou wilt own our crimes are fully punished
More full than bitterest enemies could wish.
Then, oh forgive the many wrongs I did thee
And give repentant enemies a shelter.

(BETHULAH _during this speech looks with an air of stern incredulity,
then turns to hide her emotions_.)

TIRZAH.

If gentle pity ever touched thy bosom
If soft humanity e’er sway’d thy mind
Let their soft whispers move thy soul to pardon
Look on thy child whose years agree with mine
If thou hast felt a mother’s joyful pride
To see her virtues far exceed thy hopes
Then fear’d those virtues might be early blasted
By dire misfortune or unfeeling foes
Deaf to the voice of innocence and age
Ah then with mercy greet that wretched mourner
(_Kneeling_,) Oh, for my sake who never injured thee
Forgive the many wrongs which thou hast suffer’d
And snatch repentant enemies from want.

BETHULAH.

Arise sweet maid, I do forgive thy parents
Tho’ they have driven me far from friends and country
An exile mid a savage heathen race
Yet we should forgive, as we hope to be forgiven.

TIRZAH.

A thousand blessings crown the generous deed.

BETHULAH.

No not a generous deed. I let thee kneel
Solicit pardon, tho’ your penitence
Spoke in each feature and implored forgiveness
I should have met thee with a friends embrace
And gave a pardon e’er thou hadst time to ask it.
Elizabeth embrace thy new found cousin
And make her welcome as a friend and sister.

ELIZABETH.

Dear sister of my soul, I feel I love thee
And that this love will increase with waning time.

BETHULAH.

Sister why are thine eyes bent on the earth
Does dark distrust still lurk within thy breast
Tho’ thou hads’t been tenfold more cruel to me
Thy penitence would claim my full forgiveness
Accept my friendship and dismiss thy fears.

MAHALAH.

Remorse and not distrust has chained my tongue
Oh when to me thou fled’st for friendly succour
I scorn’d thy merit and thy grief derided
But Heaven’s just wrath avenged thy injuries
And brought our pride to moulder in the dust

BETHULAH.

Rumor has spread your numerous woes abroad
The huge tongued goddess has I hope increased
The sad detail, but still my beating heart
With anxious fear enquires the full recital
Of every outrage our dear nation suffers
Which thou a witness, can’st with truth relate.
But chiefly what distress drove thee from home
To seek a shelter in this lonely vale.

MAHALAH.

Backsliding Israel, faithless to the Lord
Forsook his altars and despised his laws
To Ammon’s Gods they bowed the knee profane
And made their children pass through fire to Moloch
To Belial also paid the rite obscene
And all the various Gods which Egypt owns
Engaged their fickle worship, ever changing
Prone to rebellion, a stiff-necked race
They refused to obey the laws of God and man
Our rulers warned, our prophets preached in vain
Abused by vulgar tongues, by riotous disorder
Rob’d of their hard earned gains, the honest Jews
Escaped to foreign lands to seek that safety
Israel would not give to wretched

BETHULAH.

Wretched country, stain to our chosen race
When virtue flies to heathen lands for safety.
But say what next ensu’d, how long have sinners sway’d
Our happy land, happy I fear no more.

MAHALAH.

At first the populace with impious mirth
Exulted in their fancied happiness
Their boisterous pleasure pain’d the honest ear
Oppression next, with wild misrule upbourne
Seiz’d their defenceless, and deluded victims
Now they who erst in splendid robes array’d
Those delicate limbs ne’er felt the sun’s broad ray
With patient labor seek and seek in vain
A pittance in the field. They whose delicious board
With luxuries full up o’er flowed
Now ask for bread and no one breaks it to them
The infants’ cries each hour assail the ear
Their tongues for thirst, cleave to their little mouths
Mothers with frantic pity slay their babes
To save them from famine’s slow and cruel tortures
The blushing maiden and chaste matron now
To caves and desert woods for safety flee.
Not safely even the traveller wends his way
In public roads his necessary steps
But in by-paths, avoids the murderous bands
Which lawless range through our most wretched country.
Where once the crowded street, the city rose
The rank grass waves its head, o’er fallen walls
The thorny thistle shakes in the sullen blast
Each face a cloud of deepest sadness wears
For even the base are caught in their own snares
Yet still our stubborn hearts refused to bend
To an offended God, or ask his mercy
Till Ammon’s troops and proud Philistia’s bands
With war’s dread scourge, fill’d up heaven’s cup of wrath
This roused the stupid, and abashed the bold
They seiz’d their arms and flew to oppose the foe
But all in vain, the foe swept down whole ranks
Our cities bend beneath the conqueror’s sword
From Jordan’s streams and Judah’s fruitful plains
To where proud Ephraim once securely dwelt
My husband fell amidst the foremost ranks
And Jephthah’s cruel brethren wished too late
For his brave hand to save the race of Gilead
Amid the lawless ruin of my country
I scarce found shelter neath Athobat’s arm
Since he is gone, I durst not stay in Israel
Beset by foes both foreign and domestic.

BETHULAH.

Oh Israel, sinful but much lov’d country
My heart drops blood at thy calamities.
Will not these evils bend their stubborn souls
And turn them to the Rock of their defense
Their only hope amid the tempest.

MAHALAH.

With many tears they seek to avert the wrath
Of their offended, but merciful Creator.
They have at last perceived their idols could not save
Have cast them and their altars in the dust
With ardent zeal some seek the good old paths
Saying where’s the right way, let us walk therein
The path which our forefathers wisely trod
But what is man, can he arrest God’s arm
When crimes like ours call forth his righteous vengeance
Ah see where Jephthah comes. Wilt thou entreat for me
I cannot meet his eye.

BETHULAH.

Retire with me, and let our daughters plead
Thy moving cause their eloquence will gain,
An easy pardon from thy generous brother

(_Exit_ BETHULAH _and_ MAHALAH.)
(_Enter_ JEPHTHAH.)

ELIZABETH.

Father I bring an humble suppliant
Who entreats thy pardon for once guilty parents
Who sorrowing, for all the wrongs they brought on thee
Implores through us forgiveness and protection.

JEPHTHAH.

My protection?
Who has sunk so low as to sue for Jephthah’s favor
An outcast wanderer, without power or fortune.

TIRZAH.

One who while living should have called thee brother
Dying bequeath’d his orphan to thy care
Bidding thee recollect the infant friendship
Which warm’d your hearts, e’er envy and ambition
Crept in and blasted every noble feeling.

JEPHTHAH.

And is Athobat dead, my once lov’d brother
His cruel treatment I’ll no more remember
But view him only as the dear companion
The much lov’d partner of my infant sports
Our joys our hopes our wishes all the same
And thou his daughter, welcome to my cottage
Next my Elizabeth in dear affection.
Take her my daughter as an only sister
And may your friendship meet no cruel blast
From rancorous envy, or misplaced ambition.

ELIZABETH.

My heart already owns her for a sister
I hope by acts of kindness soon to win
An equal place within her gentle bosom.

TIRZAH.