would not blame the deed.
ORPHA.
O! here are mine! Pray let them go together. The blush of shame would
rise upon my cheek, to see these jewels shine in my attire, when yours
are gone; and our loved parent lives by her own labor.
NAOMI.
My daughters, ye oppress me with your kindness. If need require I will
accept your offers; meantime let us prepare to make the journey.
_Scene 2nd._
NAOMI. RUTH. ORPAH.
NAOMI.
No. Go my daughters each to thy mother’s house. May God reward thee. May
all the kindness ye have shewn my dear lost sons and me, be doubled to
ye. May every anxious hour, which ye have spent, the tears ye have shed
when we have counted o’er the months by woes, and chid the tardy sun,
whose sluggard pace detained us prisoners in a wretched world; be
reckoned o’er in new found blessings on your virtuous lives.
RUTH.
No. We will go with thee and share thy sorrows.
ORPAH.
And relieve thy cares.
NAOMI.
Why will ye go? I’ve no more sons to give ye. In Judah’s land no honors
wait Naomi; but cruel taunts from those who erst have looked, with
pining envy at my happy state.
No kindly brother, no sister’s friendship will help to soothe thy lonely
exiled hours. Here wealth, here honor yet may crown your days. Cherished
by parents bless’d by prosperous fortune, whose kindly cares, will
shield your youthful years from pinching want. Think you these hands,
which now are all thats left me, can guard your tender limbs unused to
labor, from hard oppression and the unfeeling scoffs, which full fed
wealth pours on the unfortunate? No. Go my daughters, nor add to all my
sorrows the severer pang of seeing you suffer with me.
ORPAH.
My friend! my more than mother! must we then! ah! must we part?
Be witness Heaven I would not leave thee thus, could I contribute aught
to soften thy sad fate. But I’ll not add another pang to those thou hast
felt already. Adieu. Adieu. (_Exit._)
NAOMI.
See, thy sister has left me. Why not follow her?
RUTH.
O force me not to leave thee. My parent’s happiness is full without me.
Propitious fortune with a lavish hand, scatters her stores of wealth and
greatness on them. The joyous sun to them shines ever bright. The feast,
the dance, the charms of sweetest music, beguile each care and open
every sense to laughing pleasure, and her dangerous wiles. Meantime
their gallant sons, and beautious daughters in the gay festive train
compleat their joys. I love my parents with a daughters fondness; and
gratitude recalls my helpless years, watched by their tenderness; their
fostering care, rear’d my young frame; adorn’d my riper years with
useful knowledge; guarded my steps from each contagious folly. But ’twas
thou my second parent, who taught my mind the exalted charms of
virtue;—freed my young soul from vain delusive worship of idol Gods;
feared in my native land, and bade my hopes aspire, to serve that Being
who fills creation with his boundless presence. And may his vengeance
strike my guilty head, when I forsake thee: Poor—friendless—stricken
through with grief and years. No. I will follow thee where’er thou
goest; my hands shall learn to toil for thee my mother. Industry is the
surest balm for grief. Thy God is mine. Thy people I will love. One
house shall hold us and one grave contain.
NAOMI.
O thou who viewest the smallest atom of thy vast creation; notest the
most trivial act of little man! If I have e’er deserved a boon of thee,
O! give it me in blessings on this child. Oh! may her virtues meet their
full reward, and I can ask no more.
_Scene draws._
_Land of Israel._
NAOMI: RUTH: _a group of young maidens_.
RUTH.
How blithsome seems yon troop of beautious maidens! What healthful
pleasure lights each face with smiles! See: they advance.
SECOND LADY _to her companions_.
Pray who are those clad in a garb of sorrow? Could I believe my senses!
’tis Naomi, so justly famed for wisdom, truth and goodness, Elimelek’s
wife.
FIRST LADY.
Can—can this be Naomi? Yes it must be her. But say? what sad reverse of
fortune brought thee here? alone, and bearing marks of wretchedness? If
thou art indeed Naomi, pray inform me.
NAOMI.
Yes ’tis she who once was justly called Naomi. The apparent favorite of
indulgent Heaven; but now—a hapless widow, doomed to mourn, the untimely
fate of all her dearest friends. Then let Naomi perish with her
fortunes, and henceforth call this wretched being Masa; for Heaven has
dealt the cup of sorrow to me, and I have drank its deep, its bitter
dregs.
FIRST LADY.
We sympathize, Naomi, in thy sufferings. But remember, the Almighty
gave, and he may take away, and ’tis our duty to submit in silence, to
adore his justice, and to praise his name, in deep affliction, as in
days of bliss. But, come my friends; thou art weary of thy journey;
come, rest thyself beneath our welcome roof, and thou shalt find a
friend who yet can love thee.
NAOMI.
How sweet is kindness to a bleeding heart, torn by sharp sorrow; and
unfeeling insult. Already have I met, even here, in Bethlem, with taunts
from those I once esteemed most highly; but thou I find art still the
same dear friend, and shrinkst not back at fortune’s withering touch.
FIRST LADY.
Accursed be those who fail in time of need; and they are accursed by
their own stubborn hearts; too hard to feel the force of generous
friendship; of wiping tears from eyes o’ercharged with grief and
lighting smiles upon the grief worn cheek. Come; I will lead thee to my
dearest parents, whose joys, like mine will brighten at thy presence.
NAOMI.
With gratitude I follow thy request, and see my daughter—the generous
wife of my lamented Mahlon—has left her friends, her country and her
Gods, to cheer her mother, and to share her fate. Let her, I pray thee,
with me partake thy bounty.
FIRST LADY.
Most willingly. I honor virtue, and am proud to meet her in a kindred
form. Come, come with me, and once more taste repose.
NAOMI: RUTH:
NAOMI.
This is the place! O well known scenes! dear monitors of bliss forever
fled! That field, rich with luxuriant harvest;—that beautious dwelling,
now like myself in ruins; where curling vines in purple clusters twine,
around its fallen columns, was once my own; my father’s once—A stranger
now inherits it.
[Illustration:
PL. XVII.—ELIZABETH HUNTINGTON WOLCOTT, PUPIL, 1820
]
O, that I could recal past months! the days when God preserved me! when
by his light I shunned the paths of evil!—O days! forever—ever flown;
when Heaven’s best bounties courted my acceptance! Blest in my husband,
blest with dutious children, my path with oil and honey overflowed! Thy
daughters, Judah, bowed before my steps, and silent hung upon my flowing
words; the aged rose whene’er I passed the gate; and blushing youth
retired as I advanced. The poor, the stranger, bless’d my liberal hand;
for wretchedness to me ne’er plead in vain. But now—as widow—desolate
and poor, the rich forget me, and the poor deride. Even those who erst
through fear, shrunk blushing from my view, with cruel insults and
unfeeling taunts, add to my misery by sharp rebuke; and say “that’s she
who once so rich and great; whom princes honored, and whom age revered;
who, when distress assailed her native land, wandered to foreign climes,
and other Gods; now desolate returned; struck by the Almighty, doubtless
for her sins; bereft of all;—her sons and husband perish within a land
of strangers. Thus fade the wicked, though their house be strong, when
God, in anger brings their crimes to light.”
RUTH.
O could the boundless height of my affection, suffice to soothe the
bitter pangs thou feelst!
What is the world? a vain, delusive bubble, and what are friends, who
follow prosperous fortunes, but shrink before the stroke of poverty?
poor heartless beings; unworthy of a sigh. Rather let those few worthies
claim our thoughts, who sympathize with thee in all thy sufferings.
NAOMI.
Thy virtue soars above the touch of woe. Thy friendship, sweeter than
the dews of Hermon, and dear as incense from our holy altar, shall be my
solace. Yes;—I’ll dry my tears, for they distress thee:—esteem our lowly
roof more honorable than courtly domes—our coarse and scanty fare, more
delicate than fruits of Lebanon—our homely garb—more precious than robes
of princes,—and when our little stores are gone, the hand, which feeds
the ravens, will send more.
RUTH.
O! praised by Heaven! who inspires thy soul with comfort! The frowns of
poverty are light as air, when cheerfulness resides within the bosom.
Industry unlocks a mine of wealth, to all who ope their hands to seize
her favors.
I marked the fields. The reapers now, with busy hands are gathering
their full harvests. I’ll go and glean, and for thy sake am confident of
good.
NAOMI.
Nay rather let us go. How will thy delicate hands, unused to labor,
sustain the sultry heat of harvest. My older frame is now of little
value; the soul which it imprisons, longs for flight:—and perhaps
remorse may touch my kindred’s hearts, when they behold me, with those
poor hands, picking the scanty ears from fields that should be mine.
RUTH.
If ever I deserved a boon from thee! If leaving friends and country for
thy sake, have gained a place for me within thy bosom! grant my request
I pray thee!
NAOMI.
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_)
[Illustration:
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!
[Illustration:
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.