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.)
[Illustration:
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.
[Illustration:
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.
[Illustration:
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.
[Illustration:
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.