Romer, King of Norway, and other dramas

Preface

w'^HESE works are placed in book form, in order that 'SP the people of a future age may have the opportunity to open their mouths with wonder, at the utterances of a very ordinary dead man; and that commentators in that day may have a method of making a living. If what so many say of these works is true, this must be the result.

The Preface is written for the benefit of that large portion of mankind who are led by the nose in making their judgments; and for those who, upon reading this remark, will swear that they are not to be so led.

The plays are written for the few in this age who are too great for prejudice; and for the people of an age in the future, when the past is not envied : — when envy of the writer sliall have ceased with his death. As it is an unpariv PREFACE.

donable crime against the vast mass of men for one person in his own lifetime, to excel the rest in anything, although others will excel him in other respects, I expect to meet with strong condemnation! for these works. So let it be — it is the law of nature.

As for myself, I believe that my experience in the world has freed me from the effects of condemnation — has cured me of a care for praise; for I know that both are as often misplaced as they are justly bestowed. Were commendation to be bestowed upon the dramas, it would be but the repetition of an old story ; for one of them has been printed in pamphlet form for six years, another for three, and during that time they have been read by many persons, and have been, by almost as many, pronounced to be of the highest form of literature.

By a strange unanimity of opinion, they have been pronounced to be made of the same material as the writings of the greatest of dramatists.

As for censure, if it be bestowed upon the works, and

PREFACE. V

they cannot stand it, let them die; and if it is bestowed upon myself, I can stand it; for as I have said before, the hour is passed when I could have been affected by the world's censure or its blame; and whether the judgments of the world are various, or unanimous; for, or against, I am satisfied.

The works, however, are written for another purpose. Whatever their merits, or demerits they have in them some of those sentiments that belong to our race ; and the humble hope of the writer is that they have been put into such a shape that they will take part against wrong and wage war for the right — for this should be the end and aim of all writing.

Sacramento, Gal. Adair Welcker.

The BirrER End.

^«tv

THE BITTER END.

A DRAMA.

Act I

Scene I. — A little garden in the rear of a neat but small cottage, in San Francisco. The cottage l, c. in the background. A gate R. C. that opens upon a pathway that leads round to the front. A door c. opening into the back part of the house.

Lily and Josephine discovered.

Lily. Yes, Josephine, my kindest, dearest friend, Misfortunes came like birds of prey upon us. First came my brother's death. When last I saw thee, We little thought he'd take so soon the wings Of Death, and fly away to Heaven.

Jos. Ah, Lily!

My poor, poor friend ; my heart is bleeding for thee !

Lily. The burning fever first did scorch his brow ; Then sickness racked him with her cruel pains ;— - I hear him now, with his poor, piteous wail, Call out for help, in his delirium. A soothing sleep at last drove off his pain, And while he slept, all stood around his bed With anxious faces, waiting till he waked.

And then he ope'd his eyes, and smiled on us, And ask'd that we would raise him up, and then He sang a hymn, and said good by, and died.

Jos. Oh, Lily ! Lily ! I know 'tis hard — 'tis very hard ! It seems a ruling of some power beyond us That woe shall follow woe.

But Lily, look you up ; this nature of ours Being grandly harmonized, brings us oblivion For all our woes when they are overpast. And when to-day is grown a yesterday New turned events dislodge these woes within us.

Lily. But often when my memories fly Back to my childhood's home, like swallows that still seek Their nests torn down by cruel Winter's storms. Can I forget the old back stairs, where oft My little brother's feet came, step by step? The little room, where, watching his worn face, We saw him die? And then there was a vine Where all the birds of Summer came to woo: It was a honeysuckle vine, and oft The sun's rays stealing came, through its soft leaves. To wake me i' the morning.

[Bell rings at front of the house. Who can it be %

Jos. My aunt.

To take me home. But list ! — yes, 'tis her voice.

Mrs. Stone. Vwithin.^ This change to poverty robs them of life And chills each germ of action.

Ha, now! not yet? but I will bring them up.

\^Rings violently.

Jos. 1 know not why it is; my aunt does seem To have a strange dislike for my sweet friend.

Enter through gate r. c. Mrs. Stone and Black well. Mrs. Sto. Well, niece, Did you grow weary while you waited for me 1

Jos. No, aunt; here, with my friend, the fleeting hours Were gilded o'er with golden happiness !

Mrs. Sfo. A gentle friend, indeed ! So sweet is she That all the baby stars will press their faces Against the windows in the vault of heaven. To gaze down on her lovely innocence ! And I know one (thy cousin and my son). Whose eyes were captured by her innocence : He listens to her soft and cooing words, Which chased each other out her snowy throat. As soft and innocent as doves' notes are — And all the world does know, the dove does coo Only for innocence:

Black. Hell's innocence !

Jos. The mind swift to imagine guilt in others, Is rotten in itself.

Mrs. Sto. Now stop that magpie chattering; come. To our home.

Jos. Good by, sweet Lily, 'till we meet again. 3Irs. Sto. [Aside to Black well.] A tender morsel 'tis of pleasure, when We have a power, that wand-like, we can wield

To make men tremble ! — you make a waste of time

Come Josephine!

[Exeunt Mrs. Stone, Blackwell and Josephine r. c. Lily. And some there are whose lives are never at ease

Until they have the power to command. One hath a frowning face to wither smiles ; The other smiles — will they be withered ?

\_Exit through door c, into the house. Enter through gate R. c. Mr. and Mrs. Arden, and they sit together on a bench l. under some trees.

Mrs. Ard. The little left of what we once did have Is going fast ; soon will it all be gone — what then 1

Ard. Ay, that I'd ask my wife — what then ? .

Mrs. Ard. I'll tell thee what ; then will starvation come, And cling upon us 'till the flesh is gone.

A rd. I've done my best to gain a livelihood ; From morn to night have wandered round these streets ; Asked oft for work, but did receive rebuffs, And met cold looks, that silent insult bore ; My clothes jeered at ; forgot by former friends Who knew me well when I was prosperous. Ah ! I have dragged through many a dreary day, Until the heart did weary grow and sick, And 'till I wished to lay me down and die, Like some poor dog I've seen lie i' the gutter ! But then the thought of thee, and of my child. Came to my mind, and urged me on again ; And now, for this, you taunt me with the pain — The poverty I've wrought — Oh ! 'tis too much !

Mrs. Ard. I taunt thee *? No ! I cast no taunt at thee ; But still, I think our daughter might have deigned To drop her selfishness, and think of us. But, like a queen that had a thousand fortunes. She coldly did reject her lover.

Because, forsooth, she thought she ne'er could love him !

Arcl. All this is strange — I never heard of this ! — And is it long that he hath woo'd my daughter 1

Mrs. Ard. As long as Summer is, with Winter placed behind it, Has he been wooing her beneath your eyes.

Ard. I knew that, like another visitor, A few short evenings had he spent with her.

Mrs. Ard. Why, e'en as sure as came the night, of late, This wooer came, and in our Lily's ear Did whisper — but she put rough barriers there — Yet still he poured his soft words in her ear Until the hour grew late, and the poor lights Did grow a-weary guarding off the dark. But she had not an answer for this love, In all her pride, and all her selfishness !

Ard. Oh, wife ! let not these thoughts arise in you. Selfish, say you? A thought of selfishness Ne'er dared to wander in her gentle heart ! And pride 1 — Oh, think not that ! These hardships Harden your thoughts. For sweetest natures When chafing beneath the weight of heavy woes Grow for the time unjust.

Mrs. Ard. And he does give a golden reason for His wooing !

Ai'd. And would you make a bargain of our child 1 O, no, my wife ! When not oppressed by care, You had not thought like this; and soon again. When better times have brightened up before us, Your thoughts will take again their former course.

Mrs. Ard. When fortune comes, fools only will not know How dainty are her favors.

14 THE BITTEB END.

But thus it is through all the length of life : Fortune we use not when 'tis in our power, And when it has escaped, we rue it's loss !

[Enter Lily through house door c] Tell me now, Lily, why like you not your wooer 1 He has good looks — such looks had pleased me well, When I was of your age — a manly form, A gallant bearing, and a sparkling eye, That speaks an unheard language, sweeter far Than the soft-tongued nightingale could speak. And he would give an ample fortune to you.

Lily. I have a reason that I may not give ; A reason that would make me rather work Until the flesh is worn from off these arms. Before I would consent to be his bride !

Ard. Nor shall my darling, forced against her will, Give up her hand to one she does not love, While lives her father, with a breast so broad. That it may yet brave off life's beating storms !

[Exit Arden into the house c.

Mrs. Ard, Again, I ask, why can you love him not?

Lily. And still, I say, I have a reason^ mother, That I would keep a prisoner in this brain, Till death draws back the bolts to let it free !

Mrs. Ard. But I'm your mother, child; should not your secrets Be known to me, as well as to yourself 1

Lily. Since, mother, then, you still wish that 1 should Give you my secret; know that this man's mother. Without a cause, has so insulted me, Up to the top of all her malice !

With cruel, bitter sneers, hid in a smile.

At first she did insinuate that I

Was but a poor, low wretch, that sought, with wily arts,

To steal away th' affiections of her son,

Who, though I did look coldly on his wooing,

Still will persist.

Mrs. Ard. And I suppose that something she hath said, Which, though her words no masked meanings bore, Did so appear to your suspicious mind.

Lily. Ah, yes, my mother, they bore meanings sharp As knives, with which they pierced me to the heart ! At times, when she did say some bitter thing, She smiled the while, with that hard, chilling smile, That speaks in every tongue.

Ah, no; I cannot ever marry him, For then she'd smile upon my very dreams !

Mrs. Ard. If she's a woman, are you not another ? Poor, timid thing, I fain must pity you ; You were not made for such a world as this

Lily. I tell you mother, a bitter life's before me If I should take his hand ; none of life's joys Will ever reach my heart; dark shadows only Will fall from off the years that, like to trains Of funerals, will slowly cross the heaven. There is a voice deep down within my heart Proclaims this doom to me. Whether this be A spirit speaking with a voice from heaven, 1 do not know; but know the voice speaks truth. Tell me now, mother.

Shall I surrender up my hand to him 1

Mrs. Ard. I am too old, my child, to be deceived

By these thy youthful fancies ; since you ask For my opinion, in such rounded terms, Know that I would accept.

Lily. Mother, it shall be done !

Mrs. Ard. Lily, say not Hereafter, that I have advised thee to it. I only say, that I would marry him. \^Exeunt.

Scene II. — An open place in front of Mrs. Stone's house in Berkeley: the full moon rises over the hills.

Enter Godfrey, k.

God. Before the night came here was she to meet me ; Either some strange mischance hath fallen her. Or else kind hearted Night has drawn her veil. Before the time, to keep the hot-rayed sun From oft' her face. Now come the little stars ; Through every crack of heaven do they peep down To catch a view of her o'er lovely face ! But now she comes ! I hear her steps Making sweet music for th' enraptured air ! Enter Josephine,' l.

Jos. And did you think that I would never come 1

God. The hours did truly seem stretched out so long, I might have named them never ; but since now I see you here, the evil of that time Does serve but as a contrast to these moments. That, like to sunbeams, frightened by the night, Do swiftly flee away !

Jos. I had been here.

But that some envious demon held me back, Now placing this, now that, across my path !

God. 'Tis strange, then, that the mighty fairy legions Sallied not forth to guard you 'gainst this demon ; For I know that these fairies love you well ; — I've seen them oft, wrapt in a cloak of sunbeams, Coming, unknown to you, to steal sweet kisses From off thy rosy lips ; at other times Bearing the hue from off thy lovely cheek To paint their home, the cloud-placed rainbow, with !

Jos. You seem to be acquainted well with these ^ame tiny beings from another world. 'Tis only through the gate of midnight dreams. Be it now known, that we may enter in The fairy kingdom.

God. Speak you of dreams, my lovely Josephine ? Then I tell you that has reality

Stamped on it's face. You know I've loved you long ; — Deny it not with those hard frowns ; and yet They are but masks and prove unnatural On such a face as thine.

I've loved you long and well, and now I ask A mighty boon indeed — your hand sweet one : — No answer now ? Ah ! in thy eye I see The hard word " No " look forth ; O, banish it From that sweet place, where heretofore Kind smiles alone a dwelling had !

Jos. Perhaps it was not there ; or, if it was, T'is banished.

In answering thus, it may have seemed tliat I Have been too soon in so surrendering My hand to you ; if so, this my excuse —

God. You give excuse 1 No, no, 'twere better far

To end all laws and customs. Oh ! now is all My happiness complete !

Jos. And in the center of this happiness I'm forced to tear myself away from you ! But blessings rest Within the thought we soon shall meet again !

God. O, go not yet ; the hour is not yet late !

Jos. Nay, but the moon is sinking o'er the hill ; See how her poor, wan face looks thin and pale. I wonder hath she lost some one of those Her myriad, star-browed children, that She weeps while she majestically moves Through night's blue heaven 1

God. If she is weeping, then I'll pity her ; For, while I feel the sweetness of thy love, I cannot think but all the world is sad !

Jos. The tide of night hath nearly reached the top; Now must I tear myself away from you. For there is one who watches all my conduct, Searching some place that slander may creep in To bring me ruin.

God. But not yet, Josephine! the stars That mark the minute places in the sky Have not been three times rounded by the hand Of silence that doth mark the hour of night !

Jos. Were I to mark the hours upon this clock. The morning light would guide me to my home.

God. The hours of time have shorter grown of late.

Jos. Oh, Godfrey, would that I might yet remain ! But I must tear myself away from you ! Good by, my love, good by ! [Exit Josephine, r.

God. Groiie ! And is she gone 1 O, evening breeze, Bear these my blessings after her. [Exit Godfrey l.

Enter l. Mrs. Stone and Blackwell, cautiously.

Mrs. Sto. You have already sworn an oath so strong That it would bind the fleeting clouds together, And tie the w^inds from north and east and south, Until the earth did rest in drowsy stillness !

Black. Aye, I am bound to bind up in this brain Your every word, and ev'n your smallest whisper. If this be not enough, I swear again —

Mrs. Sto. Nay, hush — An' I had not a stronger hold on you, I would not give an unsubstantial shadow For all thy oaths. But to the business — You know the father of my niece is dead 1

Black. Of Josephine ? — aye, dead As skeletons dead in the deep, dead sea !

Mrs. Sto. And more than this, you know her father had A fortune that —

Black. He lost in speculation.

Mrs. Sto. No ; there's our point ; he never lost it. But when he lay upon the bed of death. Then, with his trembling hand he wrote his will. And gave that will to me.

By its wording, I was executor : — Her father died upon the Atlantic shore ; Some relatives she still hath living there, Of whom she knows not, nor shall ever know While thought burns in this brain.

Black. \(islde.'\ There thought will dwell,

'Till hell hath smoked it out !

But why hold out such secrecy o'er this ?

Mrs. Sfo. Be not impatient ; For I would have you wed this Josephine.

Black. Me wed the girl 1

Mrs. Sto. You wed the girl? — methinks a mighty honor —

Black. Aye, honor, yes ; but if 'tis but for honor, I never marry only for honor.

Mrs. Sto. But if I add a small-sized fortune to it 1

Black. Aye, there you speak ! my ear ope's wide his door To let that sound come tripping gayly in !

Mrs. Sto. Hark, then, to me : If you will marry her. And take her off to some far distant land Where none will ever hear of her again, Then you shall have a third of all her fortune. Are you agreed 1

Black. Am I agreed ? Will you not give me more 1

Mrs. Sto. Nothing.

Black. Then surely I'm agreed.

Mrs. Sto. Then so it is arranged.

Black. Nay, not so quick ; am I to ne'er return. With this sweet bride, to my own native land 1

Mrs. Sto. Not with thy bride ; but if she dies, Of pestilence, or by the ague chill. Or if, perchance, some reptile tastes her blood ; Or if some wild beast tears her limb from limb ; — Then you may come back to your native land !

Black. I'll not accept such terms as you have made.

Mrs. Sto. Did you not say you would accept my terms'?

Black. Did I, i' faith, then will I change them now.

Mrs. Sto. For twenty yearsyou've served me as a friend, —

Perhaps, at first, I did not think on this, — Considering then, your many years of service, I'll make your fortune half as great again.

Black. Now, like a Stoic, I must perforce accept.

Mrs. Sto. Then is our business over. [Exeunt.

Scene III. — A dining-room in Mrs. Stone's house in Berkeley. Enter Servants

1st ServH. How long will't be before they have returned 1

2d ServH. From church ? About one hour.

1st ServH. [to servant girl.^ You saw the marrying, Nell ; how went it off 1

Nell. How went it off? It went off like a hearse Over a precipice.

^d Serv^t. I take you not : —

You know, good Nell, your wit does shine so bright That ours is blinded by it. Then tell us How looked the bridegroom, and how looked the bride ?

Nell. I'll not tell that ; I'll tell how looked the bride, And then how looked the bridegroom.

2d ServH. As you will.

Nell. Aye, as I will ; then listen now to me : — When all were gone I hurried to the church, And, as I entered in, wild echoes rushed From out their hidiiig places — then, like fiends Cried out to one another !

Then came the minister.

And they stood up : the bride like a sweet lily. On which black night doth scowl with her dark face — And all the while the minister did read. The dreary winds in deepest sorrow moaned;

Now loud and wildly moaning, 'till his voice Was drowned : then, when they ceased, we heard his voice again.

Sd ServH. Last night I woke about the midnight hour, To hear wings fluttering in the darkened air. And then I heard the howl of dogs without, Come riding down upon the fearful gale ! I have not dared to speak of this before, But now I speak, since cause for it is found.

1st Serv't. And I was waked from out a horrid dream By that same sound ; — then trembled all the house. Against the window-panes each heavy blast Led on the rain, and when the heavy gale Dragged off a cloud, caught on the pointed moon. By her dim light I saw, from cloud to cloud, Strange white-faced spirits one another chase !

Ndl. Ah, sadly do I fear me for this wedding !

\Boar of carriages.

But here they come ! — then quickly to your j^osts !

[^Exeunt.

Scene I. — A room in Arden's cottage in the outskirts of San Francisco. Enter Josephine and Lily

Lily. Yes ; I am spending at my father's house A few short days, the first in many months.

Jos. Now I am glad to see that face of thine, That long hath been o'erspread with gloomy sadness, Covered again Avith Summer sunned joy !

Lily. It is a mother's love, with smiles beginning

Watching the tender innocent young flower,

Just springing up to meet life's pelting storms ;

Then does the mother take it to her breast

And guards it with a love that's greater far than death.

But tell me Josephine, is it then true

Jhat you must leave for New York City soon 1

Jos. Would it were not ; alas, it is too true !

TAly. But you will soon return *?

Jos. I think we will be gone about three months.

Lily. Goes Blackwell with you ?

Jos. Yes ; he will go ; — I fear that man ; For he has got a smooth and oily tongue. And eyes to freeze the blood.

His skin has, too, a sleek and oily look. That is not seen upon an honest man.

Lily. And how is it your aunt has such a friend In such a man ?

Jos. That I know not ; Nor does her only son, your husband, know.

Lily. 'Tis strange !

Jos. Ay, strange it is ; but, Lily, I have here Some letters which my father gave to me, That time he lay upon the bed of death, Which he told me to open when I reached My twentieth year. I ask that you will keep Good charge of them 'till I return again.

Lily. Let not a thought in fear arise for them. Enter Mr. and Mrs Arden.

Ard. And so you must so soon depart from us 1 Would I could now bestow a fortune on you Before you go ; for you deserve it well ;

Deny it not with those sweet maiden blushes,

They are the overflowings of a soul

More to be prized than all the gold of earth.

Since I have not a fortune to give thee,

Receive that which I have — an old man's blessing !

Though I would give it, if I had it now,

I will not wish your wealth were made of gold.

Which loved, destroys the beauty of maidenhood.

And could these shining things have tongues and speak,

'Tis my belief they'd tell more darkened tales

Of weary heart pains, guilty consciences,

Than deeds that we should pattern ;

But I would have your breast free from those cares

That keep men waked o' nights ; — that on the heart,

Do sit and brood, 'till but a nightmare's left —

And, with my blessing, do I say farewell !

Mrs. Ard. And let my blessing be aside of his !

Jos. Farewell ! My fondest hope's to soon return again !

[Exit Josephine.

Mrs. Ard. How swiftly Time, upon unwearied wing, Is ever fleeing back into the past ; The monster future slowly creeps on towards us, While that poor sparrow. Time, afirighted flies Into the Past, that prison cage, which, closed, There's none so strong can ever open it. It seems but yesterday that Lily, here. Gave up her hand to her young, loving husband ; And then seemed Josephine but still a child. That now is turned into a full-grown woman.

Ard. Life's but a breath, borne ofl" by meanest winds ; Or word, that, writ upon the Ocean's shore.

The waves will wash away;

A fleeting thing, that sleeps and wakes and dies ;

A dream that is dreamed and is over ! [^Exeunt.

Scene II. — A bedroom in a hotel in New York. A door l. 2 e,, through which enter Black well and Mrs. Stone. A door r. c. , which opens into a room behind the first. R. 2 e., a window with curtains hanging on either side.

Black. Thy niece looks colder on me every hour !

Mrs. Sto. Ha ! is it so ? and hath Thy love not prospered 1

Black. Prospered 1 I'd sooner woo the porcupine Than woo thy niece ; for when I moved near her, She shot her scornful glances, As swift as flames from out a mitrailleuse, And when I called here "rose," she called me "villain !" Then, when I spoke of love, she said my tongue Had stained that word, so that she ne'er again Could hear it uttered, patiently ! I then sent out my thoughts o'er all creation A-wandering, to gather pretty names, Which, garnished with sweet accent, I did call her ; But, all the while, she stamped with her small foot. Nor would she lend attention to my speech.

Mrs. Sto. And, like a craven, you gave up the fight ! Oh that I were a man but for an hour. Then I'd make such a wooing for these maidens. As they had never dreamed of heretofore. Not with a mournful look would I gaze at them. But with a glance that reached their very souls, And they did tremble till their knees waged war With one another !

For every soft and silly sigh they gave,

I'd give a curse, that so would frighten Love,

That, trembling, he would hide behind their tears !

Bub come, poor coward, at your work again ;

I'll be at hand to give you my protection.

If you are vanquished for a second time.

I'll go call Josephine, and bring her here,

That you may woo, and then I'll slip behind,

This hanging curtain, there to note your progress. [Exit.

Black. Were I now one of these warm-hearted fools, This Josephine I'd call a flower, and send up tears To weep in my two eyes ; for she, unlike the oak. Has no protection 'gainst the howling storms. I'd harp upon her child-like innocence, And then, perchance, some burning tears of mine Would scald my feeble eyes.

But should I marry her, at first she'd weep. And pale her face would grow ; but then we cannot Forever look upon the blushing rose ; At times 'tis best to see the cold-faced lily. [Enter Josephine through door r. c, followed by Mrs. Stone, who steps behind the window-curtain unperceived by her.] But here she comes !