Wall street; or, Love lost and won ...

Scene I. Plain Room. Charles and Mary

Charles. Well, Mary in about six months, }'Ou will not have have the privilege to teaze or plague me any longer.

Mary. And how is this, Charley?

Chas. Why, in that time, I will have saved money enough to buv me the necessaries for a little household, and then I will come to my little teazing Mary, take her by the hand, go with her to the next squire, and then —

Mary. And what then?

Chas. Why, marry her, and then you see those awfully solemn words will be pronounced. — "Thou shalt be obedient to your husband." — that means you, who is to be obedient, and from that hour, your Charlev, whom you now plague so much, is your lord and master.

Mary. Oh, but that is not fair.

Cbas. Yes it is. Before marriage, the ladies are the masters — after marriage, the men are, or, at least, should be.

Mary True, and the wife should be obedient to her husband in everything that is right. Is that not so ?

Chas. , Why of course, and I certainly would never demand anything wrong.

Mary. O, then, of course I would obey. But whether it be right or wrong, is to be decided by me, and it it appear to me to be wrong, I of course could not and would not obey. And so, if your commands will suit my wishes, I will gladly obey them ; if not, then I will decide they are all wrong, and will not.

Chas. That is a nice obedience, indeed !

Mary. And then, you see, you have taken me for better or for worse. But it is a long time, these six months, and we will not trouble ourselves before hand. Sufficient unto the day, is the evil thereof.

Chas. Ah, but this day may come very soon ; you see, I had such a nice dream last night. I dreamt that I was lying asleep, and all at once the door opened and a man came in and he began to throw such piles of greenbacks at me that it hurt my head. I woke up, and had the headache ever since.

Mary. Indeed ! why, then, of course that dream will be realized. But what did that man look like?

Chas. I can hardly describe him ; but I would not be astonished if something great would not happen soon, and all at once I would become a rich man.

Mary. Ha, ha, ha ! I wonder how you would look as a rich man ?

Chas. I think, I would cut a decidedly good figure. The fact is, I always think, I was cut out for a rich man, but somehow, or other, I missed it.

Mary. But when do 3^011 expect that man with the greenbacks to come ? I am anxious to make his acquaintance, and to become good friends with him.

Chas. I have been looking for him all day, but in vain, ( // knocks. ) Halloh, what is that ?

Mary. Why Charley, open quick, that may be he.

Scene ii. Charles, Mary, Henry

Charles. My friend Henry — welcome to you !

Henry. How do you do, Charles, and how is Miss Berry?

Mary. Welcome to you, Mr Randall.

Hen. I have but just arrived from our home village, and I have brought a letter from your sister Clara, Miss Berry, to you, and which I promised to deliver immediately upon my arrival, as she expects to come here on a visit ; or perhaps to stay altogether (gives he?' the letter).

Mary. Excuse me, if I read it now. It may contain something important. (Steps aside to read.)

Hen. But Charles, I'm a little astonished to find you here.

Chas. There is nothing remarkable about it. We are very good friends and something more.

Hen. Oh, then let me congratulate you.

Chas. But what have you been doing since I saw you last? I heard you were sick.

Hen. Oh, Charles when you left me three years ago, I was in the full enjoyment of earthly blessings. Since then I have experienced much misfortune. My father, prosperous and rich as he was then, I his only child, grown up in affluence and without trouble of any kind, I could not discover any cloud on the horizon of my happiness. And yet treacherous friends have robbed me of all they could take. My father, in his kindness, assisted others, he endorsed notes, became security, and in a short time, he found his poor friends rich, and himself poor and in need of assistance ; so poor, that in fact, it took the last cent of his property. It grieved him so that he was thrown upon a bed of sickness, from which he recovered only a short time ago, poor but honest. I assisted him all I could and thanks to his untiring energy, he has again established a little business in another town, to commence life anew, as he would no longer remain in the place where he could daily see the friends who betrayed him.

Chas. I am sorry for your good father. But what brings you to this big city?

Hen. You know, Charles, that in those former days I became acquainted and engaged to Miss Anna Prideall, who was then at our village, visiting the Academy. She returned to her father's home, in this city, about two years ago, but we continued to correspond for a long time afterwards. But for several months I have received no answers to my letters, so I finally resolved to come here myself and discover the cause, especiallv, as the small business in which my father has again engaged is insufficient for both of us. I intended also to see whether I could find an opportunity here, for me, to be employed in some position adapted to my capacity.

Chas. And have you no suspicion why you received no answer to your letters, from Miss Prideall?

Hen. I have understood that her father has become very rich, and he may have heard of my father's misfortune, and may, for that reason, be averse to the alliance of his daughter to a poor man, and so have prohibited any correspondence.

Chas. But may not she, herself have changed her mind? She has not seen you for a long time and the change in your circumstances may also have had its effect upon her.

Mary. ( Who, after reading the letter stepped up again.) Oh Charles, how can you suppose that?

Hen. Thanks to you. Miss Berry, for you good opinion of my dear Anna. No, Charles, I know her, and therefore know that her very nature is incapable of such a change for such a cause.

Chas. But experience teaches, that young ladies {present company of course, always excepted) do sometimes

change, especially

Hen. Do not offend me, Charles. Do not measure her with the ordinary measure. Do not compare her to the thousand and one sentimental young women of our age, who see a fine moustache, or a diamond breast pin, and imajjine themselves in love with the wearer, and continue to believe it until either a still finer moustache appears, or until thev have the misfortune to call the moustache their own, when thev as Suddenly become aware of their mistake. No, believe me, I know Anna too well, she is a true woman, and she is therefore, true to her love as all true women are, so long as the man himself is worthy of her love.

Chas. Well I hope you are correct.

Mary. Oh, I know it. How could it be otherwise? Hen. Your words, Miss Berry, prove to me what a treasure my friend Charles has found in you.

Chas. Oh, my Mary is the best, and she cannot but think, but that all are like her. But Henry, I am afraid, that even if she has remained true, that her father will have serious objections : for what you have heard is true, that by his shrewd speculation in Wall street, he has increased his fortune immenselv and is now one of the richest men in the city.

Hen. I was not aware of it, and on my account, I am sorry for it, for the -world may think I am actuated by mercenary motives.

Chas. What do you care for the world ? It has cared nothing for vou ; if she only have remained true.

Hen. Never doubt it. But I am impatient to see her. I will therefore depart.

Chas. Wait one moment. I have heard by accident, that there will be a party at her house to-night. Perhaps you had better wait therefore until to-morrow.

Hen. No, I am too impatient to see her. I will endeavor to be admitted, and she will no doubt be glad to see me.

Excuse my impatience, Miss Berry.

Charles, I hope to see you soon again. Adieu for the present ; I must hasten to get off the dust of traveling and prepare to meet her.

Chas. and Mary. Good day, then — (Henry Goes ojf~.)

Mary. Now, Charles, is this the person whom you saw in your dream, throwing all those greenbacks at you?

Chas. No, I believe not, at any rate, he has not man}- to throw just now. But be that as it may, he is the noblest and best man I ever met. And I wall even forgive him, that by his uncalled for interruption, he has spoiled my tete a tete with my little Mary, and has deprived me of the further pleasure of her company ; for the time has fled so quick, that I must go.

Mary. Well, Charles, if you must, you must. But do not dream any more such dreams of greenbacks, when you realize nothing by them, except a headache,.

Chas. No, in future I will only dream at night, as in day time I only think — of you. (°ff) ( Scene changes. )

Scene hi. — Parlor in Mr.PridcalVs house.

Miss Anna, Miss Judith t and other ladies and gents, later Mr. Sharp.

Miss yndith. O dear, I would like to know where Mr. Sharp stays, he is so late, and I am so anxious to hear the latest scandal.

Anna. And so you love scandal?

yudith. Oh, who does not? It is so consoling to hear of the wickedness and misbehavior of other folks.

But here comes Helen.

My dear, how do you do, and why so later

Helen. Oh I have been detained, by writing a valedictory letter.

Anna. A valedictory letter! and who may that unhappy gentleman be ?

'Judith. Do tell us all about it.

Helen. You are all mistaken. It is not a gentleman : it is a young lady of your acquaintance. It is Clara Morris. Just imagine, she has lost so much respect for herself, and for the society she has moved in, as to fall in love with her farther' s former clerk. Yesterday she engaged herself to him, and in a short while she is to be married.

Judith. Impossible ! you must be mistaken. But here comes Mr. Sharp, he, no doubt, has the latest information.

Mr. Sharp, what is the truth about this rumour of Miss Morris.

Sharp. It is all true. I took particular pains to enquire about it — Poor Miss Morris, I pity her.

Anna. But why pit}' her? She may love him and find her happiness in this love.

Sharp. How, Miss Anna, do you defend her conduct? Would vou ever be capable of stooping out of the high sphere of society you are moving in, to many a —

Anna. Mr. Sharp, I am not Miss Morris. I am not one of those sentimental creatures, who, believes in sub-ordinating her whole existence to the throbbing of this little oman called the heart. I do not believe that that feeling designated as love, should over-power my reason and all other faculties of my mind, and should be permitted to take such possession of me, that I would be willing to offer everything else as a sacrifice to it. I believe in my heart being ruled by me, but not to rule me. Should I ever suspect a feeling, w r hich would militate against my reason, or which w r ould threaten to become too violent, I would tear it out of my bosom, were the wound ever so painful, or incurable.

Sharp. Miss Anna, you have delighted me by the expressions of these sentiments so much in accord with my own. Love without being tempered by reason is weakness of character, absence of spirit ; it is an attack of a sickness. or a fever to which a weak constitution will succumb, but which can have no effect upon a sound mind, and which must soon yield to the medicine which better judgment prescribes. It is an absurdity to palliate or offer as an excuse for the acts of any person that it was done for love, for that argues such person to be weak minded.

How Miss Morris could ever descend from her proud position in society to her present level, I can only explain on that hypothesis, but how her lover could ever be so presumptuous, I can only explain on the theory of self interest and self-love. I would never dare to offer my hand to any one I had the slightest regard for, if I could not place her in a rank equal, at least to that, which she had heretofore occupied. "Only the brave deserve the fair," but in this country where bravery has been reduced to a practical and peacable standpoint, it should read, "only the rich deserve the fair."

Love which seeks not to elevate its object to a higher standard, but on the contrary, to detract it from its pedestal is nothing but self-love and egotism, and any man who will be sufficiently audacious, to ask the hand of any lady who is above him in rank, position and wealth is only actuated by mercenary motives, for he asks her to sacrifice these earthly blessings for him, and instead of giving all sacrifices to her whom he pretends to love, he asks her to sacrifice herself to him. Such love I call self-love, egotism and nothing else.

Anna. Mr. Sharp, you excel yourselves this evening. Sharp. I am happy if I meet with your approbation, and would ask as a reward, the honor of the first dance : as I hear the music beginning.

Anna. It is granted with pleasure.

Sharp. You make me the happiest of all mortals. (Dance).

( A/ter dance, Mr. Sharp takes Miss Anna to a seat).

Scene IV. Henry Randall, Sharp and Miss Anna

Henry. Oh, Miss Pride ill, will you permit me to intrude?

Anna. Why Henry — I mean Mr. Randall — I am surprised to meet you, but permit me, Mr. Sharp, to introduce you to a friend of my youth, of my former days. Mr. Randall, Mr. Sharp, a friend of my -present days. ( Introducing them. )

Hen. Mr. Sharp, you will pardon my impertinence, in disturbing your conversation, but my impatience to see my friend was too great for human endurance.

Sharp. And, Mr. Randall, believe me in saying, that it is a great consolation for me, to be able to give Miss Anna a few moments of unalloyed pleasure, in recalling the reminisences of her youth, in company with her friend and therefore both of you, I hope will excuse me, if I leave you.

(Bozvs and goes away.)

Henry. Oh, Anna, at last I see you again.

Anna. But Henry, what a surprise to me, and how was it possible for you to gain entrance?

Henry. Your old servant, who remembered me well, admitted me without further ceremony.

Anna. {Aside, There is no use in keeping these reminisences of former years around } r ou. I will discharge him instantly).

But what is the cause of this sudden appearance? Why did you not prepare me for this visit?

Henry. Oh, Anna, after the trouble of my father, and which of course, naturally affected me also, and about which I had written all to you, was disposed of, I could no longer remain in that little town, where I had experienced so much ingratitude, and saw so much of the vileness of human nature. I formed the intention of departing thence and what other place could have so much attraction forme, than that city where I knew my own beloved Anna to dwell, I had received no answer to my letters and imagin ation conjured up all possible evils which might have befallen you, my beloved. But now I see you again, well and more radiant in health and beautv than ever. I am again united to you, and I feel that my troubles and unhappiness have terminated, for your presence restores to me, all that I ever lost.

Anna. But Henry, when you received no answer to your letters, have you never doubted me? Did you ever suspect that the changed circumstances with you, as well as with me, may have also effected a change with me and with my sentiments ?

Hen. Never, Anna, never for one moment. Not a day passed, not a night, but I saw you, and as the lost traveler on the sea implicitly relies on his compass to point out to him the safe harbour, so my love to you, guided me through all my torubles and my confidence and my hope, that you yourselves would reward me, always inspired me with renewed energy and vigour, whenever sorrows threatened to overwhelm me. But this experience has confirmed me in the opinion, which you and I have so often expressed to each other, that there is no happiness, but in the union of two loving hearts ; that all other is a mere shadow, and that all ties, however strong, will break under the weight of adversity, but that the ties of confiding, disinterested, true love, are proof against all strain of adver-

— 1 1 —

sity and misfortune, and that they cannot be severed, except by death,

Anna. You still believe this?

Hen. I do, and have believed it ever since I knew you. No happiness without love. I thought once I was happy, because I was in the full enjoyment of all earthly blessings > but what a shadow of happiness Was this. I learned to know you and to love you. And how vain, how empty was all my former existence. And when, subsequently those dark days over-took me, still what little real unhappiness they could bring me. Riches would fly, friends forsake me, but they could not rob me of my love, and I was then happy, yes far happier in the consciousness of my love, than all those who imagined they had destroyed every vestige of my happiness.

Anna. You are still as romantic as ever, and of course you still believe in love making happy, happy even with poverty ?

Hen. I do, and more firmly than ever. I have lost all 1 posessed but you, but with you, poverty will have no terrors for me, as without you riches would have no attractions.

Anna. But Henry, do not forget that two years have elapsed since last we met, that I have since then been reared in luxury and have been accustomed to its surroundings and that perhaps I may miss and regret its absence.

Hen. No, Anna, you will not. I know you better. Your love will compensate for all that, and my love and my devotion will permit no thought of its absence ever to arise in your mind.

Anna. And still, Henry, you are mistaken.

Hen. Mistaken, Anna, what mean you ?

Anna. Henry, let me now say a few words. I have too high a respect for your intelligence to believe that I could deceive you, too high a respect for your character and mine, to be willing to do so. Since last we met, circumstances with you as with me, have changed and left their impressions upon us. I am no longer that romantic young lady, who roaming through the forest, or gliding over the silvery surface of the lake, would imagine that this world was made for two loving hearts, and would view every scene through a glass colored by her love, and listen to nothing but what my loving heart would whisper. Those were school-days, when I was a pupil at the academy, when you learned to know and to love me, and when I reciprocated that love with all the enthusiasm of a young heart. I was sincere then, as sincere I will be now. But these days have past. I have been taken away from those scenes, removed to this great city, introduced in society, and learned to look at, and to know life from a different stand-point. Do you see this scene before you ! Look around at the luxury so apparent here. See those many elegant young men, rich, good-looking, well educated, posessed of every attraction t'hat could be desired and yet there is not one who would not willingly lay down his heart and riches to me, and offer me his hand in marriage, with which I could walk through life, the envied of many, but to be pitied by none. And do you see those many young ladies, many of them beautiful, rich, accomplished, worthy the admiration of any man ? And yet, there is not one among them who does not fear or envy me, who is not jealous of my power over the hearts of her admirers. Did you ever feel the magic voluptuousness of power? To be the absolute monarch of the fate of others! To rule, but not by force, but by the gift of beauty and your will. To be feared, to be envied, yea, to be hated, and yet to rule all, all, friends or enemies.

Hen. And this is you!

Anna. This is my position. I am the ruling belle of this city. See, Henry, this is life, this is pleasure, this is happiness. Oh, what a contrast there is between this and my school-day ideas, when a smile, a word, a walk, a look, would be the h eighth of my ambition. Henry, I have learned much since we parted, and I have changed accordingly.

Hen. And your heart, your love?

Anna. My love, my heart — I cherish them, as I cherish the dreams of my youth. Beautiful in their days, but the days are past. And now ruling here as a queen, you approach me with the reminisences of my school days and bring to my mind that a young girl did once love you and became your affianced. And you ask me to step down from my throne, abandon all present friends, forsake the splendor and luxury with which I am surrounded and to forsake riches, fortune, associations and power for your sake, so that I may become your wife in the humble cottage of a pauper and to be compelled to look up to those as my superiors, who are now my inferiors or equals, to envy those who now envy me? Henry, can you, do you ask this sacrifice.

Hen. If it be a sacrifice, then no, nay, even if the abandonment of this splendor would cause you even one single tear or a single breath of regret, then, no, or if part only, the smallest fraction of what you have said even now, represented your true meaning, then, Anna, we would have to part. But it cannot, cannot be. That Anna whom I so fondly loved, whose image I have stowed in my heart, and which has been the guiding star of my life, cannot have changed into a cold hearted belle of society, treading under foot the best and holiest feeling implanted in the human heart, that of true, pure, self-sacrificing love. But Anna, do not trifle with me, see, I have nothing left but this, my hope and my love. I am a man and have manfully born all storms and shipwrecks, but I have never been deprived of my confidence and faith in you, and I do not know what would become of me, if this also should fail me.

Anna. Henry, we are children no more. What I have said, I meant, and would have been compelled to advise you of it some other time. Why not now ? why permit you to deceive yourselves with dreams that will never become true, or hopes which can never be realised ? I feel that I was not born to seek and find my happiness within the narrow circle of family life, to perform household duties for a husband or to be happy in the smile of an infant. My nature is above this, it requires the admiration of many, it demands to rule my proper atmosphere in the one in which you see me now. Yours is different, our tastes, our views are the same no longer.

Hen. Enough, Anna, I understand, you, this glittering has enthralled you, and the voice of your true and better nature is heard no longer. But the time may and will come, when you see the hollowness of all that you now admire, and you will awaken from your blissful dream and the artificial summer of your fascination with its flowers, its butterflies and sunshine, will be followed by the winter of stern realities, cold, icy cold, as you believe yourselves now to be. You imagine you can despise love, but you are in error, it is stronger than you, it is part of human life to love, and without love, life itself, has but little value. In vain, will you seek happiness in power or in splendor — for happiness is not to be found there — it only lives in one's heart and at one's home and hearth — in the smile and confidence of a beloved wife or husband and in the innocent prattle and laugh of your children — all else is vanity, vain hollow, cold vanity —

Anna. Your oratory, Mr. Randle, is very eloquent, but falls upon a very unappreciative audience.

Hen. Pardon me, I forgot that I was addressing the belle of society, I imagined for a moment that I was speaking to my own, dear Anna. But I perceive that your present friends and admirers look with some astonishment at our prolonged interview, and I think, as we are simply acquaintances of former years, and will be strangers in future, —

Anna. True, very true, it is time to terminate this interview and so, to avoid all attention, and as the music is about to begin to play, you may lead me to the dance, after which, Mr. Randle —

Hen. Then, Miss Prideall !

Both. Good Bye forever !

(Dance. Curtain falls.)

Scene I. Henry, alone

Hoi. I had become angry at, and despised my former friends for forsaking me in adversity, and I had only trusted in love. And now, where is the anchor to which I shall trust my faith in humanity, when love itself has also proven not to be able to resist the slight storm of adversity and ill fortune? What right did I have to rely on friends? They were simply companions of mine, thrown, by accident i together with me in the course of my life, independent of me as I was of them. But she, who had pledged me her entire self, she also knows me no more. Friendship, Love, what is the meaning of these words? Nothing, if not the love of one's self. Self-love. Egotism. She loved me, when she had but me to admire her, but me to rule; she forsakes me when she has many. Oh, it is a greater pleasure, a higher ambition to be the ruler of many, than to be all to one. Oh! Her reasoning is correct, her position is unassailable, her good sense so strong, that no room is left for her love. And yet, is human heart in woman, such a play thing, that it pleases her as long as she feels like playing with it, but of which she soon grows tired, and which she then discards or throws away, with no more regret than at the loss of her doll? Is everything what I heard of woman's noble nature, of her entire existence being wrapped up in love, of her self-sacrificing, devotional nature, which never shines more bright than in adversity, simply an idle tale, invented by the fertile brain of the poet ?

Oh, that I had power to test it, that I had the means to probe your soul, to see whether you, Anna, are that being which you believe and represent yourselves to be. But it is not, it cannot be so. She is intoxicated with the splendor of her surroundings, she is dreaming a dream from which she is bound to awake. Oh! could I assist her, that I could show her the shallowness of her happiness, the insincerity of her so-called friends and save her from falling into this glittering abyss, which by dazzling splendour, seeks to conceal the hollow, empty unhappiness which awaits its victims !

Scene i i.

Henry and Charles.

Chas. Why, who is this talking to himself, as if he could find no better company? Why, Henry, Henry! Is this you? How, in the name of common sense, do I find you here? I thought you were at the party at Prideall's.

Hen. I was, and now I am here. Your prophecy has proven true, as all prophecies of evil generally do. The man, who thinks worst of human mankind, is the one who is always right. And now, please leave me alone.