THE FOREST ROSE ;
or,
AMERICAN FARMERS

   This drama was originally produced at the Chatham Theatre, New York, in 1825, and was received with favor. The original Jonathan was Mr. Simpson ;  and the author, in a preface to the book, published after its representation, says, ‘‘Simpson’s Jonathan was every way equal to my hopes and wishes.’’  Mr. Thayer’s Bellamy is also commended, and we are not surprised at it, for, in delineating ‘‘fops’’ ( and Bellamy is not an indifferent one ), he had no equal on the American stage, in his time ;  indeed, we fear ‘‘we shall never look upon his like again.’’  In the piece originally produced, numerous songs, duets, etc. etc., were introduced by several of the characters.  The ‘‘pruning knife,’’ so much in vogue with ‘‘stars’’ of the present day, has, however, been freely used in the Forest Rose, and anything calculated to place any of the performers, except the ‘‘magnet,’’ in a too prominent position, is ‘‘cut.’’  As it is now played, we give it to the profession. It, was produced in London by J. S. Silsbee, who played Jonathan for over one hundred consecutive nights.  In California it has been played by Mr. Louis J. Mestayer, for forty or fifty nights, with great success.  Mr. George E. Locke, John Weaver and other Yankee comedians, have rendered the hero successfully throughout the country.

O.

The stage directions are a bit of a mystery to me. For reference, here are the explanations of the stage directions for a different play, “The Young Widow,”:


“First” would be downstage, toward the audience, immediately behind the proscenium. “Second” would be bit further back. ”Upper” is upstage, toward the back. A door in the “Center” would be all the way in the back, built into a flat.

‘‘Though mourning like a mateless dove.’’

   Lyd.  And I might, on the other hand, have been an unpitied beggar, destitute of that consoling consciousness of duty which now supports me.  Besides, could you be happy as the wife of a man whose haughty relatives affected to despise your plebeian blood?

But I will not detain you from your morning task, and here comes my gallant brother to attend you.  Breakfast will be ready by the time you have finished milking.

   Har.  Your sentiments are doubtless very correct, Miss Lydia ;  but still I should like to live in the city one whole year.

   Wil.  A whole year, Harriet !  How would you contrive to pass your time?

   Har.  As other people do, to be sure, in seeing the fashions, and the Park, and the Battery, and Castle Garden, and the Museum, and the Theatres, and Chatham Garden, and the Circuses, and the Gas-lights, and the Water-works, and the Fire-works, and the Stepping-mill, and all other places of amusement. Then, when I came home again, all the girls would so envy me, and the young men would quarrel for me !  O, it would be delightful !  Hem !  ( Affecting disdain ) — Please to keep your distance, sir.

   Wil.  Why, what the deuce is the matter with you, Harriet ?

   Har.  Please mend your manners, sir, and address me as Miss Miller.

   Wil.  Ha, ha, ha !  Miss Miller !  Ha, ha, ha !  I say, Miss Mil—— Ha, ha, ha !  You recollect the milkmaid in the spelling-book, who lost her fortune by a toss of her head ?

   Har.  I was only jesting, William.  But, seriously, I intend to see the City, that is poz.

   Wil.  Indeed !  When do you propose going?

   Har.  As soon as I can find a beau with gallantry enough to take me there.

   Wil.  Then, fare you well ;  for here comes a verification of the old proverb — the very thing you are speaking of — a scarecrow from the city.  I say, Harriet, let us have a little sport with him.

   Har.  A scarecrow !  Why, he is a genteel, delightful looking fellow, neat as a starched tucker fresh from a bandbox. Why do you call him such names?

   Wil.  Because he frightens the birds without killing any of them.  Depend upon it, all the game he carries home will be brought down with silver shot, as it is said they shoot witches.

   Wil.  I say, Harriet, he is as gaunt about the waist as your father’s greyhound.

   Har.  Or little Caesar’s fiddle.

   Har.  I wonder he did not speak to me.

   Wil.  Speak to you !  Why, he did not see you.

   Har.  Then he shall hear me.  ( Sings. )

   Bel.  Damn fine girl, ’pon honor.

( Eying her through his glass. )

   Bel.  Tolerable voice, but damn’d little science.  Wonder who she is.  ( Aside, leaning over the fence. )

   Wil.  He seems to like your singing, Harriet.

   Har.  ( Singing louder. )

‘‘A sprightly girl of gay sixteen
   ne’er spurns a saucy lover.’’

   Har.  I must pretend not to observe him. I say, William, tell me something more about the city. Did you say the houses all joined together?  ( Affecting simplicity. )

   Wil.  To be sure they do, Harriet, just like our corn-house and cart-shed.  You may walk all the way from Whitehall to the Hospital, through a street that bends like the bow of an ox-yoke, without seeing an apple-tree or a turnip-patch.

   Bel.  ( Aside. )  A mere clodhopper, that fellow.  I will astonish him directly.

   Har.  Is it possible?  How I should like to go there !

   Bel.  ( Aside. )  Sweet simpleton !  How I should like to take you there !  I must speak to her, and dash the native.  Pardon me, miss ;  I thought I heard a nightingale ;  but I now perceive that it was a bird of paradise, ’pon honor.

   Har.  Where, sir? Pray don’t shoot it till I see it.

   Bel.  So far from my harming the lovely songstress, miss, it has deeply wounded me, although it seems somewhat alarmed at my presence.

   Wil.  I suspect, sir, that the birds, in your walks, are generally more scared than hurt.

   Har.  Wounded you, sir?  You speak in riddles.

   Bel.  Which your looking-glass will easily solve.

   Har.  I do not understand you, sir.  But, William, as, you were saying — if the houses in New York are so close together, where do they keep their creatures — the geese, the calves and the pigs?

   Bel.  Permit me to answer that question, if you please, miss ;  for, though I have been but a short time in America, I am just from the city, and flatter myself that I know something about it.  ( Aside. )  What a charming little Forest Rose it is !  I must take her under my protection.

   Har.  Well, sir.

   Bel.  The geese, you must know, are mostly seen, in term-time, flocking round a marble house in the Park, where they generally get confoundedly plucked before they are aware of it, in which particular your little city much resembles my native London. The calves and donkeys, are principally found in your Broadway, and in our Bond-street.  As for the other animals you mentioned — the pigs — I believe New York is the only place where they enjoy the freedom of the city.

   Har.  You spoke of donkies, sir ;  does that mean the same thing as dandies ?

   Bel.  ( Aside. )  Humph !  Not quite so simple as I imagined.  Perhaps you, sir, can answer the lady’s question.

   Wil.  The two words, I believe, are derived from the same root.  The real genuine dandy, however, is an imported animal ;  and, the breed having been crossed in this country, the full-blooded bucks command but a low price in the market at the present time.

   Bel.  Ha, ha, ha !  Tolerably fair, ’pon honor !  Dem me, if the clodhopper has n’t astonished me !  ( Aside. )  But, come, my dear, if you are so anxious to become acquainted with the city, place yourself under my protection, and you shall be there tomorrow.  You shall, indeed, my dear, ’pon honor.

   Wil.  ( Aside. )  ‘‘My dear !’’  That ’s plaguy familiar, though.

   Har.  ( Aside. )  Poor William is getting jealous.  Now I have a great mind to tease him a little.

   Bel.  What say you, sweet girl, to my proposition?

   Har.  If my father will give his consent.

   Wil.  And if your father should consent, Harriet, would you go without me ?

   Bel.  ( Aside. )  So, so !  I shall have a rival to contend with, I perceive.  I must observe this native.

   Har.  Go without you !  Is not one protector enough for any reasonable girl ?

O, father !  I am so glad you have come !  I have such a favor to ask of you !

   Mil.  You had better go and finish milking ;  it is time the cows were turned to pasture.

   Har.  I will go in a moment, sir. But first hear my request. This gentleman, who is all the way from London, and, for aught I know, a prince or a nobleman, has kindly offered to take me to New York with him, free of all expense. Will you give your consent?

   Bel.  Her simplicity will ruin all, split me !  ( Aside. )

   Mil.  Take you to New York !  What does this mean, sir?

   Bel.  ( Confused. ) O nothing, sir — or merely this :  your daughter expressed a strong desire to see the city ;  and, as I happen to be a resident there, common courtesy, you know, would not allow me to do leas than make a tender of my services.  That is all, sir, ’pon honor.

   Mil.  ( Sarcastically. )  You are very kind, sir.

   Bel.  Not at all, sir.  Pray don’ly t name it.  Such a compliment, in my country, is thought nothing of.  But excuse me ;  it is now near breakfast time, and I shall be waited for at the tavern.  I will see you again in the course of the day.  Good-morning.  What a cursed bore !  I must observe the old Hunks.

   Mil.  Your coquetry, Harriet, displeases me, and evidently distresses William.  To be so familiar with,a stranger !

   Har.  But, then, you know, father, he is a sportsman, and a foreigner, and dresses so very genteelly.

   Har. Now, William, you are jealous.

   Wil.  You will never find a truer friend, however showy he may be.

   Mil.  If I thought her in earnest, William, I should regret that you ever bestowed a thought on so worthless an object ;  for the girl who would reject the honest heart and hand of an American farmer for a fopling of any country, is not worthy of affection or confidence.

   Har.  When I thought I loved you, William, I had not seen this handsome Englishman.

   Wil.  Very well, Miss Miller.  Your father has been a kind guardian to poor Lydia and me ever since we lost our parents, for which I hope we are not ungrateful.  I shall be of age next month, and if my farm be small ——

   Mil.  Spurn her coquetry, William, and not encourage it by such submissive tones.  When you have more experience, you will know that it is the vice of her sex to torture those they love.  But let me caution you, Harriet, against indulging this dangerous propensity.  Learn to restrain it, or you may repent it when it is too late.

   Wil.  I shall always rejoice to see you happy, Harriet, however much my own heart may ache.

   Har.  And if ever I am happy, while your heart feels a pang, William, spurn me as a wretch unworthy of your regard.

   Wil.  Are you in earnest ?  Now you have made me so happy, Harriet !  That for the English dandy, ( Snapping his fingers, ) with his squinter !  Ah !  ’pon honor.  ( Imitating. ) But come, old Brindle is waiting to fill your pail, and I am waiting to bring it home for you.

   Har.  You run and let down the bars, and I will be with you in a moment.

SONG — Harriet.

   Sal.  Jonathan !  Jonathan !  Stop a moment, till I say one word more.

   Jon.  ( Returning. )  I don’t calculate, Sal, that you can say anything to convince me that I did n’t see Tom Clover kiss you last night, in the singing-school.

   Sal.  Tom Clover kiss me !  A’n’t you ashamed of yourself, Jonathan, to tell such a story ?

   Jon.  It is no story, because it is true.  I saw him make believe whisper to you, and then I heard him smack you right on the cheek.  There, deny it if you can.

   Sal.  Can you swear to it?

   Jon.  Yes, on the Big Book.

   Sal.  Then you would perjure yourself ;  for it was I that smacked him.  Ha, ha, ha !

   Jon.  So much the more shame for you.  It is treating me like a brute.  I would n’t serve a negro so.

   Sal.  La, Jonathan ! what harm is there in a kiss ?

   Jon.  I tell you there is harm in it.  After keeping company with me, you had n’t ought to let another man touch you.

   Sal.  Then, I am afraid, I should be doomed to lead apes ;  for you don’t come within arm’s length of me, for fear I should bite you.

   Jon.  ’Cause you are always playing tricks on me, if I offer any sich thing ;  but Tom may do what he pleases, and you like him the better for it.

   Sal.  Now, Jonathan, did n’t I sit on your knee last Sunday evening ?  Answer me that.

   Jon.  And, ’cause I happened to get asleep, did n’t you get up softly, and put the big Tom-cat in your place? and did n’t your father find me hugging it when he got up in the morning?  Answer me that.  I would n’t serve a negro so.

   Sal.  Ha, ha ha !  Now, Jonathan, what difference can it make, to a man that is fast asleep, whether he is hugging me or a Tom-cat ?  But come, now, let us be friends once more, and I will never do anything to vex you again.

   Jon.  I won’t be friends with you, for I see plain enough what your drift is.  Everybody says you are only running after me ’cause I got a shop.  But I guess you ’ll find yourself mistaken, for I know how the cat jumps, and will sooner burn my shop, pack up my duds, and go back to Taunton to catch herrings for a living.

   Sal.  O, Jonathan, now don’t be so unforgiving !  You know I don’t care a fig for any other man.  Come — give me a kiss.

   Jon.  May I, though ?

   Jon.  Now, that ’s a dear, sweet, kind, good girl !  Will you always love me so ?

   Rose.  Yes, Massa Jonathan, me lub you berry bad.

   Sal.  ( Taking the shawl from his eyes. ) There, Jonathan, is not that better than the Tom-cat ?  Ha, ha, ha !

   Jon.  Darnation !  If I have not been bussing Lid Rose !  Now, Sal Forest, that is too bad !  I would not serve a negro so.

   Rose.  But you did serve poor negro so, and ax me to lubber you, and now you desert me.

   Jon.  Be off with you, garlic-chops !  Darn me, if ever I speak to Sal Forest again, but will take Granny Gossip’s advice, and court Harriet Miller.  Whew !  how the wench smelt of onions !

   Bland.  I can neither find my companion nor the road which leads to our lodging.  No wonder.  One subject alone occupies all my thoughts, and I struggle in vain to dissipate the mental abstraction.  Cruel, cruel Lydia !  to leave me without a single clew to discover her retreat.  Ignorant even of her guardian’s name and place of residence, I vainly wander about these rural scenes, making myself ridiculous by inquiries which none can answer.  O, could I but once more meet her, and find her still the same, these hours of misery should be repaid with years of joy.  One smile from thee, my dearest Lydia, would cause this desponding heart to throb again with rapture.  ( Hums an air. )

   Jon.  That ’s a darnation queer kind of a tune.  I wonder if I could play it on my jews-harp.  Servant, sir.  Guess it will rain to-day, don’t you ?

   Bland.  ( Aside. ) It is a vain pursuit, and I will return to town.

   Jon.  ( Aside. ) Too darned proud to speak to a body in a homespun coat.  This must be one of them city chaps that come over here a gunning.  I say, mister !  Servant, sir.

   Bland.  Tell me, my good fellow, how far am I from the Eagle Tavern ?

   Jon.  You don’t belong to these parts, I calculate?

   Bland.  Of course I do not.  Will you answer my question ?

   Jon.  Maybe you are from New York? How does buckwheat sell ?

   Bland.  Will you direct me to Major Butler’s, who keeps the stage-house at the sign of the Spread Eagle ?

   Jon.  You a’n’t acquainted with the major, are you ?  He trades at my shop.  If I may be so bold, sir, what may I call your name ?

   Bland.  Stupid !  — Pshaw !  I will keep my temper.

   Jon.  Stupid Shaw.  S’pose you a’n’t any ways related to ’Squire Shaw, of Taunton, are you ? — he that married the widow Lovett, mother of Ichabod Lovett, who was tried for horse-stealing?

   Bland.  ( Aside. ) I must humor this fellow, or find the Eagle Tavern myself.  No, sir, I have not the honor of an acquaintance with any member of the family you mention.

   Jon.  Then maybe you are related to the Shaws of Hackensack, here in the Jarseys?

   Jon.  Jonathan Ploughboy, at your service, formerly of Taunton, in the state of Massachusetts.

   Bland.  Do you live hereabouts ?

   Jon.  I guess you ’d think so, if you saw my name on the shop, down by the bridge.

   Bland.  So you are shop-keeper, then ?

   Jon.  A little in the merchant way, and a piece of a farmer besides.

   Bland.  What do you sell ?

   Jon.  Everything ;  whiskey, molasses, calicoes, spelling-books and patent gridirons.

   Bland.  With which you contrive to shave the natives ?

   Jon.  No, sir ;  everybody shaves himself here.  There is no barber nearer than Paris.

   Bland.  You don’t understand me.  By shaving I mean making a sharp bargain, or what your parson or deacon might denominate cheating.

   Jon.  Me ?  I would n’t serve a negro so.  But as to the parson or deacon, folks say they are pretty cute that way themselves.

   Bland.  Are there any pretty girls in your neighborhood ?

   Jon.  He, he, he !  I guess you ’d think so, if you saw Sally Forest and Harriet Miller.

   Bland.  I dare say that your Sallies and your Harriets are very fine girls.  But do you know of any one called Lydia ?

   Jon.  Lydia? O, yes ;  but in the country here we call her Lid.  You can see her any time at Deacon Forest’s.

   Bland.  Her other name ?

   Jon.  Think of the sweetest flower that blows.  ( Aside. ) Darnation take the garlic, I say.

   Bland.  Gracious heavens !  Should it be the same !  What is her age, size, complexion ?  Has she black hair, dark eyes, pouting lips ?  Describe her person.

   Jon.  I take her to be about eighteen or nineteen.

   Bland.  Just the age.  Her size?

   Jon.  Not very tall nor very slim.

   Bland.  It must be she !  Her hair and eyes?

   Jon.  Black, I reckon ;  but I am not sure.

   Bland.  I live again !  Her teeth, breath, complexion ?  There are none like them on earth !

   Jon.  I don’t believe there is !  and as ibr the pouting lips you mentioned, just see her mad once — that ’s all.

   Bland.  Mad !

   Jon.  Was you ever in Wethersfield ?

   Bland.  No.  Why do you ask ?

   Jon.  Then you know nothing about her breath.  Have you ever seen the ace of spades ?  That ’s enough !

   Bland.  Of whom are you speaking ?

   Jon.  Lid Rose — Deacon Forest’s negro wench.  They call her The Black Rose.

   Bland.  Confound your stupidity, or shrewdness, I know not which to call it !  The sweetest bud of hope has withered in a moment.

   Jon.  Bud of hope !  Darn me, if I don’t think she ’s more like a clove of garlic.  But come, Mr. What-de-oall-’em — Stupid Shaw — I will tell you what to do, and if you are wise you will take a fool’s advice.  All the girls within half a mile will be at ’Squire Miller’s this evening ;  perhaps your Lydia may be among them.  Come along with me, and I will show you the place.

   Bland.  I thank you for the offer ;  but business calls me to my lodgings — the Eagle Tavern.

   Jon.  Why, that’s right on the road.

   Bland.  You will not direct me wrong ?

   Jon.  Me !  I would n’t serve a negro so.

( Exeunt, L. H. )

   Lydia.  Harriet is absent, — all are engaged, and I can now enjoy one moment in contemplating features which are so deeply impressed on my heart.  ( Takes a locket from her bosom, which she presses to her lips, gazes on it a moment, and then conceals it. ) Ah, Charles !  Charles !  Why did we ever meet !  And yet I would not, if I could, forget the past, although I must look to the future without hope.

( Exit into the cottage. )

   Bel.  I must have another interview before I meet the moralizing Blandford.  How shall I manage ?  Old Squaretoes must not suspect ;  and as for the bumpkin, her lover, he must take his walking-papers.  As both are now in the harvest field, the coast must be clear, and this is my time.

   Bel.  Listen to me a moment, sweet girl !  I swear to Heaven I love you to distraction, and have no desire but to make you.happy.  The moment is propitious ;  fly with me to a scene where wealth and pleasure await you.  ( She breaks from him, and enters the cottage. )  This is strange !  Can her coyness be real ?  Perhaps my visit is ill-timed.  I will swear that she loves me, from what I overheard this morning.  Ha !  what the devil have we here ?  ( Takes up the locket. )  I see it all, split me !  To lull suspicion, she pretends to shun my advances, while she artfully drops a token of affection at my feet.  This trophy will convince Blandford that my conquests are not all empty boasts.  Wait patiently till night, my dear, and you shall find I can take a hint.  Love in the dark shall be my motto.

   Har.  Well, Jonathan, what is it you wish to tell me ?

   Jon.  Why, Miss Harriet, Granny Gossip and I had a long talk about it last night ;  and she said how —

   Har.  She said how !  Then what did you say ?

   Jon.  ( Confused. ) I said how —

   Har.  Well ?  You both said How !  What next ?  Go on.

   Jon.  Why, darn it !  you won’t let me tell.

   Har.  You are so long about it.  Don’t you know that a smart girl like me wants everything done quick ?

   Jon.  That ’s just what Granny Gossip said, by the hokey !  She told me, says she —

   Har.  Indeed !  Then what did you tell her ?

   Jon.  I said, says I — No ;  Granny Gossip said, says she — Harriet Miller is the smartest girl in all the country, be the other who she may.

   Har.  I am very much obliged to the old lady.  Then, what did you say ?

   Jon.  I said, says I, so she is ;  for, says I, she can milk a cow, make a cheese, and boil a pudding, with any girl In the world, says I.

   Har.  That was certainly very kind of you.

   Jon.  Was n’t it now ?  Then says she to me, says she, Why don’t you strike there, instead of running after the deacon’s Sal, who don’t care three skips of a flea for you, only for your money ?  Why don’t you strike there ? says Granny Gossip to me, says she.

   Har.  Strike !  Where ?

   Jon.  Here — you !

   Har.  Strike me !

   Jon.  No — no !  She meant, why did n’ I court you ?  He, he, he !

   Har.  O, that alters the case !  What reason did you give for not courting me ?

   Jon.  I told her I was afeard.  But, after talking a good while longer about it, I thought, thinks I to myself, there can be no great harm in axing the question ;  and if I get the sack, says I to myself, I shan’t be the first that ’s got it by hundreds.

   Har.  That is true, Jonathan ;  and you won’t be the last by thousands.

   Jon.  And so, as you are to have a dance to-night, on account of the harvest, Granny Gossip said I had better come and ax you to be my partner.

   Har.  The old lady is certainly a very considerate woman.

   Jon.  Arn’t she, now ?  She always has an eye to the main chance, as she calls it.  So she says to me, says she, Harriet Miller has got something to make the pot boil, says she, and the deacon’s Sal has n’t got a second — what-d’ye-call-it ? — to her back.  So, if you have no objections, Miss Harriet, I will come to night, and —

   Har.  Stay a moment.  May I depend upon your intentions being honorable ?  I hope, sir, that you don’t mean to impose upon my youth and inexperience, to win my virgin heart, and then take advantage of my unsuspecting innocence.  You do not mean to ruin me !  O !  ( Weeps. )

   Jon.  Me !  Ruin you !  I wouldn’t serve a negro so.  Now, don’t take on so ;  pray don’t.

   Har.  Ha, ha, ha !  Well, I believe I may trust you.  But do you know what to do next ?

   Jon.  No, I don’t, but if you will tell me, I am a cute fellow to learn.

   Har.  You must tell me all about my beautiful eyes, auburn hair, rosy cheeks, pouting lips, and ivory teeth.

   Jon.  That ’s just what a fellow said to-day about the deacon’s wench.

   Har.  Then you must drop upon one knee, and swear that you love me better than all the world.

   Jon.  I never swear, Miss Harriet, nor tell fibs neither ;  so don’t insist upon my going on in that way.

   Har.  Without swearing, then, tell me exactly how much you do love me.

   Jon.  I — I — I never can talk about love, Miss Harriet ;  I always stutter when I try to speak about it.

( Clock strikes twelve. )

   Har.  Go, then, false-hearted man !  and never speak to me again !

   Jon.  May n’t I come to the harvest bee to-night ?

   Har.  No — you shan’t !  So there !

   Jon.  Then I ’ll have a little bit of a hop now, for here comes the stalk-cutters, and the apple-pickers, and the cider-grinders, and all the rest of them, to dinner.

   Mil.  How soon will dinner be ready ?

   Lydia.  In a quarter of an hour, sir.

   Mil.  In the mean time, we will rest ourselves in the shade of these venerable elms.  Now, the rest of you may amuse yourselves as you please.

   Jon.  Let ’s have a dance, then.

   Bland.  Has Mr. Bellamy returned?

   Waiter.  No, sir.

   Bland.  The moment he comes, tell him I wish to speak with him.

   Waiter.  Yes, sir.

   Bland.  Where can he linger? ( Musing. ) Yes, I will return to town, and once more try if business will not drive away the sad reflections which pleasure cannot dissipate.  And yet I know the attempt will be vain ;  for there is but one charm that can ever restore peace to this harassed bosom, and that is the smile of affection from her I adore.

   Bel.  Still in the dumps, Charles !  Cheer up, man, and ‘‘thread the thicket,’’ as I do.  There’s plenty of game, my dear fellow, there is, indeed.  ( Playing with the locket, which is now suspended to his neck. )

   Bland.  You are in spirits, I perceive.

   Bel.  To be sure I am, and I have reason to be ;  for ( Sings, )

   Bland.  Are you ready to return to town?

   Bel.  To town !  Are you mad, Charles ?  We are just beginning to enjoy ourselves.  Don’t think of returning this month.

   Bland.  I shall go immediately.

   Bel.  I am very sorry that I can’t have the pleasure of accompanying you ;  but I shall soon follow, with one of the sweetest little Forest Roses that ever graced a sportsman’s bosom.  True, ’pon honor.

   Bland.  A Forest Rose?

   Bel.  Ay, man !  Blushing like Innocence, and smiling like Venus.  A woman, you sly one, or rather an angel in petticoats.

   Bland.  Pshaw !  This is another of your empty boasts ;  and I can forgive all your imaginary sins, Edward, numerous as they are.

   Bel.  You may judge for yourself, Charles, whether this be an empty boast, or an imaginary sin.  When a lover wears a lady’s favor in his bosom, it generally means something.  Look at this, and convince yourself.  ( Displays the locket. )

   Bland.  ( Aside. )  Gracious Heaven !  It is — it is the very trinket which she vowed to wear forever for my sake !  Where is she ?  Lead me to her instantly !

   Bel.  Excuse me, Charles ;  I shall not consider it friendly in you to interfere in this affair ;  and must, therefore, decline giving you an introduction.

   Bland.  Interfere !  Grant me patience, Heaven !  Do you say — dare you swear — that — that — that — she consented ?  No — it is impossible — the thing is impossible !  That locket has been lost, and you found it, Bellamy.

   Bel.  I say, Waiter !  Go call a Justice of the Peace, and I will immediately swear that the lovely wearer of this trinket was in my arms to-day.  Come along, and I will soon show you my little Forest Rose.  I will, indeed.

   Har.  Where did you leave your sister?

   Wil.  In the orchard, conversing with Dobson, who has just arrived from Goshen with all the documents respecting my father’s estate, and is ready to put us in possession immediately.  O, Harriet, you will be delighted with the situation !

   Har.  How do you know that I will ever see it?

   Wil.  Because it shall be yours, or I will never see it again.

   Har.  Well, I will think of it, while you return to the orchard, and tell Lydia I wish to speak with her.  Go — that ’s a good fellow.

   Wil.  Will you remain here?

   Har.  To be sure I will.  Are you afraid that some magician will bear me off to his enchanted castle?

   Wil.  No — but that English dandy is in the next field ;  and I thought you would not like to be left alone.

   Har.  Go along, you jealous fellow !

I wonder if the old saying be true, that love and jealousy always go together ?  I think I should be convinced, if I saw William very particular to another girl.

   Bel.  ( Apart. ) That is she, Charles.  Is she not an angel ?  Stay, lovely girl, one moment, until I apologize for the alarm which my ill-timed proposal must have given you, when this locket came into my possession.

   Har.  I do not understand you, sir.

   Bel.  ( Apart to Blandford. ) You see how it is, Charles ;  the sly thing won’t confess before you.  I say, my dear, say what you please before this gentleman.  He is our mutual friend, I assure you.  He is indeed, my love, and will assist us to deceive old Squaretoes.

   Har.  I am still at fault, as you sportsmen would say ;  just as I was this morning respecting a bird of paradise.

   Bel.  You see, Charles, she pretends to know nothing about me.  You had better retire, and leave us alone.  You had, indeed.

   Har.  I have not, sir.  I never owned one, or had one in my possession.

   Bel.  ( Aside. ) Never — Split me !  but she plays her part divinely.  She does, indeed.

   Har.  Never.  Do you doubt my word?

   Bland.  Do not be offended, Miss Miller.  I am particularly interested in this inquiry.

   Bel.  You need be under no restraint on this subject, as no one is present but ourselves.  My friend is in my confidence, and may be trusted ;  he is acquainted with every circumstance.  He is, indeed, my dear.

   Har.  Then he has the advantage of me, sir ;  for I am totally ignorant of any circumstance connected with the subject of your inquiry.

   Bland.  Perhaps, Miss Miller, in the alarm which this gentleman’s sudden appearance gave you — being alone —

   Har.  You labor under a mistake, sir.  His appearance was not sudden — neither was I alone ;  nor did I feel alarmed.  Did I appear frightened, sir, when I was asking you about dandies, sad donkeys, and calves? Ha, ha, ha !

   Bel.  My friend alludes to our second interview.  ( Aside. ) No city belle could perform better.

   Har.  This is our second interview ;  for I have not seen you since you took so hasty a leave of my father this morning.

   Bel.  Not when you opened the door to see who knocked ?  I hope, however, that you will excuse that act of apparent rudeness, when you recollect that I am yet almost a stranger to the manners and customs of this country, being but recently imported.

   Har.  Then I forgive you everything, in consideration of the benefit you have done our revenue ;  for a heavy duty, I am told, is paid on all articles the principal ingredient of which is brass.

   Bel.  She is only throwing dust in your eyes, Charles.  She is indeed, ’pon honor.

   Jon.  Darn it, Bill ! if there isn’t the very fellow that ax’d me so many questions about Lid Rose.

   Wil.  The other is the English dandy I was telling you about.  See ! he is honoring us with a squint through his quizzer.

   Har.  Have you any more questions to ask, gentlemen?

   Bland.  To come to the point at once, Miss Miller, do you, or do you not, know the owner of this trinket ?

   Har.  I do not, indeed, sir.  I never saw it before.

   Jon.  Nor I neither, if I did darn me !  There ’s a C for cows ;  and B for bulls ;  and L for lambs ;  and R for rams.  What a curious thing it is !

   Bland.  Let me entreat you, madam, if a glow of compassion ever warmed your bosom, to tell me how this locket came into your possession ?

   Har.  Into my possession, sir !  Have I not solemnly assured you that I never saw it before ?

   Bland.  Nor this ?

( Presses a spring, which opens the locket, and exhibits a miniature. )

   Har.  No, sir.  But I now perceive that it is a very striking likeness of yourself.

   Bland.  Then, Bellamy, I demand an explanation of you.

   Bel.  Upon my honor, Charles, I have told you all I know upon the subject.  I found that trinket, this morning, in the manner I described, and if it did not fall from this lady’s bosom, it must have dropped from the moon.  It must, indeed.

   Jon.  I would as soon believe the moon was made of green cheese.

   Wil.  It is, certainly, very singular !  How can you account for it, Harriet?

   Har.  Indeed, I don’t know.

   Bland.  She must be in this neighborhood, and, by Heaven, I will find her, if I have to search every house in the county.  I will neither taste of food, nor sleep until I can call her mine, or ascertain that she has ceased to love me.

   Bel.  Stay, Charles, one moment.

   Jon.  Poor fellow !  He is a little cracked, I calculate.

   Bel.  You calculate, do you, sir?

   Jon.  I guess I do, a little, in the way of trade.

   Bel.  And might one calculate on your assistance and fidelity, in an affair of importance ?

   Jon.  I take it he can, if he pays me well.

   Bel.  In that respect you shall be fully satisfied.  You shall, indeed.  Step this way, and I will explain.

( They retire up the stage. )

   Har.  O, my dear, you know not what a treat you have lost, by being absent for the last quarter of an hour !

   Lyd.  Nay, Harriet, you know not what a treat I have enjoyed, by being absent ;  and you cannot know, until you have, like me, been for five years absent from your paternal home.

   Har.  But I can guess.  You have seen Dobson !

   Lyd.  Yes — and have strayed with him, in imagination, through every corner of our little farm.  Everything, William, is pretty much as it used to be, when we lived at home and were so happy.  Even the old cider-mill is in being yet, and the cool dairy-house by the side of the well.  You recollect them well, William ?

   Wil.  What is there about the old place that I do not recollect, Lydia ?  The mill-pond, the little waterfall, the meadow, — in short, the most trifling object about my father’s farm.

   Wil.  How now, Jonathan ?  What have you done with the dandy ?

   Jon.  Darn me, Bill, if that fellow a’n’t a little cracked too.

   Wil.  Not about the middle, I hope, or he will certainly break off.

   Har.  ( In reply to Lydia. ) Yes — and would insist upon it that I was the owner, as one of them said he found it here by our door.

   Lyd.  A locket ?  ( Feeling in her bosom. )

   Har.  Yes ;  containing a miniature likeness of the other gentleman.  ( Lydia shrieks, and rushes into the cottage. )

   Jon.  I’ll be darned if she a’n’t a little cracked too.

   Har.  Lydia !  Lydia !  What is the matter ?  ( Runs after her. )

   Jon.  She ’s cracked too, by hokey !

   Wil.  Good-day, Jonathan.

( Exit into the cottage. )

   Bland.  Involved in the mazes of this intricate forest, every step increases my perplexity, and adds to my fatigue.  I must rest awhile upon this bank.  ( Throws himself down. ) Fool that I am, to engage in such a wild-goose chase !  I shall never see her more.  This trinket, however, will be dear to me, for she once wore it near her heart ;  it once rested on that pure bosom, which I would rather press than possess the Indies.  ( Kisses the locket, and lays it down on the bank ;  then takes a miniature from his bosom. )  But here is her own sweet countenance.  Those lips appear to move.  Those eyes !  How could the artist do them justice, when their sweet gaze was fixed on him ?

   Bland.  That must be Bellamy’s piece.  So, ho ! ho ! halloo ! Bellamy ! Halloo ! halloo !

   Jon.  I don’t calculate I feel exactly right about keeping this purse ;  and yet I believe I should feel still worse to give it back.  Twenty-three dollars is a speculation that a’n’t to be sneezed at, for it a’n’t to be catched every day.  But will it be right to keep the money, when I don’t intend to do the job ?  Now, if I was at home, in Taunton, I would put that question to our debating society, and I would support the affirmative side of the question.  ( Sees the locket on the bank. ) May I be darned, now, if old Nick, ha’ n’t baited another hook for my honesty !  Here ’s the very thing that has made all the fuss.  By the hokey !  wouldn’t Sal Forest cut a dash with this dangling at her neck ?  She may as well keep it till we find the owner, and get the reward.  Now some folks would keep it out and out.  I would n’t serve a negro so.

   Jon.  Now, darn it, what ’s the use of plaguing a body so ?  Why cannot you say yes, at once ?

   Sal.  Because I don’t mean to say ‘‘yes’’ at all.  I won’t dance with any fellow Jack-at-a-pinch.  You could n’t get Harriet Miller, and I think myself as good as she, any day, if her father is a ’Squire.  Besides, there is Tom Clover —

   Jon.  Darn Tom Clover !  So, you won’t go along with me, hey ?

   Sal.  No, I won’t.

   Jon.  Very well, Miss Sally.  I calculate that I can find a girl that will go with me, and then we shall see which of the company will display the prettiest locket.  ( Showing it. )

   Sal.  O, Jonathan !  What is that ?  Let me see it !  Whose is it ?

   Jon.  It is for my partner to wear at the dance, this evening.

   Sal.  Is it though ?  Well, then, let ’s have it.

   Jon.  Let you have it !  Catch me that fellow !  Just now I wan’t good enough for you !

   Sal.  Pshaw !  You know, Jonathan !  that I was only jesting.  I never intended to dance with any one but you.

   Jon.  No — no !  That cock won’t fight, Sal.  Remember the Tom-cat and Lid Rose.  I will take no girl Jack at-a-pinch.  Tom Clover won’t have you, and I think myself as good as he, any day, though his father is a cow-doctor.

   Sal.  Go, then, you cruel, unfeeling monster, and see if I don’t make you smart for your falsehood and villany !  I will sue you for a breach of promise, so I will ;  for reputation ;  for keeping me in suspense ;  and see what will become of your shop then, when I recover nine thousand dollars, which is the price everywhere.  You know it is, you dear deceiver !  O !  O !  ( Weeps. )

   Jon.  O !  Sally !  now don’t take on so, and I’ll do anything for you in the world.

   Sal.  Ha, ha, ha !  You will ?  Well, come now, what will you do ?

   Jon.  I’ll marry you to-night, if you say so, and never speak to another girl again, only in the way of trade, when they come to the shop after molasses, and such like.  Come, Sally.  Don’t be cross, and here ’s something to buy you a wedding-dress.

( Shows the purse. )

   Sal.  O, what a beautiful purse that is !  Where did you get it ?

   Jon.  If you like the outside so well, what do you think of the lining ?  ( Puts the money into her hand. ) There ’s five guineas, and as many half dollars.

   Sal.  Now you are a dear, good Jonathan !  Where upon earth did you get guineas, though ?

   Jon.  I will tell you, Sally, and then take your advice upon the subject.  Sally, what do you think !  I have promised to act like a damned scoundrel for that money.

   Sal.  Then take it back, and restore it to the scoundrel who gave it you.  Jonathan, you would n’t keep such a promise as that, would you?

   Jon.  Me ? no !  Sally, I would n’t serve a negro so.  But cannot you contrive some method by which I can keep the purse instead of the promise ?

   Sal.  Who gave it to you ?

   Jon.  A white-gilled, baby-faced fellow from New York, who wants to cut out Bill Roseville, and take Harriet Miller off to the city.

   Sal.  And what was you to do in such an affair ?

   Jon.  Only to decoy her into some private place, where two men were to wait for her, and conduct her to the sloop which is lying at the landing.

   Sal.  Sloop, did you say ?

   Jon.  Yes, — S-l-o-o-p.  He said Harriet was very anxious to go, but did not want to let her friends know anything about it.

   Sal.  What a scape-gallows wretch it must be !  to tell such a lie !  I know Harriet Miller better, and I will instantly run to put her on her guard.

   Jon.  Then I must return the purse, you know.  You are always ready enough to play tricks on me ;  now, can’t you contrive some method to quiz the dandy, and yet make him believe that I tried to do all I promised ?  Then, you know, we can keep the purse with a good conscience.

   Sal.  Let me see.  We cannot deceive him with the Tom-cat instead of Harriet.

   Jon.  Darn the Tom-cat !

   Sal.  I have it.  Ha, ha, ha !  That will do.

   Jon.  What is it ?

   Sal.  No matter.  Go and tell your employer that Harriet has consented to accompany him on board the sloop, and that while the dances are going on this evening, she and you will slip away, and run to the willow-grove, where he must be in waiting for her.  Tell him, also, that, in order to prevent her being recognized by any one, she insists upon being closely veiled and perfectly silent, until she is safe on board the vessel, and beyond the danger of pursuit.  Leave the rest to me.

   Jon.  Why, what do you calculate to do, Sally ?

   Sal.  Perhaps I calculate to take Harriet’s place, and visit the city myself.

   Jon.  What ! with that fellow ?

   Sal.  Think what a chance there would be for you to immortalize yourself, Jonathan.  Just as the villain had seized me in his arms, a blow from my lover’s hand lays him prostrate in the dust.  O, wouldn’t that be delightful ?

   Jon.  So it would, by the hokey !  But would it be right to knock a man down who has given me thirty-five dollars ?

   Sal.  Not unless you value me at more than thirty-five dollars.  But make haste, and do as I have told you.  There is no time to be lost.  Now you won’t deceive me ?

   Jon.  Me !  I would n’t serve a negro so.

( Exeunt opposite. )

   Sal.  O, Miss Miller, I have prepared such a treat for you in the little willow grove !  You must come and enjoy it.

   Har.  What is it, Sally ?

   Sal.  I won’t tell you, for that would spoil it all.  But come, get your hat and veil, and go along with me, and see for yourself.  It is something that will please you.

   Har.  Well, I suppose that I must humor you.  ( Goes into the cottage, and returns with a hat and veil. )  I cannot be gone a moment, for it is now sundown, and the company will soon be here.

   Sal.  My entertainment shall not detain you long.  Come.

   Bland.  Believe me, sir, the transport of this moment is a rich recompense for the months of misery I have endured.  Where is your friend, Harriet, my love ?

   Lyd.  We left her here but now.

   Mil.  O, she is not for off, I warrant you.  William, here, will find her directly.  He is never at fault in such a pursuit.

   Jon.  I’ll be darned, now, if there be n’t the very crack’d-brained fellow that lost the locket.  What shall we do, Sally ?

   Sal.  We must make the best of it, Jonathan.

   Jon.  Well, I guess I am ’cute enough to do that in the way of trade.  I say, Mister, you han’t lost nothing nowhere, have you?

   Bland.  Yes, the trinket you saw me have to-day.  A locket.

   Jon.  Not that curious thing with C for cows, and B for bulls, and L for lambs; and R for rams ?

   Bland.  The same.  Have you found it ?

   Jon.  What will you give the finder, and no questions ax’d

   Bland.  A generous reward.  Where is it ?

   Jon.  There, on Sal Forest’s neck ;  and all the reward I ax is the privilege of her wearing it this evening.

   Bland.  What say you, Lydia ?  It is your property.

   Lyd.  Let her wear it by all means ;  and to-morrow I will redeem it with what will purchase Sally a wedding-dress.

   Sal.  Thank you, ma’am.  Now, Jonathan, to the willow grove,

   Mil.  And now, as there is not a sad countenance present, let the sports commence.  Find Harriet, William, and let us have a dance.

   Sal.  Run !  Fly !  Save Harriet Miller !  or she will be lost forever !

   Omnes.  Harriet Miller !  Where is she?

   Sal.  There !  There !  In the willow-grove, yonder !  Some wretches are attempting to carry her off by force !

   Mil.  Follow me !

   Bland.  From this moment, Bellamy, our acquaintance terminates.

   Mil.  What have you to say, sir, in palliation of so base an attempt ?  What blacker crime is there in the whole catalogue of human depravity, than to force an artless, innocent girl from the home of her infancy, and the arms of doting parents, in order to initiate her into a life of vice and infamy ?

   Wil.  How can you answer this outrage to me, sir, knowing, as you did, in what relation I stood to the intended victim of your depravity ?

   Sal.  How can you answer it to me, sir ?  She is my particular friend.

   Jon.  Or to me, sir ?  She is a customer to my shop, and I consider it a very black affair.

   Bel.  Go on, ladies and gentlemen.  Have you all done ?  Then I will condescend to explain.  I have committed no outrage ;  but appeal to this sweet, trembling girl, if she did not voluntarily put herself under my protection.  Speak, lovely creature, and do me justice.  Did you not willingly consent to accompany me to New York?

   Mil.  How !  Harriet !  Speak, and explain this mystery !  Did you consent to abandon us all, and follow this foreign adventurer ?  — this libertine in principle and practice ?

   Wil.  And leave me, too, Harriet ?

   Bel.  This lady is doubtless her own mistress ;  and, since she prefers me to you, sir, I cannot see by what right you seek to control her actions.  Permit me to remove this veil, lovely girl, that they may all see on whom you look with the eye of affection.

   Rose.  ( Throwing aside the veil. ) On you, Massa Bellamy ;  ’cause you kissee me so sweet, in the grove, just now.

   Omnes.  Lid Rose !  Ha ! ha ! ha !

   Bland.  This, then, is the Forest Rose, that was to grace a sportsman’s bosom Ha ! ha ! ha ! Love in the dark !  Hey, Bellamy ?  Ha ! ha ! ha !

   Mil.  Ha ! ha ! ha !  But where is Harriet?

   Har.  Here she is, safe and sound.  What, William, were you jealous again ?

   Wil.  Forgive me, Harriet.

   Mil.  Let us all forgive and forget ;  and, to prevent any further jealousies, William, there, take my daughter ;  and may you both be as happy as you deserve !  As for you, Mr. Bellamy, let your present mortification teach you never again to endanger the happiness of an affectionate family for the gratification of a selfish passion.

   Bel.  Old Squaretoes turned preacher, too, split me !  I say, Charles, I give you joy of your rustic alliance.  I shall return to town immediately, and quit this country of savages in the —— packet which sails the —— ;  I shall, indeed ;  but I will not fail to notice you all when I publish my Three Months in America.

   Wil.  And don’t forget to notice the beauty and fragrance of our black roses !  Ha ! ha ! ha !

   Bel.  Fragrance, you creature !  Strike me, exquisite, if all Roussell’s perfume would annihilate the cloud of odors with which that caricature upon humanity has impregnated my glove.

   Jon.  How d’ye like onions ?

   Mil.  Now resume your amusements until the harvest-supper be served up, and remember that while we are lords of the luxuriant soil which feeds us, there is no lot on earth more enviable than that of American Farmers.