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7
Che Llustrious Stranger,
Bowrrzr, Oh mercy; mercy! Most glorious cnthrope-
phagus, dou. eat me! I am as unwholesome as a goekle
On a copper bank,
Scene 2.
THE
ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER:
MARRIED AND BURIED.
@ Saree,
In UNE m2 tf.
BY MESSRS.
JAMES KENNEY anp MILLINGEN.
THOMAS HAILES LACY,
89, STRAND,
(Opposite Southampton Street, Covent Garden Market),
LONDON.
THE ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER.
Lirst performed at the Theatre Loyal, Drury Lane.
ABOULIFAR (Kang of the Island) sec... -«. Mr. Tuompson.
aroha cas Coviesccssvestbten. ccc. -- Mr. J. Brann.
EES seer i america .. Mr. J. Russexz,
BENJAMIN DOW BHI: 4s: 4s. srccvesccececes MY. LISTON.
oc SE Peart eee ema ae savaundece eooes Mr. Harrey.
he Ug 8 Sy rr Hac secccccscsevces Mr, FENTON.
OF PICEE i...0.<, POOR eee cecssescceecssssecescssccseseeves Mr, O. JONES.
] RZA (the Princess’ r Mrs. Ww e GEESON.
44 7 i >} COC PCP eee eer eeececccccseess cere Miss Pincort.
FATIMA.....
ii ee COOP OP OSC CeO CDEP EReeecce CEN seesee Miss LOVE.
Nobles, Mandarins, Black Slaves, Priests, Guards, Banners,
Palanguin Bearers, and Ladies.
~~ —_~ PBA PAO PP
SCENE.—An Island olf the Coast of Malabar.
OLLI II III PPD PDS Very VAs
oe X ,
@osiune—Curineser.
ABOULIFAR.—Chinese hat, short surcoat of straw-colour, hand-
somely embroidered, long embroidered shirt, white trousers, green
boots, scimitar, &e,
Azan.— First dress: Brown dervish robes, with red sash and red
turban. Second dress: Handsome embroidered robes, white trousers,
russet boots, Chinese hat.
AtBAJon.—Black Chinese double dress, trimmed with white ;
white trousers, black boots, Chinese hat.
Bowse.tu.—Tirst dress - Check shirt, straw hat, gray jacket,
much torn, oilskin pantaloons, black Shoes, black kerchief, long
black hair. Second dress « Russet boots, white trousers, Chinese
shirt and petticoats, comic Chinese hat, of the pagoda shape.
GimBo.— White dress, complete, with black Stripes; fly the same,
white and black striped pagoda hat, russet shoes.
Hien Priest.—Brahmin robes of white, flesh arms and lees,
sandals, white hair and beard, with a gold band round his head,
rich girdle. (All the Priests dressed alike.)
Nosrres.—Chinese double dresses, Chinese hats.
Guarps.—Double dresses, full trousers, shields, bows, Swords, &e.
Inza.—White and yellow satin Chinese double dress (richly
embroidered), Chinese slippers, flesh-coloured stockings, hair
turned up a-la-Chinoise.
Fatma.—Chinese dress.
Six Lapms.—White dresses, enveloped in veils.
[Performance Free.]
THE
ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER.
I
SCENE First.—The Palace—a Court Yard looking on a@
picturesque tropical landscape.
Enter ALIBAJON, R., meeting Gimpo, L.
Attpason. I have sent for you, my dear Gimbo, to
converse with you on a most important subject, on which
depends our mutual prosperity.
Gimpo. Speak—always ready to serve my friends.—
We are bound to each other by mutual interest. You are
the physician of King Aboulifar, sovereign of this island:
and [ am master-general of funerals, embalmer, and
mummy-maker, to the Court.—Yon stuff the living with
your foul physic, and I sweeten their poor dead corpses
after it.
Aur. You will remember, however, my dear fellow,
that it is to me you owe your high preferment and lucrative
station: recollect that I was the person who took you in
hand, a poor orphan boy, when the drudge of a petty
grocer’s shop in Thames Street: and when they kicked
you out of doors for having broken your leg, I ministered
to your wants.
Gimpo. ‘True: I had sprained my foot, which, as you
Say, you took in hand, and from'hand ¢o foot I am now as
crooked as a ram’s horn—proceed.
Aus. I then, you know, was a travelling physician.
Gimpo. An itinerant quack—true—-proceed.
ALts. Quack—quack—why, there’s quackery in every
trade.
Gimpo. Even in physic—true—proceed. Time’s pre-
A Mi. f “ar.
“F444
Pr
—
a
eg EEO ES nn
i lh
gk, Oo BS 50 en -
4 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. [Sc. 1.
cious—weather hot—-season’s sickly—deaths frequent—
and I’ve a young lady to stuff, and an old gentleman to
varnish—proceed—to business.
Aus. Then, my dear Gimbo, listen to me attentively.
You know that when we were obliged to leave England,
you and I set off for the I Indies, when we were
wrecked upon this island off Malabar coast.
Gimso. True; but by no means new—proceed.
Aue. You also know that by my talents and luck, I
not only became physician to the king, but his confidential
adviser; you also are not unacquainted with the state of
affairs, and the grief of our good sovereign. His only
child, the Princess Irza, has rashly attached herself to
Prince Azan, a disgraced rebel, who has since died in exile.
Gimpo. I know; you stocked him a medicine-chest
before he started—proceed.
Atir. Now the princess obstinately swears she’ll never
marry, and there would end our present dynasty.
Gimso. And pray, who the deuce would marry her with
the confounded laws of this island, where, when a husband
or wife dies, the survivor must be buried alive !—and to
marry a sickly young lady
Aun. Would be a bold step, indeed.
Gimso. Step! yes—to dance from the church to the
church-yard is a step few lovers would like; but to the
point—proceed.
Aurs. She is at present very ill, especially since her
last dose.
Gis. No wonder at that— proceed.
Aum. And, after many an anxious night’s study, I have
compounded a draught, which I think will set all'to rights
—now, if you and I can restore her to health, our fortune’s
made.
Givno. You and I? Well—proceed.
Aus. Observe, my dear Gimbo; I think the medicine
would answer, but the great thing with a princess is to
be sure; on a royal person we must not try experiments.
Now, in consequence of our matrimonial laws, the folks
of this island take such a plaguy care of what they eat
and drink, that I cannot, for the life of me, find anybody
quite so unwell as I could wish.
is
Gast
re Be
Lile
on
SC..I.] ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER,
Gimrno. That’s a pity—proceed.
Axis. Now, my dear Gimbo, I always observed, when
you lived with me, that pork-pie and cucumber disagreed
with you dreadfully.
Gimpo. Well—proceed.
Ais. Well, being a friend, you know, an old and
faithful friend, I have had a nice pie, made exclusively of
fat bacon, and I have also provided some delicious cueum-
ber mixed up with oil—and if you would have the kind-
ness, the generosity, to eat quantum suf. of these very
savoury dishes, just to give my potion fair play.
Gimpo. (7n a violent passion) Poison and assassination !
pork pie and cucumber!—tartarie emetic and hipps be
your everlastmg food! Zounds, sir! I’ll make you
swallow all the jalap in your shop.
Aus. My worthy friend! not a slight indigestion, a
gentle surfeit—to relieve the sufferings of so charming a
woman as the princess?
Gimpo. A charming woman! Zounds, sir! what’s a
charming woman to a dying man! Incendiary! drench
me with your drugs! Make me a subject for your dia-
bolical experiments! Am I a dog, a rat, a reptile!
(crosses to R.)
Axis. You are an ungrateful monster! Have you forgot
past services ?
Grupo. Past services ! haven’t I done enough for you?
Zounds, sir! you owe all to me—not a pill, powder, or
plaster would you have sold, but for my exertions—
name and fame—you owe me everything. Was I not
your decoy-duck, to catch gulls and puff you off? Have
{ not shammed apoplexy, epilepsy, ea ralepsy, and the
lord knows how many other epsys, that you might cure
me as you passed by? Wasn’t I nearly smothered alive
when I pretended to have been bit by a mad dog, and
bellowed like a bull at sight of a puddle? And when
you gave me a blue sugar-plum for one of your infallible
pills, didn’t I swallow a gallon of water to prove my
recovery ?
Auts. All this is very true: but do moderate your passion.
Gimpo. Pork pie and cucumber ! (crosses to L.) Mounte-
bank! Avoid me! I’ll roll you into the grave like one of
0 ttDtDtCtCtCtCtrtirCr 2
a ge "RG TE tt ie No ‘
6 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. [se..%
your own boluses. Am I not a public functionary, and
haven’t you made my post the most laborious of the island?
Don’t I beautify your shattered and battered patients ?
And talk to me of pork and cucumber! 3
Aris. Do moderate your rage— forgive me. Here comes
the fair Fatima, the princess’s companion—let us not be
seen wrangling,
Gimzo. Fat bacon!
Axis. Our mutual good intelligence has
Gimso. Pork pies!
Au, Well, I crave forgiveness. Dismiss the matter
from your mind; forget that there ever existed such a
thing as a pig, ora girkin, and let us be friends.
Giuso. I forgive, but to forget is impossible.
Enter Fatima, L.
Fatima. Peace be with you, Doctor Alibajon—you are
immediately wanted at the palace—sad doings going on
—there’s the princess weeping, and of course all the
ministers are weeping with her—there’s the king dis-
tracted, and of course all the ministers are distracted also
—then there are all the priests praying by~ the king’s
order, and of course all the ministers are on their marrow-
bones.
Aurs. Why, what recent event
Fatt. His majesty has been to the great pagoda, and
the Oracle of Vishnu has pronounced, that, unless the
princess be forthwith married, the island will be ruined !
Qh, what a fine thing it is to be a princess.
Giizo. And what says the princess ?
Part. She swears she will not marry; and that, spite
of all the oracles, she’ll mourn Prince Azan ag long as
she has eyes to weep.
Gimpo. And what was the cause for which Azan wa:
banished ?
Fatt. An attempt to subvert our holy marriage laws.
(erosses to c.) Our Malabar neighbours compel us poor
women to be sacrificed on the tomb of you base men ;
but we have wisely improved the law by rendering the
ceremony reciprocal, thereby preventin § you male creatures
from plaguing us to death with impunity,
SO. 1:4 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGE 7
Gimso. And at the same time rende ring you ladies the
tenderest nurses in the so of an ailing husband.
Fatt. His majesty has just issued a proclamation,
offering a reward of a dozen lacs of rupees to any suitor
who may present himself, and one lac to whoever may
procure one.
Aus. A lace of rupees! I fly to obey his majesty’s
commands, Exit,
Gimpo. A lacof rupees! I'll earn it—but first, fair oR er
of Eastern beauty! hav e you reflected on my proposal ?
Fati. [ have, most grave and sapient roy: al undertaker.
Gimso. And will you undertake with me a trip to
merry Engl and ?
Fatt, What, to be carried to market in a halter? No,
good Gimbo; marry me here, and then I shall be sure
you ll love and cherish me.
Gimpo. I’d rather not, for fear of accidents. Don’t
I know Dr. Alibajon! Why, he’ll be trying experiments
on you for the maa of the roy al family, and diet you on
por k pies and cucumbers.
Fart. Vulgar prejudice and vain fears. Only think of
the splendour of a matrimonial funeral! In your country
fortunes, I hear, are lavished for a magnificent interment,
which is not enjoyed by the deceased; whereas, here,
you have the pleasu ‘e of seeing it all yourself, of be-
speaking it according to your fancy, and seeing that you
are not cheated by your undertakers.
Gimso. Better leave all to them. Never interfere with
an undertaker’s taste—therefore, I say again, come to
England, the land of love and liberty, pin-money and
settlements, weeds, widowhood, and w redding favours !
for the second and third time, my jolly girl]
Fatt. I tell you it’s quite a sacrilege, and I won't hear
of it. Ext, Ge
Gimpo. Well, if ever a woman was unreasonable, it’s
in expecting to be married in this country. Here’s the
princess dying of grief, and her father advertising for a
husband for her! We may take in some simple stranger,
but nobody else, I’ll swear. So, only let me light upon a
husband for the princess, pocket my lae of rupees, and
then hurrah for old England, and a jolly bachelor’s life!
a
ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. [Sc. I.
Song.—GImeo.
Dicky Dolus, sick of strife,
Thus address’d his scolding wife:
** Since in life I’ve no repose,
Death, my dear, shall end my woes!
Mrs. Dolus, Mrs. Dolus!
Death, I vow, shall end my woes!
Mrs. Dolus liked his pla
To the river off they ra
** Pray,’’ said Dolus, “be so kind
Just to tie my hands behind.”
; Mrs. Dolus,
She obey’d; and, when complete,
‘“‘ Let me now,” he said, “ entreat
You will also—do not scoff—
Be so good as push me off.”
Mrs. Dolus,
Dolus, when she prov’d her love,
With a run and with a shove,
Slipp’d aside, and, in his stead,
Mrs. D. soused over head.
Mrs. Dolus,
Mr. Dolus now was solus,
While she gulp’d her wat’ry bolus:
Quoth he, “‘ My hands are tied, and I
Can’t assist you, so good-bye !”
Mrs. Dolus, &e.
Exit, Ui:
Enter Irza, xr. 1 &.
Irza. Gods of my fathers! What has been my offence?
that I must thus be sacrificed to propitiate your altars ,
Dearest Azan! tyranny prevented that union which
would have enabled thy faithful Irza to join thy ashes.
But if paternal power and our holy laws condemn me to
a hated union, thy blessed shade shall behold me led to
the altar like a devoted victim, doomed to appease the
anger of the gods.
Enter Fatima, 1.
Fatima. Well, dearest princess, ever sighing and
SC. I.] ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. 9
sobbing. Do you think, madam, he is the only handsome
man? If he were, I should ery as much as you.
Irza. Alas, Fatima! had I been permitted to end my
days in solitude, time might perhaps have alleviated my
sufferings: but to be thus condemned by cruel fate to
form an odious union with some unknown adventurer—
the idea is horrible!
f’ari, How can any one have the courage to propose
it while your highness is wasting and pining yourself
eway? Plump and rosy as I am, that cowardly wretch,
Gimbo, is afraid to marry me! Perhaps it will never
take place.
Inza. I know not, Fatima—the splendour of a diadem
is too attractive !
Fatt. Well, then, you will feel a comfort in dying, at
the thought of punishing the wretch’s temerity. Come,
dearest princess, if love makes you sorrowful—hang love,
say I! (a march is heard )
Inzs. But I hear my father approach. Spirit of my
Azan, support me in the struggle! (grand march)
Enter Kina Anoutirar, Courtiers, §c., R. 2. B.
Anout. (Rr. c.) It is in vain, dear Irza, that you resist
the sacred decrees of Brahma and Vishnu, our fathers’
gods. Your country, visited by disaster, and threatened
by a foreign foe, demands the sacrifice.
Inza. (u. ¢.) Alas! sir, if my union could have saved
our country, why did you object to my loved Azan ?
Anout. Name not the traitor! The die is cast,—Irza,
the state demands it; and, the moment a suitor presents
himself, the union shall take place. (a gun fired, u.) But
hark !—A gun on the coast! Grant heaven, no hostile
force approaches! (another gun) Alas! my enfeebled
arm no more can wield the sword of war. You, my Ivza,
must give me in a husband a successor to my throne, and
a leader to my armies. (thunder )
Enter OrFIceR, L.
Orricer. Sire, an English vessel is in distress; but,
wrecked upon the western reef, little hope can be enter-
ained of saving it.
10 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER, [SC. IT,
' | zx = - aah | Tataeeon
Axout. Hasten to the ben h—let every possible assist-
: 0 ae . Ee
Ee es
a =
ae
16 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. (ac. 1k;
to the old bully; and upon consideration, your majesty is
decidedly in the right.
Axout. Behold your attendants !
Enter four little Buack Boys and other ATTENDANTS, who
surround BOWBELL,'L. 2 E.,
Bow. What! these four little niggers? How obliging!
They have robbed all the tobacconists’ shop doors for me!
Come here, you little ebony devils! I shall give two of
youa holiday every day, to go and see your pa’s and ma’s,
Axsouu. My ministers, and the dignitaries of my court,
are come to greet you.
Bow. You don’t say so! (to Gruso) Oh, Tom! if
father, mother, and Suke could only see me now! NHere’s
a commence!—here’s a wind-up of a windy day!
Enter the Mintsters, Courtters, and their ATTENDANTS, L.,
and the robe and cap are placed on BowBELL—the
Princess Irza, supported by Fatima, and her other
ATTENDANTS, enter, L.
Avout. Subjects of my realm, the decree of the gods
has been fulfilled! An Illustrious Stranger, whom
Vishnu has thrown upon our coasts—a noble English-
man—claims the honour of my daughter’s hand; and, in
my son-in-law, behold the successor to my throne, and
the commander-in-chief of my armies.
Crowp. Long live our princess and our noble prince!
Arout. Prince, you will, of course, address them?
Bow. Me! Oh, if your majesty wishes it, with the
greatest pleasure.
Gimpo. (astde to him) Remember my instructions.
(BowseL. nods signijicantly) Mind your hits.
Bow. I know what I’m about. (to the Crown) Most
noble friends and citizens, it’s quite impossible for me to
express my overflowing sentiments and sensations at this
here most unworthy reception. If I had never come
among you, I should never have known what a glorious
people you are—(bravoes)—the most glorious people in
the uninhabitable world. (dravoes) And now, my noble
friends and citizens, I’ll trouble you with a bit of business.
Touching of money matters—my royal father scorns to
SC. II.] ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. 17
distress you, but hopes you’ll come down handsomely on
this here occasion; for, being a generous nation, of course
you'd like an Illustrious Stranger like me to be established
with proper splendour, and magnificence, and magnanimity.
(shout from the crowd) And, noble friends and citizens,
you will hardly take it amiss, if I also make free to
establish my own venerable father from Cripplegate, my
noble brother Bob, and eleven of my illustrious cousins.
(to Gimpo) No applause !—that’s a damper !
Gimpo. (aside) Eleven’s too many.
Bow. But if so be, my noble friends and citizens, as
you thinks me unreasonable, I’ll cut off half a dozen of
my illustrious cousins to shift for themselves.
Crown. Hurray!
Gimpo. (aside) There you had ’em!
Bow. In the next place, noble friends and citizens,
for the dignity of the nation; we must have another bout
with your old enemy, the Emperor of Japan, upon the
wital and important question of the two royal stools ;
and, as I am to lead your armies to the field, I’m sure
you'll think it right to double the number of the horse, foot,
and drag-goons. (aside to GimBo) No applause again!
Gimpo. Tip ’em a touch about peace.
Bow. Hem! but, noble friends and citizens, I’ll under-
take to say that the moment the war’s at an end, you
shall enjoy the blessings of peace.
Crowpv. Bravo!
Bow. A long—a lasting and honourable peace, that
shall enable you to pay your debts, bring down the price
of taters, and make you, as I said before, the most
glorious people in the uninhabitable world.
Crowp. Hurrah! long live Prince Bowbell!
Gimzo. (aside to Bowxsett) You had ’em at last, how-
ever.
Bow. Ihad; anda very sensible nation they are.
Fatr. What an ugly wretch! Before I’d marry him,
I'd poison him.
Irza. Llustrious Stranger
Bow. Your royal highness
Irza. I think it but right to apprize you that my heart
never can be yours.
¢
5
18 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. [Sc. TI.
Bow. Most magnificent consort, it makes no odds
whatsomdever—I can ave eaps of earts at any time; but
your royal and beautiful hand mustn't slip through my
fingers.
Irza. You are aware that you possess it by the mmperious
laws of Brahma?
Bow. I can’t say for his laws; but I know, your
highness, that his locks are plaguy hard to pick—and if
this here wedlock’s one of ’em, so much the better for
me. So, if the father-in-law’s ready, and you're ready,
and the priest’s ready, why, then, hey for the ceremony !
(a flourish of trumpets and martialmusic—a palanguin
is brought on from L., BOWRELL 2s assisted into zt—
a procession is formed round the stage—during
mhich, this chorus is sung)
Chorus.
From the wild rage of ocean, from tempest and danger
2 E8S. : ’
Welcome, thrice welcome, Illustrious Stranger!
All exeunt, L. U. E.
Scene Turrp.—The Garden of the Palace.
Enter Azan, in the disguise of a Dervish, t.
Azan. My fate’s decreed—and the falsest of women,
forgetting her solemn vows, has accepted the hand of an
unknown stranger. ‘Too well I knew, when we parted,
that we should never meet again in happiness.
Enter Gimpo, R.
As I live, it is the English mummy-maker, Gimbo! My
honest fellow, do ye not recognise me ?
Gimpo. By the shades of Ptolemy, and the spices of
Ceylon, it is Prince Azan! Most noble sir, thrice wel-
eome to this island. I thought you had died in exile long
ago; and my greatest regret was the painful idea that
your body had fallen into the hands of some botch of an
embalmer, who had not done justice to your princely
remains. But proceed.
Azan. Alas! I had resolved to return to this country
Sc. II] ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. 19
—to sue for my pardon, and once more demand the han@
of my beloved Irza; but, on my arrival, judge of my
astonishment, when I learnt she had just left the nuptial
temple.
Ginzo. What, sir! you have travelled, and are asto-
nished at a woman’s changing her mind !—Proceed.
AiAN. She must have been the most faithless of her
sex.
Gmizo. Do not blame her rashly, sir—the princess is
still iondly attached to you; but the king and the gods
have obliged her to this sacrifice; the high priest swore,
with a big oath, that, unless she married, the country was
lost; and scarcely was the oracle heard, when a storm
arose, a vessel was wrecked, and an honest Englishman
was washed ashore on a hencoop, who blindly thrust his
head into the royal noose.
Azan. And how did she look during the ceremony ?
Giwso. Poor thing, like a ring-dove caged with a
screech-owl: she wept and sobbed—then gave three sighs,
four groans, and exclaimed, “ TI have obeyed the gods—
may they now in pity unite me to my Azan’s beloved
ashes!’ ‘Then she fell into hysterics, and fainted away.
Azan. Beloved Irza! I'll fly and rescue her from the
detested martyrdom. (crosses to Xx.
Gixeo. That’s right, sir—that’s right !—that I may have
the supreme honour of making mummies of you all. Do
you forget our laws?
Azsn. Distraction!
Gixpo. If you are bent on slaughter, I’ll tell you of a
better plan.
Azin. Speak.
Givso. Ample revenge: await them as they quit the
palace; stab yourself at the princess’s feet—she’ll not
survive you—and then we'll bundle Prince Benjamin
Bowbell over you both. No, sir, no; let us all live and
enjoy life; my brain is rich, and I'll coin it in your ser-
vice, provided you give me in exchange certain solid
specie, less rare, but more current.
Azan. My dear Gimbo, if you ean restore me to Irza
and happiness, my very life is yours.
Gimso. Keep your life, my dear prince, and give me
——
Ts tapos on pg eat hee.
TEE OL Ae ee emer a
me Sat Nae oe »
es
——-
a
— a ae
20 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. [Sc. III.
the means of spending mine in merry England. But no
time is to be lost—my plan is already formed: Cupid and
Mammon work hand-in hand, and we must succeed.
Exeunt, R.
Enter BowBELt, L.
Bow. Here’s a pretty business! My wife—I mean her
royal highness Princess Bowbell, is in a fit. I suppose
that, being of royal blood, it’s fitting that she should.
Well, well, who would have thought it, when I left
Lunnun, with a cargo of tripe and butter, that I should
have been wrecked upon a princess! Poor father! how
delighted he’ll be !—how his old heart will chuckle when
he sees the pearls, as big as potatoes, I am going to
send him.
Enter GIMBO, R.
Gimpo. (aside) Now to open all our batteries—my
noble prince!
Bow. Mummy-maker! keep your distance.
Gimgo. I come to announce to your royal highness, that
the Japan army is already in the field.
Bow. Well, if it’s our field, show ’em out again;
threaten ’em with an action of trespass.
Gimpo. Lis majesty, prince, expects you at your post.
Bow. His majesty may expect me long enough, then!
Arn’t her royal highness indisposed ?—Besides, now the
wedding’s over, I begin to perceive that the war depart-
ment won't suit me. Mummy-maker! I suppose you'll
expect promotion.
Gimpo. I trust I may be allowed to bask in the sunshine
of your royal pleasure.
Bow. Embalmer! you may bask all day and all night,
and be as lazy as Ludlam’s dog, when he leaned against
a wall to bark. Jl make you first lord of the bed-
chamber, master of the revels, master of the rolls. If
you arn’t married, Tom, you shall be lord and master
everywhere; only let me dub you, in my place, com-
mander-in-chief and generalissimo,
Gimso. Oh! I couldn’t deprive you of that honour,
Bow. Nota bit of it—I don’t value it a button,
SC. III. | ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. 21
Griso. As to me, my dear friend, I’m perfectly satisfied
with my present station.
Bow. What! mummy-maker and undertaker-general ?
Gimso. See—this bag of gold I received for the funeral
of the wife of one of our ministers, and her husband is
going to give me double the sum for burying him.
Bow. How? Oh! I Suppose to build a monument
for him ?
Gruso, No, no; for interring him with her.
Bow. When he dies?
Gimso. No, immediately.
Bow. How do you mean—alive?
Gruso. To be sure! it’s one of the fundamental laws:
of this kingdom.
Bow. What! has he committed some erjme?
Gimso. He! he’s the most virtuous man in the country.
Bow. Then why bury his virtue alive ?
Gimzo. Such is the law—when a wife dies
Bow. (with anxiety) Well
Gimso. Her husband is to be buried with her.
Bow. Alive!
Gimso. Of course—otherwise what necessity for a law?
Bow. (with increasing uneasiness) What—how—stop a
bit—say that again—you say that
Gimpo. By our laws, husbands are to buried with their
Wives, and wives with their husbands.
Bow. (with great alarm) What—my dear boy—then,
if Princess Bowbell should die
Gimzo. You must accompany her to the vault of her
ancestors.
Bow. Iaccompany her to the vault! what do you mean?
Gimeo. You must abide with her in the silent tomb.
Bow. Silent! I shall bellow like a bull there—you’re
joking—what are your laws to me! I’m an alien! I’m
an alien !
Gimpo. But, married in this country, you must obey
the laws.
Bow. No such thing. I’m an Englishman—a brave,
true-born Briton—bury me alive !—_Parliament would
take it up—you’d have a war, to a certainty; and who’d
command your army then?
24 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. (Sc. ILI.
long-lost Irza, and throw myself at her feet. (he drops
his beard, and falls at her feet)
Irnza. Azan! my beloved—do I once more behold thee!
Oh! why did you not sooner come to rescue your Irza
from perpetual slavery ?
Azan. It is not too late—our plans are formed, and we
have no time to lose. Exeunt, R.
Enter BowBE11, in a disconsolate attitude, L.
Bow. No news yet.—I feel just like a condemned felon
waiting for a summons to execution.
Enter GiMpo, L.
Bow. My dear Gimbo—well, what news? (rises)
Gimpo. My dear fellow, I am sorry to inform you that the
princess is much worse—and a consultation has been called.
Bow. A consultation ! then there’s no hope.
Giuso. None, my dear boy; but make up your mind.
Bow. Make up my mind—why, one would think you
were telling a body to make up his bundle to go to
Twickenham. Make up your mind to be buried alive—
to be smothered by inches.
Gimso. Banish your fears. It shall be my office, as a
friend, to see you suffocated at once.
Bow. How kind you are—but I'll tell you what, die
or not die, I'll not consent—lI’m a British subject—an
English citizen—send to the ambassador—I revolt—I
mutiny.
Gimpo. Believe me, Bowbell, consent cheerfully, and
you'll acquire immortal honour in history.
Bow. What’s history to me? None of my family ever
reads it.
Gimpo. And should you resist, you will not only be
degraded to the rank of a common slave
Bow. Oh! they may make ascavengerofmeif they choose,
Gimgo. But you will be burnt alive, and your ashes
scattered to the wind.
Bow. Burnt alive! Oh, Tom, Tom! what an ill-fated
wretch I am! Better have struck upon the Goodwin
Sands, or foundered in the Bay of Biscay. Oh, Tom !—
Tom Treacle, why did you make me a prince? Couldn’t
SC. III.] ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. 25
you have given me some other situation?—in the scullery—
tapster to the royal family — pot- boy —anything, you
‘know. (a gong is heard, R.) Merey! what’s that?
Gimpo. Alas! my poor friend, all’s over.
Bow. What !—how ?
Gimzo. That awful sound announces the princess’s dis-
‘solution.
Bow. Then I dissolve like a snow-ball. (he falls im
‘GimBo’s arms)
Gimpo. Ah! my poor friend! But here comes your
royal father-in-law, no doubt to announce the fatal event.
Enter ABOULIFAR in deep grief, R.
Axout. My son, you must summon up all your fortitude
to hear the mournful tidings.
Bow. Oh!
Axsout. Your beloved bride has left you, ere you had
‘time to appreciate her virtues,
Bow. She has, indeed; and therefore I hope, father-
‘im-law, you'll take proper time to ’preciate mine. You
«don’t mean to bury me alive with her?
Axout. Undoubtedly: it is the proudest hope of a de-
voted husband.
Bow. Is it? Then why not of a devoted father? May-
hap your majesty would like to take my place.
Asout. Alas! my time will soon come,
Bow. Then there’ll be less time lost. Do, dear father -
in-law ; you knew her virtues better than I: sodo you
live in history, and let me go back to live in Cripplegate.
Azout. We must obey the law. Farewell, my son.
Worthy Gimbo, give every necessary direction for this
distinguished funeral; let no expense be spared, and let it
vie in magnificence with any interment hitherto seen or
heard of. Lait Avowuirar, Lt. 1 EB.
Bow. (speaking after Asouuirar) Ever seen or heard
of! Oh! you old Anthropophagus—you carnivorous old
cannibal! swindling a poor devil out of his life in this
way! Oh, Tom, Tom! what will become of me?
Enter ALIBAJGN, R.
Auts. Dear prince, I come to condole——«
a. + tegeet Le .
AN eR rrr ety Ao So aE
ee
SS eee ee
26 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. [sc. 111
Bow. (flying at him) Oh, you old scoundrel! You
killed my wi'e—iny beloved wife! '
Aurs. Lam innocent, sir: she was poisoned by a Persian
quack, who is now loaded with chains.
Bow. Let him be impaled and broke upon the wheel.
Aus. What brought me here was a little proposal.
Bow. Anything to save me?
Aus. You appear very unhappy at the idea of being
buried ?
Bow. Alive, doctor—that’s all: I’ve a mortal aversion
to it.
Auris. Why, for that matter, no doubt your highness
won’t long survive it; and then it amounts to the same
thing, you know.
Bow. Very consolatory !
Aus. Now, with profound submission, I have stocked
a museum, in which I[ have already collected the mum-
mies of a Tartar, a Dutchman, and a Spaniard.
Bow. Agreeable recreation!
Aus. An Italian,a Frenchman, a Jew, a Quaker—but,
unfortunately, no Englishman. Now, if I might presume—
Bow. Oh! you vile old feeder of worms and dealer in
carrion. Harkyec, Jom Gimbo, am I anybody here? Is
my power at an end?
Gimpo. Certainly not. It will endure till the very last
moment.
Bow. Then call the guards,
Gimso, Ho !—guards!
Enter OrFIcER and GUARDS, L.
Bow. You want an Englishman, do you? Here, you
sir—take these two gentlemen, pound ’em into mummies,
and clap ’em in the doctor’s museum.
GIMBO.
ALIB.
Orricer. Before I can receive your highness’s order, I
must deliver mine. I am desired by his majesty to
acquaint you, sir, that everything is prepared for the
ceremony, and hopes you are ready.
Bow. Not by no means,
Oh! your highness!
SC. IIT.] ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. 27
~— a
Orricer. His majesty anxiously expects the honour of
your company.
Bow. ‘lhe honour of my company! One would think
he was inviting me to a rump-steak and oyster-sauce.
Tell his majesty that I am pre-engaged, and cannot have
the honour of accepting his polite invitation.
Orricer. But the whole nation is on tip-toe to behold
the ceremony.
Bow. Then tell the nation to sit down till I come.
OrricEer. Their impatience is loud and clamorous.
Bow. Make an apology. ‘Tell ’em the entertainment
is postponed, on account of the indisposition of a principal
performer.
Orvicer. And, that you may have all the glory of the
sacrifice, the king commands me to inform you that, by
our laws, if you can find a substitute, you may decline
the honour of the funeral.
Bow. A substitute! oh, my dear G imbo, a gleam of
hope! Do you think I shall be able to find any amateur!
Oh, doctor! have you no half-dead patient you can sell
me ?
Gruso. We must seek for one.
Bow. My dear Gimbo—my honest fellow—you brought
me into this scrape. Now, are you ambitious? Here’s
an opportunity—do take my place—you are long resident
in the country, and are used to the customs. Do, my
darling boy!
Gimpo. Under any other circumstance; but me, director-
general of funerals—impossible! No physician is his
own doctor, and no undertaker ought to bury himself.
Bow. Well, I see there’s no friendship in the world.
(so to his majesty, sir; tell him I avail myself of the law.
Ezit Orricers and GUARDS, L.
Oh, if we can find ahero! Come along, Gimbo; let’s
send about the bellman and the bill-sticker. I offer all
I possess. I’ll make over my pension to the wife and
children of any worthy father of a family what wishes to
distinguish himself, and be buried alive instead of me,
Lxit, followed by Gimpo and ALIBAJON, Ls ;
Ss
y
d
a
St ce
< 3 —s
— — ~~ e sae ee P a ~~ ££
— APS ABD EIR EES Le A IT A RS TIT OG A REARS seems eS :
- yes ;
— ee eee = re :
“ 0 »
ee -
ee ten ae
- : =
oe a 0 i rere 5
s an = — — or
an
a
28 ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. [sc. IV.
Scene Fourtn.—The Royal Cemetery—in the centre a
monument, with folding-doors—various images of the
gods—a solemn march heard in the distance.
Enter Gino, L., and Fatima, R., mecting.
Fatima. Where’s the prince, Gimbo ?
Gino. Poor devil! he’s in a sad way, and likely to
die of fright before he’s buried. If you hadn’t let me
into the seeret of the whole affair, I should weep at the
sight of him. He’s gone to dress for the ceremony; and
here comes the procession.
Enter the Procession, L.— Sotprers and CourtieErs arrange
themselves, «.—Girts bearing flowers, cross to R.—
Bowsett foliows, wrapped in a long white cotton gown
and anightcap, and supported in his grief by ABOULIFAR
—Prirsts and Guarps, §c., range, .—a gong keeps
time with the music, and a Priest approaches BowBELL.
Priest. Most noble prince! the glorious hour has
sounded which is going to unite you to the remains of the
lovely Princess Irza. The Parks have willed it, and you
must obey.
Bow. he Parks! Oh, I wish I was in them, if it was
only on a donkey in Rotten-row! Qh, father-in-law, no
substitute !
AzouL. No one, my son, would wish to deprive you of
this honour.
Bow. Qh, father-in-law, have pity on me! To see me
buried in the prime of life, and as innocent as a sucking
babe! If I could but gain yet a little time (seeing
GimBo) Oh, Gimbo, my dear fellow, I’m off!
Gimspo. My poor dear friend, I have made every pre-
paration for you suitable to your rank, and have come
myself to attend you to the grave!
Bow. You're very attentive, I’m sure. Gimbo, give
my love to poor father—tell him I prays for him like a
dutiful son; remind father-in-law to remit my little
reckoning at the Cheshire Cheese; send a lock of m
hair to Sukey Skyblue—tell her to lead a virtuous life ;
SC. IV.] ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. 29
and tell her brother Bob I bears him no malice for calling
me a gander when I started (murmurs heard without)
Priest. (comes down) The multitude are becoming
unriily—they say that we are mocking the gods by delay.
There, sir, take this bag of rice to feed you on your
journey, and this flapper to keep away the flies.
Bow. You're very considerate !—You han’t got nothing
to keep away the worms, have ye?
Priest. Now to the monument.
Bow. The Monument! ah, I wish I was on the top of
it. Noble friends and citizens, was my proclamation
distinctly heard ?
Gimpo. In every quarter of the city.
Bow. And no substitute for your prince? No virtue
among you? No taste for glory?
Priest. There is no answer.
Bow. I beg your pardon—that gentleman spoke. (to
one of the crowd, x.) I think, sir, you—(he shakes his
head) No—excuse me.
Axout. Have I a son who thus disgraces me? On!
Bow. I go—(solemn music—he advances to the tomb,
then stops again) Nobody bid for my place? It’s your
last chance—I’m a going, a going—once, twice, thrice!
(a loud cry of “‘ A substitute! a substitute !” R.)
Bow. A substitute! hurrah! Oh, you noble fellow!
Enter AZAN, R., stillin the disguise of a Dervish—BowBELt
rushes to his embrace—Azan casts him off:
Azan. King Aboulifar, your daughter’s death is at-
tributed to me—I cannot survive the imputation—lead
me to her dear remains—proud in terminating with her a
degraded existence.
Axsout. Our laws permit it, and you may claim the
right; but you, my son-in-law, is it possible you would
renounce the honour ?
Bow. Will aduckswim? Will the Polly go to smash ?
Will Sukey snap.at me when I gets back to Cripplegate ?
Apott. Then you are unworthy of my blood!
Bow. (aside) Oh, blow your blood !
Axsout. Sound the trumpets! beat the drums! and,
SS ey ee SE ee +
j
|
- et La te
—— eee
ee
Se ee pt ee
-
LO ILLZSTRIOUS STRANGER.
locked in each other’s cold embrace, let the will of Brahma
be fulfilled !
(musice—AZAN is led to the monument—GinLs strew
flowers on his path—the gates of the mausoleum are
thrown open, and are closed with a loud crash after
he has entered—the King and Prorie kneel in
devotion)
Bow. (u.) What a hero that here doctor is! and what.a
hiateresting ceremony when one’s only a spectator!
(music changes—the tomb suddenly opens, and AzAN
and Inza holding each other by the hand, and robed
in splendid dresses advance to the front)
Asout. What do I behold? My daughter alive! and
Azan liere!
Azan. (at Apoutirar’s feet) To me you owe her life —
her death was a device to enable me to approach you,
and affurd those proofs of my innocence, of which I am
now possessed. In the name of Vishnu who has re-
stored to you your child, I solicit her hand, and crave
your blessing.
AnouL. This wonderful event has proved his protecting
power. {frza is thine.
Irza. Dearest. father, in Vishnu’s name, henceforth
abolish the barbarous custom.
Asout. In gratitude, will I exert my power to accom-
plish your prayer.
Gimpo. In that case, fair Fatima, I renew my offer.
Fati. In that case, I accept it.
Bow. And I'll back to Cripplegate as soon as possible;
and if ever your majesty, or any of the royal family,
should be cast ashore on the coast of Middlesex, I hope
you'll take pot luck with the Illustrious Stranger.
Finale.
Relieved of our sorrows, and rescued from danger,
We welcome our truly Illustrious Stranger!
SoLpIErg. PRIESTS. SoLpiers.
GIMBO. SHOWEMIN. Azax. Inza. AsouLIFAR, Bowne tu.
R. li
Curtain.
—
WHO STOLE
THE POCKET-BOOK?
Or, A DINNER FOR SIX,
A Farce,
IN ONE ACT.
BY
JOHN MADDISON MORTON,
\UTHOR OF
“The Two Bonnycastles,” “A Thumping Legacy,’ “Grimshaw,
Bagshaw and Bradshaw,’ “Bow and Cox,” “A Hopeless Passion,”
‘“Slasher and Orasher,” *“Double-Bedded Room,” “John Dobbs,”
“Betsy Baker,” “My Precious Betsy,” “Your Lafe’s in Danger,”
“Friend Waggles,” ke. de. de.
THOMAS HAILES LACY,
WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND,
LONDON.
First performed at the Royal Adelphi Theatre,
On Monday, March 29th, 1852.
CHARACTERS.
Mr TOMKINS TIPTHORP ... Mr. Wriear.
Mz. SILVERTOP ...... SE a Se Mr. S. Emery.
Mr WOODPECKER............... Mr. G. Honey.
Mr BENJAMIN BLOSSOM... Mr. Paut Beprorp.
Miss DAINTY (a Milliner) ... .. Miss Emma Harpine.
FANNY SMART pe Miss Eten CHaApuin.
JULIA JENKINS }
Assistants. (Miss Lavra Honey.
COSTUMES.
Buossom.—Brown velveteen shooting coat, waistcoat and breeches ;
brown leather leggings; brown velvet hat.
Su.vertor.—Small dark cut-off coat; light wig, small hat; brown
towsers, stripe down side; light waistcoat, and cravat.
Wooppeckxer.—Felt hat, bushy wig; Newmarket coat, long grey
waistcoat, broad red and black tartan trowsers.
TiporP.—Black hat, narrow brim; black frock, buttoned up;
wiite neck tie; light trowsers with small stripes; light blue
unbrella.
Capaan.—Long coat, badge, trowsers with over-alls, &e.
PoucemMan.—Dress of the force; band on the arm.
Miss Darnry.—Light figured muslin, black silk apron. 2nd. Silk
o1 Satin dress.
Juua.—Blue figured muslin. 2nd. Silk or satin dress.
Famvx.—Plain cotton dress, red striped shawl. 2nd. Silk or satin
LLL Oe
Lime in representation—50 minutes.
WHO STOLE THE POCKET-BOOK?
OR,
A DINNER FOR SIX!
<5 Gh
Scanr.—A Work Room at Miss Datnry’s, doors r. and u., falling
doors at c. open and showing table within laid for dinner. A table
R. H., on which are various articles of millinery. Siw sky-blue
Polkas hanging on wall at x. u. and a number of small brass lird-
cages hanging upon the u. H. Miss Dainry and Justa seen in the
inner room at c. busy laying the table. Tables x. u. and u. with
dresses, boxes, dc.
Miss Darnty advances from o. followed by Junta.
Miss D. There, Julia, that'll do very nicely indeed! Oh Julia Jen-
kins, when I look at that table laid for six, and think of the
solemn occasion for which that table for six is laid, I feel
Juma. Hungry—so do I! I wonder what we shall have for dimer.
Miss D. The best of everything depend on’t! In the first place
Mr. Silvertop is perfectly aware of my partiality for ox-tail soup
and lobster salad.
Jut1a. And Mr. Woodpecker knows I absolutely doat upon erss-
barred raspberry jam tarts. I don’t know what you think cf it
Dainty dear, but I can’t see what our poor dear Fanny can see
in this Tomkins Tipthorp.
Miss D. The very observation I was going to make—the man is
not a handsome man—the man is not a rich man—in short I see
nothing at all about the man to create the slightest interes: in
the man, and such a nice girl as Fanny is too——
JouLia. So amiable.
Miss D. And so pretty—for she is sweetly pretty, but here she
comes.
Finter Fanny Smarr, pg. wn. door.
fan, Oh I'm so tired! I hope you won't scold me for being so late
—but I’ve walked as fast as I could. TPve been all the war to
{slington.
Miss D. Islington ?
Fan. Yes—to call upon my uncle Benjamin.
Miss D, Mr, Benjamin Blossom? the eminent agriculturist.
A2
4. WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ?
Fan. Yes, (crosses toc.) I had a letter from him yesterday telling
me that he had come up to Town for a few days and was staying
at the “‘ Angel” at Islington—but unluckily when I got there he
was gone out, so—I’m afraid you'll be very angry but I left a
note for him with the head waiter of the establishment, saying
that—that
Miss D. What?
Fax. Why that Miss Dainty would be happy to see Mr. Benjamin
Blossom to dinner to-day !
Miss D. The fact is, Fanny, you had an eye to business in this
affair—you thought it would be a good opportunity to introduce
Mr. Tomkins Tipthorp to this rich old bachelor uncle of yours.
Fan. Well! of course, if Uncle Blossom would make us a present
of a few of his spare hundreds on our wedding day, they would
be very acceptable.
Miss D. To Mr. Tomkins Tipthorp especially, I should say—for
between ourselves, Fanny, I’m afraid that gentleman’s annual
contribution don’t materially increase the amount of the Income
Tax. (with a meaning look at Juuta)
Juuia. Nor the revenue of his tailor I should say. (with a look at
Miss Dainty)
Fan. (nettled) Perhaps not—but remember Mr. Tipthorp is an
author and has to live by writing plays and novels—and romances
and that’s not quite so profitable as writing duplicates like Mr.
Silvertop, or giving poor dirty dingy London sparrows a coat of
yellow paint and selling them for canaries like Mr. Woodpecker.
Miss D. Ha, ha! very severe indeed! ha, ha!
Jutta. Remarkably cutting! ha, ha!
(Su.vertor and Wooprecker without, and singing together, x. u.)
“Oh ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love,
That makes the world go round.
Fol de rol, &e. &e.”
Siu. (tapping at door x.) Miss Dainty.
Miss D. Mr. Silvertop’s well known rat-a-tat !
Woop. (knocking without) Miss Julia.
Jets. There’s my Woodpecker tapping.
Miss D. Pray come in, gentlemen.
Enter Stuvertor and Wooprecker at door pr. H.—they each carry a
brown paper parcel.
Sm. Ladies in general, (crosses to c.) but Miss Dainty in particular
I hope I see you in the enjoyment of perfect salubrity, for what
is life without salubrity ? Woodpecker, I appeal to you? give us
your opinion of life without salubrity.
Woop. Why I—that isin short I’m a man of few words, but them’s
my sentiments and I’ll stick to’em.
Sin. Charming Jemima Jane, permit your Silvertop to present you
with this brown paper parcel as a pledge—I mean a token of his
affection, wear it for his sake—not the brown paper—hbut the
trifling article that brown paper contains.
Naan
WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ? 5
Miss D. (opening parcel) Another sky-blue polka, you’ve given
me six already. ( pointing to the polkas hanging up)
Sit. But you look so well in sky-blue.
Miss D. Do I—flatterer, then I'll have it dyed black and wear it
for your sake.
Woop. Miss Julia—here’s something for you, (presenting parcel)
JuLra. (opening parcel and shewing a little brass bird-cage) Another
canary.
Woop. And an out and outer—whistles “ the death of Nelson” and
“ri tum tiddy iddy bow wow wow; with variations.
Jutta. So you said of every one you’ve ever given me, but I can’t
say I ever recognized either of the tunes.
Woop. You would if you had never heard ’em before, but however
’m a man of few words, if the feathered songster is not ac-
ceptable, wring his neck—them’s my sentiments and I'll stick
to ’em.
Fan. (aside) If poor dear Tomkins Tipthorp don’t bring me a present
of some sort or other however trifling, I shall cry my eyes out
with vexation.
Sit. But where’s our friend Tomkins Tipthorp? I hope he doesn’t
forget the interesting occasion on which we assemble here to-day.
Miss D. (speaking at Fanny) It may have slipped his memory,
especially as the entertainment is provided at the expense of the
gentlemen.
Sin. If Tomkins Tipthorp disappoints us— it will be shabby !
Woop. Shabby? I’m a man of few words, but it'll be a downright
swindle !—them’s my sentiments and I’ll stick to ’em.
Fan. Don’t alarm yourselves I beg! Mr. Tomkins Tipthorp isn’t
more likely to forget an engagement than other people.
Trernore (without x. u.) I tell you, my good man, it won’t do!
Miss D. Oh, here he is! (looking off at door x. n.) and as usual,
disputing with the cabman about the fare.
Enter Trernorr at door rx, n., followed by Casman. Tuiprnorp is
dressed in a shabby paletot, short in the sleeves, an old hat, no gloves,
and carries a very large green cotton umbrella.
Tip. I repeat, it’s no sort of use your trying it on, because it won’t
do! .
CasMan. ( following Tretnorr) I tell you sir my fare’s a shilling!
Tre. Now don’t be obstinate—I can’t abide obstinacy—I wish to
think well of my fellow creatures in general, and you in particu-
lar—so don’t be obstinate.
Cabs. Gammon! once for all.
Tre. Now listen to me, (looking at man’s badge) No. 777, do you
wish me to think well of you or do you not? that’s the question,
Seven Hundred and Seventy-seven !—if you do, you'll put those
two fourpenny-pieces, commonly called joey’s, into your pocket,
Seven Hundred and Seventy-seven,—if you do not, you'll insist
on my giving you another.
Cas. Then I does insist.
Ses Nn a ee
re ee
me - -
ge sce — ae
6 WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ?
Tir. Oh you does—does you ?—then you won't have it.
Cas. Very well sir, (about to put the money in his pocket,—then to
Trerxorp) you oughtn’t to ride in cabs sir, indeed you oughtn’t.
Tre. Why sir?
Can. ’Cause you can’t afford it.
Tre. Go along, sir.— (driving Canman off, R. D.)
Sit. Egad Tipthorp, my boy, he had you there. For my part, I
always give the fellows whatever they ask.
Tir. Do you? Eeod, I’d set upa cab myself if I thought there
were many such flats as you,—but I’m sure there ain’t! I will
do you the justice to say, that from long observation, and close
investigation, I have come to the conclusion, that of all flats, you
are the flattest.
mi. Mr. Tipthorp,—sir !
Ite. There, you’re at it again! I’ve told you no end of times, that
you'll do yourself a frightful mischief, if you get into such
dreadful passions, on an empty stomach—Miss Dainty, you'd
better keep an eye on him—you may let him simmer occasionally,
but never allow him to come to a boil.
Woop. I’m a man of few words—but if you can’t agree, fight it
out at once, and have done with it. Them’s my sentiments, and
I'll stick to ’em.
Sit, (u.) Tipthorp, you insulted me grossly—I apologise.
Tre. Silvertop, I did—I forgive you! And now let’s be jolly—!
feel an insatiable longing to be jolly! So what shall we do to
pass the time before dinner? Suppose we have something to
eat? By-the-bye, talking of dinner—it occurred to me that a
haunch of venison would be universally approved of.
Omnzs. Of course.
Tir. Well, venison wasn’t in—so J thought that a
wouldn’t be sneezed at,
Ounes. (delighted) Well?
Tre. Well, turkeys were out—then a pig suggested itseli—of course
I don’t mean a pig that’s arrived at years of discretion—i allude
to that animal when in a state of helpless infancy, before it has
left a mother’s care—in short, you know what I mean—IT really
can’t explain before the ladies—but I remembered that the last
time I partook of that delicacy, I was poorly for a considerable
time afterwards—so what d’ye think it ended in mv ordering,
after all, as my share of the entertainment ? ; ;
Omnes. What ?
Tre. Nothing !—and I hope you'll all enjoy it—I’m sure it can’t
disagree with you.
Woop. (8.) Hark’ee, Tipthorp—I’m a man of few words—you’re a
humbug—that’s my sentiments, and I'll stick to’em. ~
Miss D. Fanny, my dear, this is a very awkward business; but as
only two of the gentlemen have provided their shares of the
entertainment, it stands to reason that
Fan. (smiling and taking Treruorp’s arm) 'That Tipthorp and |
must get our dinner elsewhere. With all my heart.
Sit. Of course—if Mr. Tipthorp grudges the expence,
roast turkey
WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ?
~]
Miss D. (1. ¢.) Or can’t afford it
Woop. He ought to say so. Out with it at once, like a brick—
them’s my sentiments, and I’ll stick to ’em.
Tir. I don’t wish to hurry you, but when you’ve quite done, per-
haps you'll mention it—Mr. Tipthorp will provide his share of
the entertainment. Mr. Tipthorp means to astonish you with
his share of the entertainment. But Mr. Tipthorp don’t mean
to let you know what his share of the entertainment is going to
be. (aside) For the best of all possible reasons—Mr. Tipthorp
doesn’t know himself.
Fan, (x.c.) That’sright, Tipthorp, dear—but don’t be too extravagant.
Tir. For your sake I won’t; besides I should really be sorry to
put Silvertop’s nose out of joint, especially as it isn’t a handsome
one at best; and as for extinguishing Woodpecker, it would
positively distress me—therefore, all things considered, I won’t
be extravagant.
Miss D. By-the-bye, Mr. Tipthorp, as you’re a man of taste, I
want your opinion of this new polka (displaying it)—a present
from Mr. Silvertop—ahem! rather out of the common, eh ?
Tir. Yes—very much out of the common. There’s one advantage
about it, one’ll be able to sce it a mile off; but I can’t say it’s
the sort of thing I should like to wear myself.
Miss D. 'True—I forgot—you like the quiet style. Poor Fanny’s
shawl, for instance, that she’s worn every day for the last eight
months.
Fan. (annoyed) It’s the only one I’ve got.
Tir. ’'m sure it’s very becoming: besides, Fanny looks well in
anything—without anything (tenderly)—that’s more than I can
say of anybody. (looking at Miss Dainty and Juuts)
Miss D. Well—Julia and I must try and find something for her to
wear on this interesting occasion. (patronizingly)
JULIA. (R. co.) Yes, poor thing! we’ll see what we can do for her.
Fan. (aside) I can’t bear it any longer. (aloud) Pray don’t trouble
yourselves, ladies; if my wardrobe is rather scanty, the fault is
mine, and not Mr. Tipthorp’s: he would have perfectly over-
whelmed me with costly presents of every sort and kind, if I had
let him—wouldn’t you, Tipthorp, dear? But I wouldn’t allow
you! However, as this is an interesting occasion, as Miss
Dainty very properly calls it, I don’t mind accepting the black
satin mantle you proposed to purchase for me the other day. (with
intention)
Tie. Oh !—the—black satin mantle ?
Fan. (Rr. of him) Yes—you know.
Tip. Yes—of course I know.
Fan. (aside to him, and half crying) Don’t you see they’re ridi-
culing our poverty, and that ’m miserable on your account, dear
Tipthorp, more than mine ?
Tr. Fanny, you’re an angel—the brutes!—but don’t cry—the
monsters !—don’t cry, or I shall feel under the necessity of
instantly pitching into them all, one after the other! You shall
have your mantle, if I can get a black satin mantle for two and
i
* ,
a
a
8 WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ?
a penny—at least, not one of the best quality—however, I can
try! You shall have it, if I beg, borrow, or steal the money !
(aloud, and in an excited manner) Anything besides the black
satin mantle, Miss Fanny? The best that money can buy, of
courseé—not a trumpery three-and-sixpenny sky-blue concern
like that. (pointing to Miss Datnry’s polka)
Miss D. ‘Trumpery! three-and-sixpenny concern! But, of course,
Mr. Tipthorp knows what it cost better than Mr. Silvertop who
bought it.
Tre. He didn’t buy it. Pawnbrokers never buy anything! It was
pledged at that iniquitous establishment of his for three and
sixpence—that’s about the mark, isn’t it, Silyertop? Don’t deny
it, because I happen to know. the woman who did it—a poor
destitute widow, with a sick husband and thirteen children, all
of em in arms! But what does the pawnbroker care about that ?
the pawnbroker lives upon destitute widows—NSilvertop’s present
protuberant proportions are entirely composed of destitute widows
—I can see ’em, distinctly see ’em.
Woop. (r.) Well, I’m a man of few words
Tir. The fewer the better, you nefarious vendor of canaries—
canaries, did I say ?—just let ’em wash, and then look at the
colour of the water—the water, eh?
Miss D. Gentlemen, pray let this go no further.
Tre. Well, I’m sure I bear no malice. I forgive you both—there—
and now for the black satin mantle. (suddenly) Good gracious,
where’s my purse ? Oh, here it is—no, it isn’t—now [’ve got it
—no I havn’t—I perfectly recollect stuffing it brimful. of sove-
reigns this morning, and I suppose I must have left it. at home.
I say, Silvertop, have you got your purse about you ?
Sin. (u.) Yes; but there’s nothing in it.
Tre. Oh! then I won’t trouble you. Woodpecker, my boy, yon’ve
feathered your nest too well ever to be without money in your
pocket! -
Woop. I’ve got eighteen-pence somewhere, I know. (feeling his
pockets)
Tie. Never mind.
Miss D. You’d better go home at once for this precious purse
stuffed with sovereigns, Mr. Tipthorp. We shan’t dine for
another hour.
Woop. And don’t forget that you havn’t provided your share of the
dinner.
Tre. What a ravenous old Woodpecker you are. Do you suppose
I want to eat and drink at your expense, sir?
Woop. You shouldn’t if you did—them’s my sentiments, and I'l]
stick to’em.
Miss D. Now, Mr. Tipthorp, make haste—for I can see poor Fanny
is anxious to fling that frightful old shawl of her’s behind the
fire, and put on her smart new mantle.
Fan. (aside to Trernorr, and hastily) Forgive me, dear Tipthorp—
I was annoyed—angry. It was wrong—very wron g. But here
1s something towards the indulgence of my foolish vanity. Take
WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK? g
it—it isn’t much, but it’s all I have (offering money aside to T1e-
THORP. )
Tre. Me, Fanny. (affected) No! poor devil as I am, I’m as proud
as Lucifer. (aloud, and in an excited manner) Now I’m off. You're
sure one mantle ’ll be enough, Miss Fanny? It’ll be just as easy
for me to get a dozen or two as one! so don’t be shy. Anything
short, and in the bombazine line?—Perhaps a trifle from the
jeweller’s! Well, as I said before, I’m off. By-the-bye, Fanny,
if Mr. Blazes, the manager, should happen to forward me a
cheque for a couple of hundred for the three Tragedies, two
Comedies, five Dramas, and thirteen Farces, I sent him last week,
you can pay it into my banker’s for me. ( going—stops) You're
sure you don’t want any shawls? (yoing—stops) Better have a
few bonnets! (going—stops) Perhaps three or four hundred yards
of calico would not be amiss! (yoing—stops) Suppose we say a
few counterpanes? (yoing—stops) How are you off for blankets?
Hixit, Re dD.
Miss D. Really, when Mr. Tomkins Tipthorp does launch out, he
threatens to do things on a grand scale indeed!
Jutta. He’s very extravagant certainly, and I’m afraid will ruin
himself—in promises!
Siz. But, luckily, promises cost nothing—and sometimes turn out
worth nothing.
Fan. But a promise may be redeemed—like any other pledge, Mr.
Silvertop.
Sm. Yes, exactly: but—
Woop. I’m a man of few words—but, if you're a going to keep on
snapping one another’s noses off all day long, I shall cut. Them’s
my sentiments, and I’ll stick to ’em.
(a ring at bell heard—Juu1a runs out, and re-enters with a letter.)
Juuia. A letter for Miss Fanny Smart, to be delivered immediately.
(gwving letter to Fanny)
Fan. (c., opening letter) From Uncle Blossom, I declare! (reads)
‘Dear niece,—Got yours safe—started to come to you—’fraid
I can’t—just had an accident—lost something, or had my pocket
picked—don’t know which—somewhere in Holborn. Greatest
consequence—sad affair—tell you more another time.—Your tin-
happy old uncle,—Burossom.
“PS. May come after all—will if T can.”
Fan. Poor dear Uncle Blossom! what can he have lost?
Miss D. Why, as I suppose, he wouldn’t make such a piece of work
about a pocket-handkerchief, I presume it must be his purse.
Jura. Which—unfortunately for Mr. Blossom—is never likely to
have been stuffed with sovereigns than Mr. Tipthorp’s.
Siu. By-the-bye, Woodpecker, what have you ordered in the way
of eating and drinking ? Eh—any fish ?
Woop. Yes.
Sir. What?
Woop. Soles ?
Sit. Fried ?
Woop, Fried!
10 WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ?
Siz. I’ve ordered fried soles! What to follow ?
Woop. Mutton.
Sin. Leg ?
Woop. Leg!
Sm. Roast?
Woop. Roast!
Sm. That’s awkward, I’ve ordered roast leg of mutton! Any
pastry ?
Woop. Gooseberry.
Siu. Pie?
Woop. Pudding!
Sit. So have I. Malt liquor?
Woop. Porter.
Su. Bottled ?
Woop. Bottled!
Sit. So have I! Why the dinners are exactly the same.
Fan. Why not call in duplicates at once, Mr. Silvertop. Ha, ha, ha.
Miss D. Well, I must say it’s most extraordinary that Mr. Wood-
pecker should have thought proper to order the same dinner as
Mr. Silvertop.
Junta. No such thing! it was Mr. Silvertop who ordered the same
dinner as Mr. Woodpecker.
Sm. It’s awkward certainly—but now it can’t be helped.
Woop. Then it’s no use talking about it,—them’s my sentiments,
and I’ll stick to ’em.
(another very loud and violent ringing at the bell)
Miss D. (looking out at window) Who can this be—what ?—good-
ness me! there’s quite a crowd of people at the door—and they’re
all coming into the house, with Mr. Tomkins Tipthorp at the
head of them.
Tip. (without) Now, come along, all of you.
Enter Trernorr (Rr. v.) followed by siz Suormen, one with a large paste-
board box marked, “* Mantles””—another with box marked, ** Lace"
—another with box marked, “ Paris Gloves’ —another with three
bonnet boxes,—two ConrectionEeRS’ Men, with trays on their heads,
julled with provisions of various sorts—then a Man with two wine
baskets marked, ** Champagne” —they range themselves at back.
Tire. (who 28 very pale, and very excited) Now then, you with the
turtle soup, fowls, tongues, pigeon pies, lobster salads, ices, jellies,
and blanc-mange, go into that room, and set the table out—(the
MEN enter at c. p. closing it after them) you with the champagne—
out with half-a-dozen corks and let’s see what sort of stuff it is,
—gentlemen with the mantles, bonnets, shawls, gloves, et-cetera,
stand in a row,—attention ! make ready !—uncover.
(the SHorpmen uncover the boxes, Miss Dainty, Juuia, and
Panny, examine the contents, lifting up their hands &c.)
Fan. Oh Mr. Tipthorp, how charming !— how beautiful! —how
splendid !—it’s almost impossible to make a choice.
Tir. Then the simplest way is to take em all—(to Suopmay) the
ry
;
wey,
WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ? 11
young lady takes ’em all.—(a@ profusion of bows from SHormen)
What’s the sum tottle of the whole ?
SHOPMAN. (rR. c.) Forty-six—ten !—sir !
Tie. Is that all? there’s a fifty. (handing note)
Snopman. And here’s the change, sir.
Tr. Damn the change !—keep it! (another profusion of bows from
Snormen, and astonishment of Miss Dainty, Juuia, Sitverropr,
dc.) Now go! stop! Miss Fanny, if there’s anything further
you require,—you’ve only got to mention it!—No? then as I
said before, go! Hxeunt Suormen repeating their bows, k.
Miss D. I’m perfectly petrified !
Juur1a. I’m perfectly thunderstruck !
Sin. (aside to Wooprrcker) Did you ever?
Woop. No I never !—them’symy sentiments, and I’ll stick to ’em.
Fanny. (examining contents of boxes, dc.) Oh I’m so happy! so
delighted !
Tr. Miss Dainty—Miss Julia—I hope you don’t imagine I have
forgotten you !
Miss. D. }On Mr. Tipthorp !
} (aside to each other)
JULIA.
Tire. No—and to prove it, there’s a yard and a half of yellow ribbon
for Miss Dainty’s sky-blue polka—and here’s threepennyworth
of groundsel for Miss Julia’s canary—and now what’s to be
done? As for me, I’m ready for anything. Ha, ha, ha! (lawgh-
mg wildly) Silvertop, my boy, (giving him a violent slap on the
fone say something funny! Woodpecker, my old cock,
(hitting him on the stomach) give us a song, or stand on your
head—do something to amuse the company. Here! champagne
for the ladies—that’s the time of day—eh? my jolly old pawn-
broker! (gives Sitvertor another violent slap on the shoulder)
Miss D. You really must excuse us, Mr. ‘Tipthorp—remember,
we’ve got to dress for dinner.
Tre. Of course—of course—can I help you?—ha, ha, ha! Don’t
be offended, Silvertop. (another violent slap on the shoulder) Vm
sure you don’t mind it, Woodpecker. (another blow on the
stomach)
Woop. I’m a man of few words—but I wish you’d hit me some-
where else, cause it hurts—them’s my sentiments, and I stick
to ’em.
Tip. Of course I will—why didn’t you mention it before? (gives
him a slap on the stomach) Ha, ha, ha?
Hit Miss Dainty, Juiia, and Fanny, tL. p.
Tre. Well, good-bye, Silvertop—Aw revoir, Woodpecker!
Siz, Going again?
Tre. Not I—but I suppose you are: you surely can’t go for to
think for to go and sit down in the presence of ladies with such
a coat as that, Silvertop. In the first place, it’s a Moses, and a
cheap Moses; and we all know what cheap Moseses are after the
first week. And as for you, Woodpecker, you're in such bad
feather altogether, that the sooner you begin moulting the better.
12 WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOCK?
Sm. What say you, Woodpecker ?—shall we go and adonize ?
Woop. I’m a man of few words—but I’m d—d if I moult to please
anybody—them’s my sentiments, and I'll stick to ’em. ,
Sit. Then suppose we take a stroll ? (taking WoopPECKER’S arm)
Tr. Yes, do!—take a stroll, by all means—you’ll enjoy it
amazingly—and go shall I. Now, go—and as I perfectly poe:
in your society, I hope you won't think of hurrying back—Go!
(gradually pushing them towards door r., at last pushes them bath
off—slams the door—then half opens und looks through doors
at c., closing them gently—crosses to door u., and peeps through
keyhole—suddenly starts away)
Tre. I forgot the ladies are dressing; and I must say, from the
passing glance I had, that Miss Dainty makes up remarkably
well—I have often had my suspicions, but now they are con-
firmed. But now that I am alone, let me make haste and collect
my scattered senses. Scattered senses! where the deuce are you,
in order that I may collect you? I remember now! I had got
as far as the corner of Chancery Lane: keeping my eyes rivetted
on the pavement—a mode of making one’s way through a crowded
thoroughfare, by-the-bye, which I can’t conscientiously recom-
mend—when suddenly something struck my eye—I mean my
foot: it was a pocket-book. Now the very great majority of
people, I’m ashamed to say, would instantly have picked that
q pocket-book up—which is exactly what J did. I had no sooner
ns done so than my eye caught the retreating outline of a figure
h belonging to an elderly individual in a brown hat, brown coat,
and still browner gaiters:—it instantly occurred to me that he
must be the owner of the pocket-book. Then came the struggle,
2 the fearful, the appalling strug gle!—but the principles of recti-
ib if tude instilled into my mind at a very early period of my existence
j at length prevailed, and I rushed after the elderly individual in
brown to restore to him his property: but, somehow or other—I
presume, in the excitement of the moment I started off in the
opposite direction—and, do what I would, I couldn’t overtake
t him! That’s the extraordinary part of it—do what I would
t bes I couldn’t overtake him! Consequently, being naturally of an
at enquiring mind, I investigated the contents of the pocket-book:
HG and I must say the result was eminently satisfactory !—namely,
# four bran new fifty pound notes, and not the smallest particle of
Le @ Clue to the individual to whom those four bran new fifty pound
iF notes belonged—not the slightest clue whatever; not even his
i name or address. Of course, I couldn't be expected to walk up
and down Holborn with four fifty pound notes in my hand all day
long, asking people as a particular favour to take ‘em. In the
first place, it would have fai a glaring act of injustice to the
elderly individual in brown, whose property I had every reason
to believe they were; and in the next place, I wanted them
myself. So I borrowed them of the elderly individual in brown:
and the next time I meet him I shall have the moral satisfaction
of saying to him “'There’s your pocket-book!” The probability
is there won’t be anything in it; but still I shall have the satis-
os
a | CMa airs
—
WHO STOLE THE POCKET BooK ? 13
faction of saying to him “ Individual] in brown, there’s your
pocket-book. I may have made use of the paltry luere it con-
tained, but your pocket-book was sacred!” And yet, somehow
or other, I don’t feel exactly comfortable.—In fact, I’m by no
means certain that I don’t feel exceedingly uncomfortable.
Everybody I meet seems to be looking for a pocket-book.
There’s a moving mass—a perfect forest of brown hats, brown
coats, and still browner gaiters, constantly before my eyes.
It won’t bear thinking about: I shall go stark staring mad if
I do: I feel I shall. Ha! hatha! (laughing wildly) But I won't.
No. Conscience avaunt! Tipthorpe’s himself again! Tol de rol
lol. (dancing wildly about)
finter Miss Dainty, Jutta, and Fanny, in dinner dresses, L. v.
Miss D. Merey on us, look at Mr. Tipthorp.
Fan. (running to Tietnorr, and stopping him jumping about) My
dear Tipthorp.
Tip. Don’t stop me—Fanny, if you love me, don’t stop me—its the
joy—the excitement—the enthusiasm of the moment! Let’s have
adance. I must have a dance—a waltz, a polka, a jie, a horn-
pipe—I don’t care what. So, ladies, take your partners. (dancing
all the time with his arms round MANNY’s waist)
Miss D. But we havn't got any partners,
Tre. Then Vl dance with all three of you (seeing Siuverror and
Woopprecker, who enter nr. D.) Ah!
(a loud ring at the bell)
FAN. (running to window) Yes, it’s uncle Blossom, I declare.
Tw. The respected relative you've so often spoken to me about?
So much the better—the more the merrier, With your permis-
Sion, Miss Dainty, V’ll go and receive Blossom with all the
honours due to stich a blossom. La lala! (dances off R. H.)
Miss D. How very odd!
Tre. (without wolently) I tell you you can’t come in—we’re all of
us out. Call again! (rushes ‘in at pr. H., exceedingly pale and dis-
ordered in his manner and appearance; slams the door, and leans
with his back against it) *Tis he—the individual in brown—gaiters
and all. He’s found me out! (the door is pushed open enough to
allow Buossom to put his head and shoulders in) ¥ say you can’t
come in. (pushing against door wit), all his strength)
Bros. Help! murder! (Tiprnorp starts suddenly away, and Buossom
is thrown forward into room, almost falling; revuorp runs about,
then falls into chair, R. c. up, with his back to Buossom and opens his
large umbrella, which he holds behind him so as to conceal himsel
Fan. (1. ¢., running to Buossom, and kissing him) My dear uncle, I
am.so happy to see you.
Bros, (Rr. c.) Alive! it's as much as Lam. (rubbing his neck)
Fan. Allow me ( presenting Brossom) Miss Dainty—Miss Julia
Jenkins.
Bios. Humble Servant, ladies. Excuse my taking my hat off
(ficcing it tightly on his head ) Should sneeze my head off if I did.
y
ee
aoa
x
ee
ll
BP Sanna
ee
0 eT te oe
Btn T ars
14 WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ?
Got such a dreadful cold. (Biossom’s hat is very much on his head
so that not a particle of hair whatever is seen)
Miss D. Don’t apologise pray, Mr. Blossom.
Fan. Mr. Silvertop, Mr. Woodpecker.
Bros. Servant, gentlemen, as I said before, can't take off my hat,
sneeze my head off if I did, got sucha dreadful cold. But Isay,
Fanny, you sly little puss, there’s another eentleman you've got
to introduce me to—ch? where’s this Mr. Timkins Tipthorp, or
Mr. Tipthorp Timkins, or whatever his name is ?
Fan. Here he is, uncle. (going to Trrrnorr) Now, Tipthorp, dear,
let me introduce you to my uncle.
Trp. (rising) Of course, delighted—but the fact is I just remember
I’ve an appointment of the utmost importance with the Turkish
ambassador. (going)
Fan. Nonsense! (pulling Trernorr forward, who takes up SILVER-
Tor’s hat and puts it on, cocking it very much over his eyes)
Fan. Uncle Blossom, Mr. Tomkins Tipthorp—Mr. Tomkins Tip-
thorp, Uncle Blossom.
Bios. Servant, Mr. Tipthorp. As I said before, can’t take off my
hat—sneeze my head off if I did. Heyday! (trying to look under
TrerHorp’s hat, who cocks it still more on his nose) Yes, 1 say
my young friend, I’ve seen you before—it was you just now
who—
Tre. (x. c., starting, and wildly) No it wasn’'t—I don’t know what
you mean, but it wasn’t.
Buos. (c.) Pooh! I know better, I saw you distinctly. What a
queer fellow you are, Tomkins Tipthorp. I dare say after all you
only did it in joke.
Tie. Did it ?—did what?
Bios. Why half strangled me as I came in at that door.
Tir. Oh, that’s what you mean? ha! ha! ha! Of course, as you
say, I did it in joke—everything I do is in joke.
Miss D. Now, Mr. Blossom, what about this sad accident you’ve
just met with.
Tip. Accident! (feeling Buossom’s arms, back, &c.)
Omnes. What’s the matter?
Tir. (suddenly recovering) Nothing. [’m faint for want of some-
thing to eat. Let’s go to dinner. (turning to go to door ¢.)
Miss D. (stopping him) Nonsense—it isn’t six o’clock yet.
Trp. I don’t know whether you’re aware of it, Miss Dainty, but
you're quite a wet blanket—and there are few things more un-
pleasant than a yet blanket. Mr. Blossom comes here to be
jolly—don’t you, Blossom? Mr. Blossom would rather talk about
something else—wouldn’t you, Blossom? How about the agri-
cultural interest, Blossom ?—how are the crops, Blossom? I hope
the turnips are pretty well, Blossom?
Miss D. Really, Mr. Tipthorp, one would imagine you were anxious
to avoid the subject!
Tir. Me—not at all—on the contrary, I think it capital fun, I might
say jolly good fun—butI see it distresses Blossom—in short,
Blossom shrinks from it—I can see him distinctly shrink from it.
WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK? 15
Bios. No! What’s the use of grumbling about it? what’s done,
cannot be undone, so I must put up with my loss and there’s an
end of it! (fixing his hat tighter again)
Tre. Of course, as Mr. Blossom very properly observes, there’s an
end of it!
Bios. The annoying part of the business is, that I believe it was
owing to my own carelessness—for I remember being taken with
a sudden fit ef sneezing, and I suppose in taking out my hand-
kerchief, the other thing dropped out of my pocket at the same
time,
Miss D. But whereabouts ?
Gros. Why I missed just as I had got beyond Chancery Lane!
Tre. (keeping himself up with difficulty) How oppressively hot it is
to be sure—I declare I feel quite chilled.
Bios. And I know it was safe enough in my great coat pocket as
f passed the corner of Hatton Garden. (here Tieruorr drops
suddenly into Miss Datnry’s arms)
Omnes. What’s the matter ?
Tip. (faintly) Nothing! really it’s dreadfully cold here—I must
go out and get a mouthful of fresh air.
Miss D. Hatton Garden, why that’s where you live Mr. Tipthorp.
Tre. Yes.
Miss D. And now I think of it, you might have found what Mr.
Blossom lost.
Tie. Yes.
Bios. No such luck for me—it was picked up by some unprincipled
scoundrel, I’ll be bound.
Sit, One of the swell mob I dare SAY.
Woop. But I’d advise you to give information to the police directly.
Tir. Mr. Blossom doesn’t want your advice Mr. Woodpecker—Mr.
Blossom is perfectly capable of acting in this, or any other
emergency, as this or any other emergency may require, Mr.
Woodpecker—so don’t make yourself so damned officious, Mr.
Woodpecker—(suddenly and violently) Confound it! are we going
to have any dinner to-day, or are we not? I’m so frightfully
hungry, that if I don’t have something to drink, I shall faint,
Sit. I’m afraid my provisions hayn’t arrived !
Woop. Nor mine neither !
Tie. By-the-bye, as I presume, you allude to two gigantic roasi
legs of mutton from the baker’s—I met ’em coming into the
house, and not considering them quite distingué enough for the
present occasion, I told the man to take ‘em both back—keep
‘em hot, and that you'd call for ’em as you went home. (clock
strikes six) There’s six o’clock, so now for dinner—gentlemen
take your partners— come along Fanny—now Mr. Blossom.
SILVERTOP throws open folding doors at c., and the dinner table
is seen elegantly laid—lighted candles, champagne bottles, &e.
Bios, (surprised) Egad ! you do things in grand style here.
Fan. Yes, uncle; but it isn’t everybody who spends his money as
freely as Mr. Tipthorp. (speaking at Miss Dairy and JULIA)
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16 WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK?
Miss D. It isn’t everybody who makes his money as easily as Mr,
| Tipthorp—one might almost suppose he picked it up in the
i streets.
} Tie. (after a violent effort to keep himself from dropping—aside) Pm
not naturally a vindictive man, but I divinely hope the first
i mouthful that woman attempts to swallow will stick in her
throat for a considerable period! I’ve half a mind to confess
everything to Blossom at once. I will—but I'll go and prime
myself up to the muzzle with champagne first. (aloud) Come
ae along! (about to go off—stops—turns—hurries back to Biossom—
if grasps his hand, looks appealingly in his face; then, in a low and
. earnest tone) Vll return directly and unbosom myself—yes, to
you, Blossom—on this spot, Blossom—will I speedily open this
j breast and unlock this chest. Farewell! (runs out, o.D.3 the
doors are closed)
. Bios. Well, as I said before, Tipthorp’s a queer fellow!
| Fan. A little eccentric, perhaps; but he’s the best—the kindest
creature in the world, and loves me with all his heart!
Bios. How do you know that ?
Kan. Because he has told me so a hundred times, and I want you
to give him an opportunity of saying as much to you—so I’ll go
to him at once, before he sits down to dinner, and tell him you
wish to speak to him. (about to go)
i Bros. Fanny !—one moment. (looks about him mysteriously) To
you, and to you only, [ will reveal the nature of the sad and
terrible loss I have sustained. (looks about mysteriously again;
then suddenly snatches off his hat, and shews his head perfectly
Li bald)
: ib: Fan. Oh, my poor uncle, what a fright you do look !
Hel Bros. Hush! (hastily ramming his hat on his head again) Now you
iy know why I couldn’t take my hat off. I'll tell you how it hap-
ne pened. As I was reading the newspaper last night, I was sud-
denly startled by a sudden and unusual blaze of light accom-
panied by a considerable increase of warmth about my head—I
had set my wig on fire !—every effort I made to check the pro-
gress of the devouring element was in vain—the flame spread
with irresistible fury, and in a few moments nothing remained
of my wig but a mass of ruins! Fortunately I was insured—I
mean, I remembered a hair-dresser who had got my measure;
consequently, after recovering in some measure from the first
shock caused by the conflagration, I despatched one of the
waiters to the hair-dresser in question, to order a new wig to
come. The first thing in the morning, it did not come: so that
[ was obliged to sit down to breakfast in the coffee room in my
nightcap. Still it did not come: so I determined to go for it
myself. I hadn’t got a quarter of a mile, before I met the man
with it; but as I couldn’t put on my wig without taking my hat
off, and didn’t like to take my hat off in the middle of the street
for the purpose of putting my wig on, I deposited it carefully in
my greatcoat pocket, and proceeded on my way here—the sad
result you know.
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WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK? 17
Fan. Well, for my part, I’m heartily glad it’s no worse, my dear
uncle—and now I’ll send Mr. Tipthorp to you. (goug, ©.)
Bios. Remember, Fanny, not a word—don’t expose the state of my
poll, if you love me! |
Fan. Don’t be alarmed. (knocks at c. v. and calls) Mr. Tipthorp!
Mr. Tipthorp !
Tie. (within, and in @ loud voice) “We won't go home till
morning,” &c., &e.
Fan. Mr. Tipthorp, I say. (throws doors open)
TiprHore appears within on his chair on the side of the table, and
singing.
Fan. Make haste, my uncle particularly wishes to speak to you.
Tre, When Blossom calls Tipthorp obeys.
Fax. Now, Tipthorp dear, speak your mind boldly at once to Uncle
Blossom, for I rather think he has come here to-day prepared to
do something for us.
(goes off at door c. closing it after her )
Bios. Ah, Tipthorp, is that you?
Tre. Yes, my Blossom, it’s me! (nodding to him, and advancing
very cautiously, and trying to appear sober)
Bios. (x. c.) Well, Timkins.
Tre. (u. c.) Well, Blossom.
Bros. (aside) Not a word about Fanny !—perhaps he’s shy—I must
help him a bit. (aloud) Come, Tipthorp, have you nothing to
say to me ?—no confession to make, eh ? (nudging him in the side)
Speak out, man, what are your intentions?
Trp. My intentions, beloved ‘Blossom, are to give it up. (falling
agam on Biossom)
Bros. Give it up.
Tie. Yes, for I havn’t known a moment’s comfort since I had
anything to do with it.
Bios, (aside) The fellow means to jilt poor Fanny after all. (aloud)
Hark ye, young chap, I’m not to be trifled with, and I tell you
that you can’t-drop it all of a sudden in this sort of way.
Tir. Vil drop it in any other sort of way you think proper to men-
tion. (falling forward again c.)
Bios. Once for all, you can’t give it up. You know it’s gone too
far for that.
Tir. No, there isn’t much gone.
Bios. Much gone! (aside) He's very drunk. (aloud) Come, let’s
see if we can’t arrange matters. In the first place, how about
the money, eh! How much have you got?
Trp. Don’t ask me, Blossom. ( falling “hii cdc.)
Bios. Pshaw! of course, when people give champagne dinners,
and all that sort of thing, why the money will go. But never
mind! We shan’t quarrel about that.
Tre. Generous Blossom! (falling forward again, é&c.)
Bros. Now tell me, Timkins, how much do you generally contrive
to pick up in the course of the year, eh?
Tip. I never picked up anything before in all my life.
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Bros. (aside) He’s excessively drunk. (aloud) Well now, Vl tell
you what my intentions were. I made up my mind this morning
to give Fanny and you a couple of hundred down, just to start
with. Since you say you wish to give it up—
Tre. No! I may as well keep it now, of course.
Bros. (aside) Keep it now! He’s distressingly drunk! (aloud)
Keep what?
Tre. Why what you've lost
know.
Bios. (aside) My new wig. (aloud) And you picked it up?
Tre. To be sure I did. And since it turns out that it was intended
as a wedding present for Fanny and me—
Buos. A wedding present! (aside) He’s deplorably drunk.
Tre. Why I can’t have done any very great harm, after all, in
making use of it.
Bios. (carefully examining Trernorr’s head—aside) Making use of
my wig! He hasn’t got it on now, at all events. (aloud) You've
made use of it?
Tie. Only part of it.
Bros, Part of it.
Tre. Yes, but there’s a good deal of it still left behind.
Bios. Left behind! (aside) He must have been pulling the hair off
in front for some extraordinary purpose or other. (aloud) Hark ye,
sir, you’ve no business to touch it, sir—it was my property, Six,
and never was intended as a present ?or anybody—and if you
don’t instantly restore it to me in exactly the same condition in
which I lost it, damme if I don’t give you in charge for robbery
—yes, sir, and transport you afterwards! (violently; doors at ¢.
open, and Fanny, Junta, Sitvertor, Miss Dainty, and Woop-
PECKER run on, at same time a violently ringing at bell heard at
R. D.; Miss Dainty runs out)
Onmnes. What's the matter ?
Miss D. (running in x.) Something dreadful I’m afraid, for there's
a policeman at the door, enquiring for Mr. Tomkins Tipthorp.
(Treruorr suddenly drops into Buossom’s arms).
WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK ?
at the corner of Chancery Lane, you
inter PoticEMAN, R. D.
Porice. Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Tomkins Tipthorp ?
Bros. Here he is, and I’d rather he was anywhere else. (making
Tiernorr stand up)
Pouics. (R.c.) Mr. Tipthorp—there’s an unpleasant business—but
I must do my duty.
Tir. (aside to him and grasping his hand 1) Let me go 134 D.—let me
go—and I will pour blessings on you from some distant spot—
you will be gratified, I’m sure you will, by the very considerable
number of blessings that I will pour upen you, from that distant
spot.
Porice. I don’t understand you sir—all I know is
Tir. (aside to him) Then say what you know in a whisper, 134 D.
(looking at the others and taking Potaceman aside) Now 134 D.,
what is it?
Nees
WHO STOLE THE POCKET BOOK? 19
Pouce. (r.) Well then, sir—(in a low tone) a pocket book containing
four £50 Bank notes, was lost or stolen this afternoon, at the
corner of Chancery Lane, (Tirrnorr drops into Poticeman’s arms)
don’t take it so much to heart sir—we’ve ascertained the numbers
of the notes, so that you may recover your property after all.
Tre, My property? 134 D., say it again !
Potice. Your property !
Tre. (shouting) Why do you speak in a whisper—let everybody
hear you! Say it again, 134 D!
Porice. (loud) I say, sir, your property, which it seems has been
sent you by a gentleman of the name of Blazes—
‘T're. Go on, 134 D, and louder than ever.
Pouce. The lad who had charge of it, lost it near Chancery Lane,
and came to the station-house to give information.
Tip. He, he, he! Blazes for ever ! Tol, de rol, lol! Fanny, em-
brace your Tipthorp! (embracing Poticeman) 134 D, let’s swear
an eternal friendship ! (embracing Fanny) Here’s the pocket-
book, which I picked up myself, and which I thus restore to its
lawful owner. ( putting it into his pocket again, and then suddenly
seeing Buossom) Then what have you lost, after all ? Speak, you
stupid old Blossom—what haye you lost, after all? (shakes
Biossom so violently that his hat falls off)
Omnes. Ha, ha, ha.
Tre. Well | must say, considering the redundancy of blossom there’s
a deficiency in the crop.
Bios. (crossing his arms with grandeur) The loss I have sustained
being now proclaimed to the world, { will retire from the gaze of
my fellow men, and forthwith bury myself in some adjacent
nunnery.
Poxice. If you allude to a smart new wig, sir, the same lad who
lost the pocket-book picked one up just on the same spot. Here
it is. (taking wig out of his pocket)
Bros. It’s mine—it’s mine. (puts it on, and bows affectedly allround)
Tre. This is all your fault, my Blossom. If a man will persist in
wearing his wig in his pocket, instead of on his head, he can’t be
surprised at this sort of thing happening to him. ’Pon my life
though, it was very wrong of me to appropriate the contents of
the pocket book—it was pleasant, but wrong. The only conso-
lation—that is, the only moral consolation I have, is that I stole
—no, I mean I appropriated, my own property—and what’s more
I mean to keep my eyes rivetted on the pavement all the way
home—and so will you, so don’t deny it—and if any of you
should find two hundred pounds—and if it should turn out to be
his own property—and if he should feel inclined to give a dinner
for six—here we are! We'll never ask him “ Wuo SroLe THe
Pocxrt-Boox ?”
Buossom, Woop., Juxsza, Tiernorr, Fanny, Sitver., Miss D,
R, L.
Curtain.
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Scene 2,
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mercy
Act II.
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COMFORTABLE
LODGINGS,
A Furte
BY
RICHARD BRINSLEY PEAKE,
AUTHOR OF
The Duel, Amateurs and Actors, Before Breakfast, Jonathan in
England, Master’s Rival, Haunted Inn, Bottle Imp, Sheriff
of the Couuty, Ten Thousand a Year, Hundred Pound
Note, Uncle Rip, Title Deeds, &c., &e,
THOMAS HAILES LAOY,
89, STRAND, LONDON.
e ote ome
REMARKS.
a ee
Comfortable Lodgings.
An Englishman is the worst fellow in the world to be put ont of
his way. The slightest inconvenience, the most trifling departure
from his wonted habits, he magnifies into a serious evil. His
well stocked larder, his warm fireside, and all the snug appurtenances
of a cosey establishment, are ever present to his view; and, in de-
fanit of these, his spirits flag, he is hipped and melancholy and bis
pistols and razors become dangerous implements iv his hands. Our
ideas of comfort have their origin in early association, A brick
floor and a deal table are as great luxuries to monsieur, as are
Turkey carpets and rose wood, French polished, to his more fasti-
dious neighbour, mi Lor Anglais. Foreign travel exhi>its John
Bull in bis own natural light; his peculiaities break vorth with
whimsical effect, and, though not always the most amiable, are
nevertheless entertaining. He longs to see the world and its lions ;
and having, with due ceremony, arranged his wardrobe, put money
in his purse, and procured his passport, he sets forward, buttoned up
in his native consequence, to the capital of the grand monargue, to
rattle dice and drink champagne. The expectations of John are
not the most reasonable. Without considering the different man-
ners and customs of foreign parts, he bends to nobody, yet takes it
as an affront if everybody bend not to him. His baggage is sub-
jected to rigorous search. The parlez vous!—nothing like this
ever happens in merry old England! His passportis inspected, and bis
person identified,—the inquisitors! to take the length and breadth of
a man, his complexion and calling! The barriers are closed, and he
must bivouac in the diligence the live-long night,—monstrous ty-
ranny ! every rogue enjoys free ingress and egress in a land of
liberty! He patronizes the Hoted Anglais, hoping to experience
less imposition from those of his own country,—in this, alas! he ie
disappointed ; he is fleeced upon the true national principle that, as
he can afford, he ought to pay; this, however, he imputes to that
epidemic spirit of roguery which, as an Englishman, he is bound te
consider indigenous to every soil but his own! He calls for the bill
of fare, and, after contemplating the various entrées, unwittingly
selects the yery one that produces effects similar to those resulting
from a particular dish described by Simollett in the Feast of the
Ancients. Of course, there is a horrible conspiracy to poison him4#
The wines, too, are sophisticated. The champagne is gooseberry,
the Burgundy Pontac, and the vin ordinaire neither better nor wotse
than Braithwait’s intermediate. The houses are dirty and dark, the
streets muddy and gay, the women pretty well, I thank’e, and the
men a parcel of idle vagabonds, blinded with snuff and whisker;
covering themselves with glory, with hardly a rag to cover them.
Though an ardent lover of liberty, he cannot guzte reconcile this
universal rage for virtu ;—the poissard and the peer jostling each
other in the splendid galleries of the Louvre; the /friseur contem-
plating with rapture an undoubted Raphael ; and the dispenser of
ay and Martin elevated to the third heaven before the statue of
Venus de Medecis! Even the air is too thin; he misses his aceus-
tomed smoke, and but one drunken dog has he encountered (and he
was an Englishman!) to bring to fond remembrance the land we
live in. What wonder that he should grow heartily tired of foreign
countries, and return to dulce domum like a long parted lover, with
a still keener sense of enjoyment ?
No man suffers indigestion like an Englishman. No man crams
down so much, nor is there any one on whom beef and pudding have
taken such fast held. He is — a hypocondriac,—to eat, drink,
3
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G REMARKSe
and be miserable; for, with him, dolour waits _on drinking, and
melanchely on mastication. Of this complexion is Sir Hippington
Miff, an unhappy English traveller, whom man delights not, nor
(save the drysalter’s wife) woman neither. A fatal passion had em
patriated him. The wife of bis opposite neighbour and friend, flushed
With the purple light of love, had whispered in his ear unutterable
things; to prevent the recurrence of these dangerous encounters, he
resolved to emulate the far-famed virtue of Addison, on a similar
trying occasion, and Sir Hippington whispered in return, “< Part,
madam, we must; you have charms, and I have passions.” His
face is the index of his mind. Once, indeed, he essayed to laugh,
but it ended in a cry; his features are as fixed as a knocker, and any
effort at jocularity comes forth just like a double knock. Being him-
self incapable of mirth, he cannot endure it in others. His valet,
Rigmarole, a sprightly Gascon, is sadly put to it; he accounts ita
holyday to laugh, and avails himself of a mom: ntary vacation when
ever his master’s face, that antidote to merriment, is turned aside.
Sir Hippington Miff has journeyed to Paris for the joint purpose of
avoiding the wanton wife of his ne ighbour, the dry Salter, and claim-
ing payment of a bond for 20,000 francs on Captain Bonassus, a re
tired veteran. He desires Rigmarole to procure lodgings,—com-
Jortable lodgings ; and here, like the crab, our story must go back-
ward,
For the benevolent purpose of serving a friend, Bonassus had put
bis signet to the bond in question. That friend, Lieutenant Rone, o1
the Legion of Honour, turns out a rogue, runs away, and leaves the
captain to pay the reckoning. Bonassus is ruined; his daughter
must go to a convent; his ancient sister, Madame Pelagie Bonassus,
get married or buried; and his old comrade, Bombadier Babillard,
& precisian and dealer in monosyllables, must turn to the right-abont,
and seek other quarters, The ladies, however, do not fall in with
this summary mode of breaking up the household. The captain is
persnaced to retire to the farm of a friend, to avoid the harpies of
the law ; and Madame Pelagie, who is a capital concoctress of com-
posing-draughts and maker of pickles, resolves to economise ; tosell
her paroquet, chickens, and monkey, to kill her pig, and let her
lodgings. The notice announcing her latter intention having caught
the eye of Rigmarole, he applies, makes the usual inquiries, the
terms are agreed on, and Sir Hippington Miff is, without further
ceremony, ushered into his new apartments. Snddenly his ruling
passion comes o’er him. What a suspicious-looking stairease! The
people, too, madam, and miss, are equally suspicions! A compli-
mentary solicitude regarding his health begets a suspicion that the
young lady’s father is a physician or an andertaker | and the old
lady’s profound respect is saluted with the retort courteous of ** gam
won!” He hopes their keys will not fit his (ranks ; and au invita-
ticn from Madame Pelagie to take a peep at the dressing-closet, is a
second edition of the drysalter’s wife. He has hardly quietly
$al himself down, ere a mysterious personage enters his apart-
ment, and Opens the conference in a manner so solemn and im-
posing, that Sir Hippington becomes alarmed, trembles from head
to foot, and expects the revelation of some news of direful import,
After sundry low bows, and a liberal dispensation of snuff on the
part of the Stranger, forth issues the Delphic oracle, that he, Mon-
sieir De Cachet, Intendant of Police, has discovered that a plot is
on the tapis to rob him of the bond for twenty thousand francs, and
probably to murder him, and that the Zittle affair is to be attempted
that very night! He is cautioned how to act; to be Cheerfué as
usval ; to retire to bed at his accustomed hour; and to keep hig
REMARKS, 7
own secret, His suspicions wander as to who can be the assassia ;
and an event transpires to fix them on a person not hitherto 61s.
peeted. Madame Pelagie had prepared a composing-draught, to lall
the nervous excitement of her brother Bonassus; but her solicitute
meeting an ungrateful return, the rejected potion lay on the table of
Sir Hippington’s apartment, and, being espied by Kigmarole, who
isas melancholy asa gibbed cat, and as thirsty asa sponge, he seizes,
smells, and, from its fragrant odour, swallows it, turns down the cup,
and lays the theft at grimalkin’s door. Its effects are soon visible on
Rigmarole, who at this moment enters the apartment brandishing a
razor, and, in a strain of high excitement, offers to shave Sir Hip-
pington Miff. Marking the incongruity of his speech and manner,
the suspicious allusions to Sir Hippington’s Jast moments, and his
well-filled trunks heavy with specie, the baronet retreats, refuses 0
be shaved, and fixes his eye with Indicrous horror on bis unconsciogs
valet. This produces a counter suspicion that Sir Hippington is lew
compos than usual. Rigmarole, therefore, to prevent, mishaps, pro
‘ceeds to put away his pistols. “ An attempt to disarm me!’ roars
Sir Hippington Mitf. Madame Pelagie now enters with a cup of
chocolate, and presents it to the baronet. Fresh alarms !—’Tis
poison! The old lady presses him to taste—the cockatrice! There's
arsenic floating on the top! ’Twas prepared by herself—no doubi!
Now Rigmarole, after his first ebullition, had been making violent
attempts tokeep himself awake, Sir Hippington reso:ves on a bold
experiment : he hands the cup to his faithiess valet, who ‘wallows i.
A somuiferons fit instantly ensues; he utters certain disjointed sep-
tences, and dies away in his master’s arms. Here’s a pretty sitnatioa
for a nervous gentleman! Soon will the poisoned rascal turn black,
and go into mourning for himself! The whetting of a knife is hear,
What can that mean? Sir Hippington looks out at window, ani
beholds a ruffianly fellow in a red nightcap, with his sleeves tucked
up, receiving instructions from Madame Pelagie ; which, though they
refer to the intended -slaughter of a pig, are so ambiguously ex-
pressed, that he applies them to himself. He bellows lustily murder!
and carnage! invokes De Cachet, fires his pistol out at window,
and kills the—pig!
Shall we follow Sir Hippington through his subsequent false alarms?
Gregory’s clumsy downfall of the supper-dishes, which the knight
takes for the entry of so many bravos—the adventures of the arm
chair, the dressing-closet, and the bed—the jostling of masters, ser.
vants, honest men, and rognes—the alternations of light and dark.
ness, and the whole phantasmagoria of cross purposes, that constitutes
a bustling farce of the modern school? Lieutenant Roué, the run.
away friend of Captain Bonassus, in his honest attempt to rob Sir
Hippington of the fatal bond in order to cancel it, is arrested by
Monsiear De Cachet; and the captain and the brigadier return tg
their old quarters (their cabriolet having opportanely broken down !)
just in time to contribute to the general ecluircissement. ‘There is a
lady in the case, and, of course, a lover. Their difficulties are not
many : some trellis-work serves for a ladder, and a window, half
concealed by vine-leaves, for an entrance and exit. Babillard, the
bombadier, is a fine fellow : With him a monosyllable isa sentence ;
yet, though niggard of his words, he is not of his coin, but gene
rously offers it to a friend in distress. This farce is exceedingly
broad ; whoever could refrain to laugh must have made no short so-
journ inthe cave of Trophonius,
Harley played Rigmarole with his usual point; Liston and John
Reeve gave their respective versions of Sir Hippington Miff. Both
were sufficiently droll,
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CAPTAIN BONASSUS.—First dress: Green regimental coat,
red skirts, enffs, and collar—white breeches—jack boo ts—three-cor-
nered coc ked hat—white cockade. Second dress: Travelling-cloak.
BOMBADIER BABILLARD.—Green reg imental coat, trimined
in the same mauner-—white breeches—long white military gaiters—
black garters and buttons— three-cornered hat—white cock ade—knap-
sack, with three fleur de-lis on it.
VINCENT ~-DORVILLE.— Broad-skirted, brown coat, trimmed
with laceYellow satin embroidered waistcoat— buckskin breeches—
high boots—three cornered hat—lace rutiles and lappets.
SIR HIPPINGTON MIFF.—Broae skirted drab coat, trimmed
with lace and large buttous—scarlet waistcoat, trimmed with lace—
black velvet breeches—crimson stockings—embroidered clocks-=
square-toed shoes—buckles—lace ruffles—wig, bag, and sword.
RIGMAROLE.—Postillion’s drib jacket—bucks skin breeches—
jack boots— powdered wig, tail, and bag—three-cornered hat,
ROUE.—Shabby dark blue uniform—white breeches and gaiters—
large dark roquelare.
MONSIEUR.DE CACHET.—Blnue uniform, faced with crim-
sou— Write “breeches—jaeck boots—military ~ cloak—three-cornéred.
hat black» cross \belts—sabre.
GREGOR Y,—Peasat’s.blue frock, stitched with white—blue
linen treusers—boots—wig and tail—red nightcap.
ANTOINETTE.—White muslin skirt—black. velvet . boddice,
laced and trimmed with blue—small muslin apron, with pockets,
trimmed With. ibbon-—white stockings—black. shoes.
MADAME’ PELAGIE,—First dress : Criti'son” embroidered
satin petticoat, body, and ‘spencer—stomacher, laced with blue—
satunand Jace mob cap>— blue satin shoes, high. beels, » Second dress :
Full night-gown—cap. Third dress : Same.as first.
Gast of the Chet actsis
+ Performed at the Theatres Royal, London,
English Opera
Drury Lane. “Company, atthe
March 10, 1827, Adelphi, 1881.
Mr. W. Bennett.Mr. W, Beuneétt,
Mr. O. Smith, >-Mr O, Smith,
Mr. Southweil, Mr. J. Bland
Mr. J. Reeve,
Mr. Wrench.
Mr. Benson Hith
Mr. F. Matthew's,
Mr. Salter.
Captain isn: an old
French Officer > }
Bombadier Babillard, his com- 2
rade... -5
P incent Dorvitle, lover of An
i tvinetle . 3
Sir Hi; pington Miff, an mn En
glish traveller... a4
Rigmarole, his idlet ,° . .
Rout, a broken lientenunt ;
Monyieur: de Cac het, Jnten- M
» dunt.of French Police : f r. Browne,
Gregory, - servant to Bonassus Mr. Hogties.
Antoiriette, daughter. to Bos
MaAISUS .
Mudame Pelagie, sister” to
Bnaseus .« “~%
Mr; Liston.
Mr. Harley.
Mr. Archer,
Miss H, Cawses
2. Mrs. C. Jones, Mrs, C, Jones.
Miss Pincott.
[Performance Free.]
COMFORTABLE LODGINGS ;
SCENE I.—An Apartment in the House of Captain Bo-
nassus—a window, L. UE, , with vines growing outside—
a French bed, rR. in flat, Caneeided by drapery—a door,
L. F.—a door, R. 8s. £.—and another door, t.—a table and
two chairs, Cc.
AnToINETTS discovéred, R., at embroidery; VINCENT
DorvVILce near her, 1.
Dor. (t.) Let me beseech you, dear Antoinette——-
Ant. (r.) La, Mr. Dorville! you beseech! What's
the use of beseeching when you already know the state
of my heart?
Dor, Yes; but there is the usual obstruction to the
happiness of lovers.
Ant. In the shape of a very obstinate pape.
Dor, lam, from this morning, to give up all idea of
marrying you.
Ant. [Starting.] Oh! I have stuck my finger and
broken my needle!
Dor. It has almost broken my heart, Antoinette,
Ant, I cannot divine his motive, Vincent ; of late his
disposition is greatly altered.
Dor, You must permit me to have a little conversation
with you this evening; I can make my. customary en-
trance at the window yonder. The trellis which sup-
ports the vine forms an excellent ladder. Do not say
nay, Antoinette ; I shall come as usual a little before
three, and probably I may have devised sone ty to
aid our sad cause. )
Ant. Should you wake my father-——
Dor. He always sleeps soundly,
Ant. Disturb my aunt——
Babillard ° shal] eccompany ire to’the farm —
qick t { Exeunt Antoinette ana Midame Pelugie, p. b. |
O'd comrade! [ Going towards the duor, R,
Bab. Hey.
Bon. In the worst of times we never ran away.
Bab. Yes,
Bun. (R.) When?
Bub. (t.) Twice.
Bon. Where?
Bab. Pienheim.
Bon, Psha!
Bah, Ramilies
Gon, Why, those were the only two battles we were
ever in,
Lab. True,
Bon, That wasn’t runking away, you old fool: We re-
treated retreated “leriously ! Come along—drive care
away. [ Singing.] Toi de rol lol, &e.
Ba". Rol!
Bon. Fal de ral lal! fa] de ral!
Bab. Lal!
Bin, March '—Come, bombadier. [ Exeunt, pr. p.
SCENE IL.—The Exterior of Captain Bonassus’s House,
Enter RIGMAROLE, Lis. E.
Rig, Oh! whata thing it isthat a sprightly Gascon,
as I am, should become servant to a melancholy English-
man !—Here we have just travelled trom Lyons—all the
amusement [ have had on the road was to @#ount ny
master’s sighs: he brings them up from the bottom of
his soul like buckets from a well—he has sighed exactly
x hundred and ninety-nine times, and laughed but
B
14 COMFORTABLE LODGINGS.
once—and that laugh ended inacry. Sir Hippington
Miff, my master, will not let me smile in his presence ; 50
I'll try to geta little risibility to myself when he’s away
—I wish I could tickle myself up into a laugh. TH
think of Sir Hippington Miff, who, for asad fellow, says
comical things. | Laughs.
Sir Hippington, [Calling without, t.s.£.] Rigmarole !
tig. Here he iss Now I must listen to his grievances
till lam as unhappy as he is.
Enter Sin HipPincTon MIF, L. 8. E.
Sir H. You have walked off; Mr. Rigmarole, without
permission. I dare say [ should have found you ina
tavern, where you would get tipsy and speak ill of me.
Rig. (r.) La, Sir Hippington Miff! if I had gone
to the tavern, it would have been for the purpose of
drinking your health.
Sir H. (L.) What! Iam looking ill, am I?
Rig. No, master, no; not looking ill. [Aszde.] Only
il] looking.
Sir H. I shall never be well again !—How is it, Rigs
marole, that every body in the world, myself excepted,
can be happy ?—I endeavour to be cheerful, but it ends
in a croak,
Rig. Like a sprightly raven: I am sure, sir, you’ve
tried all methods to recover your spirits—you availed
yourself of the best medical aid here.
Sir H. Blockhead ! how is it possible that a French
physician should understand an English indigestion ?
Rig. Ay, sir, l always say, employ the cook instead
of the doctor.
Sir H. I detested your cookery: from the moment I
arrived on the Continent, the smell of onions has never
been from under my nose.
Rig. Lord, sir, what would you have nicer ?
Sir H, That’s your taste—faugh! I shall return to
my Own country like a boiled rabbit—pale, and smo-
thered with onions: but all this doesn’t answer my
question—how is it that I see every body around me
happy, and I am not ?—You are happy, Rigmarole.
Rig. Pretty well, thank ye, sir.
Sir H. [ Aside.] When I visit the theatre, I perceive a
thousand joyous faces, all smiling and tittering—-why
can't I smile? why can’t I titter?—No, my countenance
is the only one that is melancholy; I hear the people
Sea
1
SCENE II | COMFORTABLE LODG NGs. 15
a brass knocker; and if I do attempt to laugh, it comes
out like a double knock—ha! ba!
Rig. Indeed, sir, if you would but do as otner people
laugh—I see their muscles relax—my face is as fixed
do
Sir H. 1 tried to do as other people do—for instance,
when I crossed the channel in the packet-boat, other
people were all in that situation in which folks are who
are unaccustomed to the sea—I tried to do as other
people did—no, [ only looked on—a disappointed man—
I couldn’t do as other peopie did, though I tried ever so
much,
Rig. Might your faithful valet inquire the probable
ciuse of your melancholy ?—I know I touch a tender
string: but you, sir, who have riches and respectability
—you, who have filled the high office of Lord Mayor of
London
Sir H. Oh, Rigmarole! in this transitory world a
lord mayor has no better chance of happiness than a
common marshalman. [Aside.] I will confide in this
fellow. [Aloud ] Know, Rigmarole, that I am a man of
principle ; you have often wondered why TI left my na-
tive country —it was my principle caused it,
Rig. Indeed, sir !
Sir H. Downright principle—hear. [Sighs.] Opposite
my counting-house in London lived a drysalter
Rig. A drysalter, sir!
Sir H. A drysalter: I shall not mention any names—
the drysalter had a wife.
Rig. Ah, there’s the rub,
Sir H, A beautiful creature; plump, but pale, living
in the city air: the drysalter was my intimate friend;
but the wife—[Sighs.] was for ever peeping and peering
over her blinds at me—that, you know, was a very sus-
picious circumstance,
Rig. Very, sir.
Sir H. lat last discovered—I shan’t tell you how,
that [ had won her affections: Iam not handsome, but
{ won her affections—she yearned for me. [ Rigmarole
endeavours to suppress a laugh.] What's the matter?
Rig. (Sobbing.] Sir, 1 am—really affected.
Str H. I thought you would feel it. Well, as matters
stood, what was to be done ?—Could I injure my friend,
the drysalter? no!—Could I, in short, behave paw
paw? no!—Ii felt that I had a heart within me, warm
B2
ms
16 COMFORTABLE LODGINGS.
like the heater of a tea-urn ; principle came to my aid ;
principle seated me in a Dover Stage ; principle prin.
cipally drove me to the Continent.
Rig. Ab, si! [Affects to werp
Str H. lt was a hard struggle, though; she looked
devilish handsome in her silk stockings at my Easter
ball. [ Crosses, Rr,
Rig. Sir, I can sympathize; your feelings did you
honour.
Sir H, Yes; but my feelings will not Iet me reside in
yonder hotel, to be made the prey of landlord, chamber-
maids, and waiters. Rigmarole, you must seek apart-
ments for me,—anything that is retired—[ Crosses, u.]
that is likely to be comfortable; I want comfortable
jodgings—I must then look after my little private affairs.
Rig. Yes, sir; and receive the money due upon the
bond of the merchant, Bonassus, which you purchased:
we must find, first, where he lives. Shall I go and look
for lodgings now, sir?
Sir H. Yes, go: comfortable apartments, remember,
firg. [Aside.] Oh, happiness! I can havea penny-
worth of laughing by myself !—Oh, delightful !
[Exit Rigmarole, r., Sir Hippington Miff, t.
Enter Capratn Bonassus and BoMBADIER BaBILlarD,
with a knapsack, &c., from the house, R. D. F., followed
by ANTOINETTE,
Bom. Good by, sister Pelagie! farewell, Antoinette !
Come along, Bombadier.
Bab. Ha!
Ant, One word, dear father—you have prohibited the
Visits of Vincent Dorville——
Lon. To be sure have ; he must not be drawn into
our ruin by wedding you ; so I took a favourable op-
portunity to insult him: this morning I gave him a
sickener.
Ant. Ah, sir!
Bon, There, go in—good by! it may be months be-
fore we meet again. Bombadier, forward!
Bab. March! [ Exeunt Bonassus and Babiliard, 1.
Ant. I am sure, if poverty assailed Vincent, I should
like him, if possible, better than I do now,
i
A SEN TM Fa. ee
< = = - * ‘ é --
- 7 er te ee ee
Enter MaAvamME Pevacie, from the house, R. D. F
Yad. P. (k.¢.) They’re gone! you perceive how irris
i
t!
Ht
u ,. x
i
5 _
*
va (-~
SCENE 111.) COMFORTABLE LODGINGS. 7
table your father has become, and equally obstinate, my
dear. The house is left in my charge; I shall make no
reform; my brother is gone probably for some time—we
must economise ; there are more rooms in the building
than we can possibly occupy: I shall let that suite of
apartments.
Ant, (c.) I think, aunt, my father should have been
apprised
Mad. P. Pooh! pooh! I’ll be answerable for conse-
quences; and now, to decrease expense, I shall sell my
paroquet, monkey, and chickens; I shall order Gregory
immediately to kill the pig, that he may not eat us out
of house and home, Ah, my dear, how little does man
appreciate the wisdom and economy of the gentler sex.
[Exeunt Madame Pelagie and Antoinette, into the
house, R. D. F.
Enter Rove, meanly dressed, half military, Re
Roué. So, at last at Paris ; and I’ll be bound I’m the
greatest rip in it: once a gay lieutenant, now a runaway
bankrupt: no matter, Lwill only sin once more, and that
Shall be in a virtuous cause—* I love virtue, though I
don’t practise it”—no matter, old Captain Bonassus gave
security to start me in the world, and ever since I’ve
gone backwards instead of forwards: no matter, old
Bonassus must not suffer—I am not rascal enough to let
him. I have traced the English fool who holds the bond
to yonder hotel ; I have come two hundred and twenty
miles to put my hand into his portmanteau to tear up
the paper, and relieve my generous old captain—despe-
rate act!—no matter, to-night I'll do it—I’ll climb like
a cat into Sir Hippington Miff’s bed-room, and frighten
some of them—perhaps they’ll catch me—no matter, old
Bonassus’s bond must be destroyed. [ Exit, 1.
Enter Monsieur DE Cacuet, r., wrapped in a cloak—he
crosses after Roué, L.
SCENE IIl.—The Apartment as before—a cup of wine
on the table—a large easy chair, 1.
Enter ANTOINETTE, R. D.
Ant. This sudden whim of my aunt Pelagie to let the
apartments !—It is next to impossible. They will be
hired to-day, so it cannot interfere with my appoint-
B 3
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18 COMFORTABLE LODGINGS
ment with Vincent this evening, Oh, for the approach
of the evening star! [Lvoking ut the table.] She has left
my papa’s sleeping-potion here.
Enter MADAME PBLAGIE, R. D.
Mad. P, Congratulate me, Antoinette !|— Whilst I was
affixing a paper announcing “ Lodgings to Let,” a smart
young fellow has requested to view them. Oh, there’s
the sleeping-potion! I have had my trouble for nothing.
However, I will not throw it away—I may want to sleep
myself, [Calling off, R.p.] Please to walk up, sir.
Rigmarole. [ Without, rx. p.] This way ?—Oh, very
well.
Enter RiGMAROLE, R. D.
The staircase is very steep—once lose your footing, and
you'll soon be at the landing-place. Master’s absent—
I may laugh. [Laughing.| Pretty apartments — very
pretty '—Pretty furniture—very pretty! [ Seetng An-
toinette.] Pretty lady—very pretty | [ Ogling her—Mas
dame Pelagie interfering. | Pretty behaviou r—very pretty
I presume, madam, all the other furniture corresponds,
Mad. P. I have a written inventory, sir.
Rig. Written !—Corresponding, certainly! [ Laugh-
ing.| Ha! ha! Master’s away. [Laughimg.| Ha! ha!
ha! J Suppose, madam, you find china and earthene
ware, and all that? [Going to the closet, L. D. F.] This
is a cupboard—ahem!— All sorts of conveniences—
ahem !
Mad. P, You said your master was an English noble-
man
Rig. Yes; and he is very particular,
Mad, P. If you occupy the apartments, you must fa«
vour me with his name, as you are aware it is required
by the police regulations.
Rig. The police of our great nation is admirably con-
ducted—admirably ! The terms you mentioned, they
will do—we don’t care for money—we are very rich,
My master’s name is Siy Hippington Miff.
Mad. P. Miff !
Rig. Miff.There are a large family of the Miffs ip
England.
Ant. An English nobleman, I think you said?
Rig. Yes, miss, an English nobleman. [ Half aside.)
That is to say, he was Lord Mayor of London ten years
ago. Having concluded preliminaries, [ Crossing, R.]
SCENE Ul.}] COMFORTABLE LODGINGS. 19
you will excuse me, ladies, whilst I step over to the
hotel, and bring my master and the other luggage
directly. [Aside.] Luggage !—There’s a charming little
baggage there! (Laughing.] Ha! ha! ha! Sir Hippy’s
away. [Laughing.| Ha! ha! ha! [ Exit, Rr. dD.
Mad. P. (k.) Well, Antoinette, we have done wonders :
but you appear discontented.
Ant, (1.) I think this step ought not to have been
taken without the concurrence of my father. [ Aside. |
How shall I postpone Vincent’s appointment to-night ?
He has left town for the day, and I cannot apprise him,
Mad. P. An English nobleman !
Ant. [Aside.] He’ll climb in at the window at twelve.
Mad. P. We must use our utmost endeavours to fas-
cinate him; I shall put on all my powers of attraction.
And now he comes—I wonder how he will first address
us. [She adjusts her cap, and assumes a stately attitude.
Sis Hippington. [Without.] O, my poor back! my
poor back!
Enter Sir Hiprineton Mirr, followed by Ricmaro.e,
with lugguge, R. D.
W hat a suspicious-looking staircase!
Mad. P. He has decidedly a high carriage.
Sir H. Steep as the Monument? Who are these per-
sons, pray ?
Rig. (k.) Your landlady and her niece, sir.
Sir H, (r.c.) What do they want?
Mad, P. [ Advancing ceremoniously, L. c.—Sir Hipping-
ton retreats.) If 1 cannot express the inexpressible ho-
nour and profound respect that I feel for your person
and consideration, it is that I am awed by the conde-
scension in selecting our humble roof for your residence,
Sir H., { Aside.) Gammon!
Mad, P, Conscious dignity in his manner !
Ant, (t.) I trust, sir
[Courtesying and crossing to Sir Hippington.
Sir H. Now the little one’s going to let off at me!
Ant. (1. c.) [ trust you have enjoyed your health since
you hve been in France,
Sir H. No one asks without an interested motive!
[Aside to Rigmarole.] 1 suspect that girl’s father is a
physician.
Rig. [ Aside to Sir Hippington.] Yes, sir; or her uncle
an undertaker.
i
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24 COMFORTABLRE LODGINGS.
Enter MADAME PELAGIE, with a cup, R.
Mad. P, My lor, I have intruded on your privacy to
state-——
Sir H. (Turning, sees Rigmarole stealing off with his
pistols.) Bring those pistols back, sir! [Rigmarole offers
them reluctantly.} Turn the barrels the other way.
[Takes them.] Now state away, madam...
Mad. P [Crosses to Sir Hippington.] 1 beg to remark
that we are famous for our preparation of chocolate ;
will you please to taste it?
Rig. (r.) [Muking signs to Madame Pelugie.] Don't,
he is such an odd mixture.
Sor H, (.) (Watching, and overhearing.] Odd mix-
ture! poison, perhaps !—I fancy I see the arsenic float-
ing on the top—she is pressing it so, too. You're very
kind, madam. [Aside.] Deceitful old civet-cat! I have
it--I’ll prove her—I’l] ask her to taste it herself. [Look-
tng sleadfustly in her face.}] Madame Pelagie Bonasgus,
will you drink this chocolate ?
Mad. P. 1 prepared it expressly for you.
Sir H. [Aside.] I believe you—a hendevil! I’ll make
her taste it. Swallow three mouthsful of this, Madame
Bonassus. [ Eyeing her.
Mad. P, [&miling.] No, no, my lor—it is for—] shall
leave it for yoa, my lor. [Apart.] I must give directions
to Gregory about killing the pig. [Cails.] Gregory!
Gregory ! [ rit, ev. v.
Sir H. Who the deuce is Gregory 1—One of her asso-
Ciates in guilt,
Rig. [After a struggle to keep himself awake.| Booh!
La, sir! why didn’t you drink a little of madame’s cho-
colate ?—TI shouldn’t have made such wry faces about it,
if | had been you.
Sir H. You! [ Aside.] Faithless wretch !—A bold idea
strikes me—I will try the experiment on him. Have
you any objection to taste this odd mixture, Mr. Rigma-
role? [Giving him the cup.| Drink, but remember it is
your own act and deed.
Rig. Sir, lam very much obliged to you.
[Drinks, and places the cup on the table.
Sir H. How do you feel ?
kig. Hush a-by, lul-a-by, bow, wow, wow !
é [Sinking into lethargy.
Sir H. Delirious !
COMFORTABLE LODGINGS. 25
Rig. Oh, Sir Tiffy ! [Turns unéasily.] Sleepy as death !
Sir H. It works!
Rig. Oh, yes! [ Pointing to the table.) Sleep, Sir Tippy
Miflery—muz! bob! fish ! pip!
[Falls insensibly into Sir Hippington’s arms.
Sir H. Here’s a situation for a neryous timid gentle-
man !— How heavy this poisoned rascal is—he will turp
black presently, and go into mourning for himself, { Noise
—the whetting of a knife is heard outside the window,
L. U0, E.] What the devil’s that? [Drops Rigmarole into
the easy chair, L., and runs to the window.] A fellow in a
red night-cap, sleeves tucked up, and has a knife as
long as my arm,
Mad. P. [ Without, i. v. E.] Gregory ! Gregory !
Sir H. [At the window, L. U. £.] Gregory! the old
hag’s bravo ?
Mad. P. [ Without.] Make your knife quite sharp—I
Should like the poor creature to die easily,
Sir H. [Drawing his sword.] Should you ?
Gre. [ Without, i. v. E.] See how it cuts, madame,
Mad. P. Very well, bravo!
Sir H. Bravo! she calls him a bravo!
Gre. Madame, will you have him stuck in the wash-
house or in the yard?
Mad. P. { Without, t. v. E.] Put him out of his misery
in the wash-house.
Sir H, [Taking his pistols.] You must get me down
stairs first. Carnage !—De Cachet! De Cachet! curse
your police punctilio !—I’ll show them I’m on the alert.
[Firing out at the window.] There, Gregory! [The pig
squeaks.| I’ve killed somebody ! [ Brandishing his sword.]
D'ye call these “* ComrorTaBLeE LODGINGs ?”
SCENE LV. The Room of Madame Pelagie.
Enter ANTOINETTE and MADAME PELAGIE, R.
Ant. (L.c.) Are you satisfied with Sir Hippington
Miff’s explana ion, aunt?
Mad. P. (c.) My lor states that he was labouring un-
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26 COMFORTABLE LODGINGS.
der avery singular delusion: Sir Hippington comes
this way,—I trust, to make his personal apologies.
Enter Str Hippincton Mirr, rR.
Sir H. [r. c.] [Aside.] That false alarm! what an
old ass I was: but it did appear verv frightful. [ Aloud.]
Ladies, I hope I have not alarmed the neighbourhood ?
Mad. P. The neighbours are accustomed to reports.
Ant. My father is in the habit of practising with pis-
tols at a mark.
Sir H, That’s suspicious! I’m to be the mark her
father is to pop at,
Mad. P. We shall be very glad when the opportunity
occurs of presenting you to him.
Sir H. i’d better pay damages. Madame, any da-
mages I may have committed I will cheerfully compen-
Sate ; please to put it down to the bill.
Enter Grecory, with a letter, i.
Mad. P. Well, Gregory.
Sir H. [Starting.} There’s the pig-killer !
Gre. Letter, madame, for Sir Hippington Miff.
Sir H. [Afraid to touch it.] Uve heard of letters that
explode with chymical matter.
Mad. P. Pray, Gregory, what damage was done by
my lor’s firing the pistols out of the window ?
Gre. (L.) Deadly damage, madame ; one bullet killed
the pig.
Sir H. Poor pig! anything else ?
Gre. Another shot knocked a hole in the water-cask,
which has been squirting away ever since.
Sir H, (1. ¢.) Anything else?
Gre. The parrot has been in fits this hour, madame’s
monkey has run into a jack-boot, and I can’t get him
out.
Str H, Pull his tail.—Anything else ?
Gre. I have ever so much; the chickens have all
flown over the wall.
Sir H. Cry * Coobiddy, coobiddy !”, and they’ll al]
come back again. Anything else?
Gre. No—yes; the tassel of my red night-cap is car-
ried off.
Mad. P. Gregory, you can go down and lay the cloth
for supper,
Siu H, Supper !
®
P
COMFORTABLE LODGINGS. 97
Mad, P. Sir Hippington Miff will do honour to a
made dish or two?
Sir H. Made dishes !—Suspicious !
Gre. The letter, sir. [Offering it.] Here, sir, the
letter.
(Sir Hippington fetches the tongs from R.8.8., and
takes it out of Gregory’s hand—Gregory stares, and
goes off, .—Sir Hippington drops the letter from the
tongs, and, after watching Gregory off, jumps heavily
upon it, to discover if it would explode,
Sir H. [Cautiously taking up the letter.] Subscribed
* De Cachet’’—oh, this will relieve my anxiety. [ Reads,
aside.) “‘ Sir Hippington Miff’s patience is entreated till
twelve o'clock ; by that hour all will be over” —all will be
over !—“ And the culprit in the hands of the police. Sir
Hippington Miff must not let his cheerfulness leave him,
and must retire to bed as usual—De Cacuer,”—My fit is
coming on again!
Mad. P. My lor is looking melancholy,
Sir H. Melancholy, madame! I’m the most joyous
creature under the sun. [Aside.] Cheerful as a death-
watch. The only chance I have of elevating my spirits
is by paying a little amorous attention to pretty An-
toinette here—ahem! [Assuming a gay air, and Setching
chairs.| Ladies, sitting is not more expensive than stand-
ing—be seated, pray. [Antoinette und Madame Pelagie
sut—Sir Hippington seats himself with his back to Madame
Pelagie, and takes Antoinette’s hand.| Ah, Cassandra!
Ant. (r.) Sir!
Sir H, (c.) Miss Antoinette, 1 mean—what a sweet,
delightful, plump, taper, round, delicate style of hand
you have.
Ant. You flatter, sir.
Mad. P, Heyday! [Rising.] I don’t admire all this
familiarity. [Placing her chair between Antoinette’s and
Sir Hippington’s, and taking Antoinette’s hand away, }
My lor condescends too much. [Drawing off her glove,
and presenting her. hands} There, my lor is a hand at
your service.
Sir H. [ Reluctantly.) Delightful! madame, this is a
hand ' [Aside.] Been making pickles.
Mad. P. To drive away gloomy ideas, will my lor
honour us by singing one Of the songs of his country?
Sir H. Oh, no, never! I can’t.
Aat. Pray, pray, favour us, sir
c2
me
‘
x SO) cette nts ore 1 ee
\ r ball, with the minuet de-la-cour in the year
of my mayoralty. [They rise.] Allow me to remove your
seats, ladics. [He places Madame Pelagie’s chair at the
L. corner, aid Antoinette’s R., then advances, c., and points
to the orchestra.] Fancy all the musicians there.
SONG.—Sir Hiprpineton Mire.
La, li lari, lari la la, lira lira la!
Graceful step and cross the lighted hall ;
Foot it featly, neatly, and sweetly !—Thus I
Lead off the Easter ball.
Then on my tiptoe soft advance-a,
Powder’d peruke—entrance her ;
White glove extending,
Much grace intending—
Stiff skirts unbending,—
Ha!
[ Symphony, part of the tune to which he dances—he bows.
And if my partner
Has any heart in her,
With great eclat we go
Through the stately minuet,
Delighting all Cornhill, Cheapside, and Bucklersbury !
[Commences the gavotte.
[A tremendous crash heard without, L.—Gregory cries
out—they rise.
Sir H. [In great tribulation.] They’re come at last!
[Cutching up a chair.) Vl defend myself to the last ex-
tremity !
Mad. P. For mercy’s sake, what’s the matter?
Sir H. As if you didn’t know, Jenny Diver!
Enter GREGORY, Le
Gre. Oh, la!—Oh, dear!
Mad. P. What has happened?
Sir H. How many are there of them?
Gre. Four. Iwas carrying supper up, and I tumbled
over my lord’s cocked hat-box, and all four dishes have
rattled down stairs !
Mad. P. The made-dishes t
COMFORTABLE LODGINGS. 29
Gre. Gravy and all—all gone!
Mad. P. [To Sir Hippington.] I had prepared the
dishes expressly for you.
Sir H. Ha!
Mad. P. What time will my lor go to bed?
Sir H, [Aside.] She wants to ascertain the precise
minute !
Mad. P. Come, Antoinette; my lor will intimate when
he would wish to retire for the night. [Aside.] My lor
is as deranged as a mad bull! [Exit with Antoinette, R.
Sir H. They would have got me down to supper, and,
just as I was drinking, I should have shared the fate of
Edward the Martyr: that Gregory would have come
behind me, and stuck his knife into my back-bone!—
[Turning, sees Gregory close beside him.] Ha! I thought
you were gone!
Gre. Don’t be frightened, sir; I’ve something to com-
municate,
Sir H. You!—Eh?—What? Speak, man—I’m pre-
pared !
Gre. You have no occasion to go and make yourself
uneasy about all the accidents that have happened.
Sir H. [ Mysteriously.] To what do you allude?—
Tell me in a whisper—I’m all attention!
Gre. The monkey has come out of the boot of his own
accord ! [ Exit, 1.
Sir H. What!—He means something by that; but I
can't penetrate it—a very suspicious circumstance!
{ Exit, Rr.
SCENE V.—The Room, with the Window and Dressing-
Closet, us before—the drapery is drawn, and the bed,
C. F., prepared—the room dark, RIGMAROLE discovered
asleep in a high back arm-chair, near L. U. E,
Enter ANTOINETTE, on fiptoe, R.D.
Ant. If Vincent would be but a little before his ap-
pointment! [Going to the window.] No, he’s not come!
Alas! [Crossing to..] There is an entry this way from
the back of the house by another staircase, but my fa-
ther has taken the key of that door into the country with
him, If there was the chance that he had left it open,
I’d venture down; I could return before Sir Hippington
Miff comes to bed. { Rigmarole snores,] Ah! the wretched
seryant sleeps under the = Bg af the opiate !—~
”%
4e
ee
a
ie aa
ee
——
Se
2 3 24 J, “*
» r ‘ on . a
= — =—s — = ~ a = - - -
ahead er —— Se Cod Se a
= ; ne RS Te . ae oe Saree nats: 7
yr ere agg —= o~
t
a
= Fe
ee ee I a ci SNE IR OY ~
——— - »
6 ee -
'
34 COMFORTABLE cODGINGS.
Sir H. [Putting his head out between the curtains.) I
am. [Calling.] Rigmarole, I say !
Roue. I must try to escape this way.
[ Goes to L. D., and opens it.
Bon, [Calling without, t.] Bombadier !
Bab. {| Without, ..|) Here.
Roué. The captain’s coming—no matter.
[Runs up and goes into the closet, L. D. F.
Str H, There are six different voices—where’s Mon-
sieur De Cachet?
Enter Bonassus and Batt Lard, witha cabriolet lamp,
cloaks, and pistol, L. D.
Bon. Hush! we must not alarm the house.
Bab, No.
Bon. Cursed unfortunate that the old cabriolet should
have broken down,
Bab. Yes.
Bon. We shall have the women screaming—this is a
bad job, Bombadier: here we are, and I hav’nt effected
my purpose.
Sir H, [Peeping out.] Two banditti !
Bon, Devil take the bond! I wish the English fool
who holds it had never made up his mind to come here.
Did you bring my pistols out of the cabriolet ?
Sir H. Oh, murder ! .
Bon. What’s that?
Bab. Voice.
Bon. Bring the lamp—wby, this window’s open!
{ Holds the lamp to it.
Vin. [ Below, t.0.£] Is that you, my beloved?
Bon. Who, in the name of fury, is my beloved? [A
large pistol falls fron the bed.] The devil! this came from
the bed—yet no one can be there. Look, comrade—let
us search.
[They lift up a curtain and discover Sir Hippington
standing on the bed, pointing his pistols.
Bon. | Starting away.] Murder !
Bab. Thieves!
Sir H, Murder! thieves!
Bon. Comrade, let us throw him out of the window.
Bab. Ay.
[They rush up, disarm Sir Hippington, lift him off the
bed, and carry him towards the window,
Sir H, [Kicking and bawling.] Monsieur De Cachet!
help! help! .
ae
i
-
re
tel
hat
r
ne i
ey :
a 5
one \
mae : ‘,
- ——
>
f ie)
e
Ne
—— = . = eee -
COMFORTABLE LODGINGS. 35
Vin, [Coming in ut the window.] Hollo, gentlemen !
(They relinquish Sir Hippington, who retreats behind an
arm-chair,
Bon. Where do you come from, Mr. Vincent Dorville ?
Vin. Your pardon, captain. Passing the garden, I
heard a noise—the father of my Antoinette in danger, I
mounted the trellis—what is the matter?
Sir H. The matter, sir?’—You look like a gentleman
—I was quiet here in my own bed.
Bon. Your bed! it’s my bed.
Sir H. I beg to assert it is my bed—I pay for it—I
took possession of these apartments to-day—they are
mine.
Bon. The bond has been demanded in my absence;
you have taken possession of this house legally, and I
suppose you'll walk off with every thing, and throw me
into gaol.
Sir H. You were going to throw me out of the win-
dow, you know.
Vin. Explain this, Captain Bonassus,
Sir H, Captain Bonassus—oh, I see it all !—Oh, Bo-
nassus! [ Calling.) Rigmarole! Rigmarole, I say !
oe ee
it ad eh ee! a a eee ee eee
eo wt
Enter RIGMAROLE, R. D., with a candle.
Rig. [{Staring.] Yes, sir!—La, Sir Hippington Miff
has company—one, two.
Sir H, Itold you to fetch my trunk from the dressing-
closet—-go, I want the bond for twenty thousand franes,
signed by Captain Bonassus.
{ Rigmarole opens the door of the dressing-closet, L. F.
Rig. Oh, oh, Sir Hippington!
Sir H. [Alarmed.] What’s the matter?
Rig. More company—pray walk in, gentlemen.
1
A
i ||
i)
Enter Monsitur De Cacuet, and Rove in custody of two
Police Officers, from the dressing-closet, L. r.—De
Cachet puts the bond into Sir Hippington’s hand.
Bon, Ex-Lieutenant Roué, how is it I find you here?
Roue. No matter.
De C, The ex-lieutenant has been wanted by us some
time. Sir Hippington Miff, cease your anxiety—there is
the object of your alarm. [ Pointing to Roné.
Sir H. The only person in the house by whom I have
not been frightened—perhaps, after all, these may be
comfortable lodgings.
Fil
36 COMFORTABLE LODGINGS.
Bon. Lodgings!
Rig. Yes; I have hired these comfortable lodgings
to-day of Madame Pelagie, furnished.
Sir H. Yes, furnished with all sorts of inconveniences.
Rig. And here come the ladies to vouch the fact.
~~
hi
Enter MADAME PetaGitand ANTOINETTE, R. D-— Vincent
crosses behind to Antoinette, L.
Mad. P. Brother Bonassus returned! why, the house
is full of people.
Sir H. Yes, madame; and now it is past twelve, and
all is safe, I'll be very much obliged to you to get us
some supper—I invite the party, the ex-lieutenant ex-
cepted. Suppose you roast the pig I killed —Egad !
I’m so overjoyed that the night has ended as it has, that,
ladies and gentlemen, I will, with your permission, con-
tinue for very many evenings in ComFoRTABLE LODGINGS,
’ ; ve alee a
E ? . s rt _
ORS ai > a
b ee S| —— 4 Stag
“iF ~an — Oe wee S
—> = ———— —-
——— = =
Li ae Terr »
ps ag
DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE
FALL OF THE CURTAIN.
Police Officer. Rove. Police Officer.
Dor. An® Ric. DEC. Sig H. Mav. P. Bon. Bas,
a.) [L.
THE END,
THE
CULLEEN BAWN;-
OR, THE
RIDES. OF GARRYOWEN.,
& Domestic MBrama,
IN THREE ACTS.
BY
DION BOUCICAULT, Ese,
AUTHOR OF
The Pope of Rome, The Young Actress, The Poor of New York,
The Dublin Boy, Pauvrette, Life of an Actress, Jessie Brown,
The Octoroon, Azael, Blue Belle, Dot, &c., &e.
THOMAS HAILES LACY,
89, STRAND, LONDON.
y
As performed at the Royal New Adelphi Theatre (under the Management of Mr. Benjamin Webster),
on Monday, September 10th, 1860, THE
COLLEEN BAW u3
. . a . 9
| Or, The Brides of Garryowen.
Founded on Gerald Griffin's Irish Story, “ The Collegians.”’
POI OD POPLIN LD Yee
ENTIRELY NEW MUSIC, INC
Composed and Arranged expressly to illustr
New Scenery by Messrs. T. Prov and T'HoMpson.
The Extensive Machinery and Properties by Mr.
LUDING AN OVERTURE,
ate this Drama by Mr. Tuomas Baxen.
Dresses by Mr. Taytor and Miss Raynor.
T. Inenanp, Mr, Powe.t, and Assistants.
vey
eeee Ocoee eeeseeseseseses eee
eeeeveceoes reeeeseeeeceereeseeesrseceeccensecessseecessessescsssecssseeesss MRS. BILLINGTON,
(the Colleen Ruadh) Miss Woorgar—Mrs. A. MELLON.
.(the Colleen Bawn)...Miss AGNES Rosertson—Mrs. Dion Bouctcautr.
DH UAL ia tsumeny etic tve, «05... 00c0<,.3 ae Mrs. CHATTERLEY.
KATHLEEN CREAGH Miss Hayman. DUCIE BLENNERHASSET......Miss Foor.
HARDRESS CREGAN ............. fs dgKEe ne acevsabne ses (Son of Mrs. Cregan) Mr. Bittineton,
MU BN PAs... (@ College Friend to Hardress).eccccccccunsceseeces Mr. Davin Fisuer.
uo ES SERRE MMR ol ma Mr. J. G. Warne.
Mr. O’MOORE SERVANT Mr. Howarp.
FATHER TOM (Parish Priest of Garryowen) .ccceccecccseeees. Mr. C. H. Srernenson.
Mr. CORRIGAN me a ite a (a Pettifogging A ttorney) ‘ Mr. C. J. Surra.
DANNY MANN ...,., oo seecghenees (the Hunchbacked Servant) Mr. Epmunp Fauconer,
MYLES-NA-COPPALEEN .......... ssesseeeeee MB, Dion Bougicaunr,
y:
ACT I.
LAKE OF KILLARNEY (MOONLIGHT)
THE SIGNAL. LIGHT!
SAP OF Fae as 220 EF.
COTTAGE ON MUCKROSS HEAD.
The Irish Fireside—The Cruiskeen Lawn—The Oath !
ACT II.
TORG CREGAN.
COTTAGE OF THE COLLEEN BAWN
; ) The Pretty Girl Milking her Cow.”
MACGILEEICUDDY’S REE Kt 8.
THE O’DONOGHUE’S STABLES. d
THE WATER CAVE.
‘NMVO NAATIOO
ACT III.
THE HUT. CASTLE: CHUTE.
THE CASTLE GARDENS.
Illuminated Hall and Garden in Castle Chute.
a
Original Cast, at Miss Laura Keene's Lheatre, New York, March 27 th, 1860.
MYLES-NA-COPPALEEN saeVahaeece¥ CUUREBCOSEE Te RIERTUR Os e000 60. sce ssesevesacuntebenbesbbepen, Goseans Mr. Dion Bovetcautr.
HARDRESS CREGAN... .. . He EB Dae:
DANNY MANN Mr. Cuartes Wnaeattetan,
D. W. Lesson,
Deceinavdeds Mr. J. G. Buryerr,
ERA Rey canS | YRS Sa eae dina's'ee OS4RUNAS WOR AUDEN las css covace cea. se Mr. Henry,
HYLAND CREAGH.... RE Ie etc SSS. CO ERP roe arc rrr Mr. Levick,
SERVANT.......... pevebine So) Mr. Goopricu,
CORPORAL . Mr. Cruarkg.
EILY ese seca yameaayanic:.....s Renee Bi. Acnres Roperrson,
es eseestccttsptertensistes lene nssesecsc ee tam .+eeMiss Laura Keene,
MRS. CREGAN haba Ge bo at cs et Oy Se ee Mapam Ponisr.
SHEELAH Ne RRA FS “Wey dhe dly» 62s 05000000 00c¥aueteveheMevlbe Madey Aheaty cat beck Miss Mary WE tts.
KATHLEEN CREAGH ‘ ye ae $< tb usb ben sinbus cvcdee Miss Josrruine Henry,
DUCIE BUENNERHASSET ys speerses: ott setssrstsarsteionpostioreccccn en ‘ recvececerepreceeeens MISS Hamiton,
~~ ~,
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In consequence of the production of this Drama, and others by the same
Author, in the United States of America, with which there is no existing
International Treaty of Copyright, Vice-Chancellor Wood decreed that na
property could exist in their representation in this Country; therefore the
Assignees of the Author, in whom his property was vested at ‘his bankruptey,
have no title whatever in or to them, and Zhe Colleen Bawn, with the Dramas
named on the title page of this Play are Performance Free. T. H.-L.
THE COLLEEN BAWN.
ee
ACT
Scene First.—(Night)—Tore Cregan—the Residence of Mrs.
Cregan on the Banks of Killarney. House, L. 2 £.; window
facing Audience (light behind—light to work in drop at back)
—stage open at back. Music—seven bars before curtain.
Enter HARDRESS CREGAN, from house, L.
Harp. (going up, ¢.) Hist! Danny, are you there?
DANNY appearing from below, at back,
Danny. Is it yourself, Masther Hardress ?
Harp. Is the boat ready?
Danny. Snug under the blue rock, sir.
Harp. Does Eily expect me to-night ?
Danny. Expict is it? Here is a lether she bade me give
yuz; sure the young thing is never aisy when you are away.
hack. masther, dear, do ye see that light, no bigger than a star
beyant on Muckross Head ?
Harp. Yes, it is the signal which my dear Hily leaves burning
in our chamber.
Danny. All night long she sits beside that light, wid her
face fixed on that lamp in your windy above.
Harp. Dear dear Eily, after all here’s asleep, I will leap
from my window, and we'll cross the lake.
DANNY. (searching) Where did I put that lether ?
Enter Kyru& Day from house, L.
KyRLE (L.) Hardress, who is that with you?
Harp. (c.) Only Danny Mann, my boatman.
Kyrue. That fellow is like your shadow.
Danny. (R.) Is it a cripple like me, that would be the shadow
of an illegant gintleman like Mr. Hardress Cregan ?
KyYRLE. (L.) Well, I mean that he never leaves your side.
Harp. (c.) And he never shall leave me. Ten years ago he
was a fine boy—we were foster-brothers and playmates—in a
moment of passion, while we were struggling, I flung him from
the gap rock into the reeks below, and thus he was maimed.
for life.
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6 UOLLEEN DAWN. [Act 1.
Danny. Arrah! whist aroon! wouldn’t I die for yez? didn’t
the same mother foster us? Why, wouldn't ye brake my back
if it plazed ye, and welkim! Oh, Masther Kyrle, if ye’d seen
him nursin’ me for months, and cryin’ over me, and keenin’!
Sin’ that time, sir, my body’s been crimpin’ up smaller and
smaller every year, but my heart is gettin’ bigger for himevery day.
Harp. Go along, Danny.
Danny. Long life t’ye, sir! I’m off.
fiuns up and descends rocks, ¢. to R.
Kyrue. Hardress, a word with you. Be honest with me—
do you love Anne Chute ?
Harp. Why do you ask ?
KYRLE. Because we have been fellow-collegians and friends
through life, and the five years that I have passed at sea have
strengthened, but have not cooled, my feelings towards you.
(offers hand)
Enter Mrs. CREGAN, from house, .
Harp, (L.) Nor mine for you, Kyrle. You are the same
noble fellow as ever. You ask me if I love my cousin Anne?
Mrs. C. (¢., between them) And I will answer you, Mr.
Daly. |
HARD. (R.) My mother! |
Mrs. C. (c.) My son and Miss Chute are engaged. Excuse
me, Kyrle, for intruding on your secret, but I have observed
your love for Anne with some regret. - [ hope your heart is
not so far gone as to be beyond recovery.
KyRLE. (L.) Forgive me, Mrs. Cregan, but are you certain
that Miss Chute really is in love with Hardress?
Mrs. C. Look at him! I’m sure no girl could do that and
doubt it.
Kyre. But I’m not a girl, ma’am; and sure, if you are
mistaken
Harp, My belief is that Anne does not care a token for me,
and likes Kyrle better.
Mrs. C. (c.) You are an old friend of my son, and I may
confide to you a family secret. The extravagance of my
husband left this estate deeply involved. By this marriage
with Anne Chute we redeem every acre of our barony. My son
and she have been brought up as children together, and don’t
know their true feelings yet.
Harp. Stop, mother, I know this: I would not wed my
cousin if she did not love me, not if she carried the whole
county Kerry in her pocket, and the barony of Kenmare in the
crown of her hat.
Mrs. C. Do you hear the proud blood of the Cregans ?
Harp, Woo her, Kyrle, if you like, and win her if you can.
Pll back you.
Se. 1.] COLLEEN BAWN. 7
Enter ANNE CHUTE, from house, L.
ANNE, (L. C.) So will I—what’s the bet ?
Mrs. C. (c.) Hush!
ANNE, Id like to have a bet on Kyrle.
Harp. Well, Anne, I'll tell you what it was.
Mrs. C. (c.) Hardress !
ANNE. (L. C.) Pull in one side, aunt, and let the boy go on.
Harp. (R.) Kyrle wanted to know if the dark brown colt,
Hardress Cregan, was going to walk over the course for the
Anne Chute Stakes, or whether it was a scrub-race open to all.
ANNE. I’m free-trade—coppleens, mules and biddys.
Mrs. C. How can you trifle with a heart like Kyrle’s?
ANNE. Trifle! his heart can be no trifle, if he’s all in pro-
portion.
mee Ne
)
Enter SERVANT from house, L.
SERVANT. Squire Corrigan, ma’am, begs to see you.
Mrs. C, At this hour, what can the fellow want? Show
Mr. Corrigan here. Exit SERVANT tnto house, L.
I hate this man; he was my husband’s agent, or what the
people here call a middle-man—vulgarly polite, and impudently
obsequious.
Harp. (R.) Genus squireen-—a half sir, anda wholescoundrel.
ANNE. 1 know—a potatoe on asilver plate: I'll leave you to
peel him. Come, Mr. Daly, take me for a moonlight walk,
and be funny. ;
KyRLe. Funny, ma’am, I’m afraid I am
ANNE. You are heavy, you mean; you roll through the world
like a hogshead of whisky ; but you only want tapping for pure
spirits to flow outspontaneously. Give me yourarm. (crossing,R.)
Hold that glove now. You are from Ballinasloe, I think ?
Kyre. I’m Connaught to the core of my heart.
ANNE. To the roots of your hair, you mean.. I bought a
horse at Ballinasloe fair that deceived me; I hope you won't
turn out to belong to the same family.
KRYLE. (R. C.) What did he do?
ANNE. Oh! like you, he looked well enough—deep in the
chest as a pool—a-dhiol, and broad in the back, as the Gap of
Dunloe—but after two days’ warm work he came all to pieces,
and Larry, my groom, said he’d been stuck together with glue.
KYRLE. (R.) Really, Miss Chute! Music.—Eeunt, 8. 1 5.
Harp. (advancing, laughing) That girl is as wild as a copp-
leen—she won’t leave him a hair on the head. (goes up)
Enter SERVANT, shewing in CORRIGAN from house, L.
Exit SERVANT, L.
CORRIGAN. (L.) Your humble servant, Mrs. Cregan—my
service t’ye, Squire—~it’s a fine night entirely.
8 COLLEEN BAWN. fAct 1.
Mrs. C. (c.) May I ask to what business, sir, we have the
honour of your call ?
Corria. (aside, L.c.) Proud as Lady Beelzebub, and as
grand as a queen. (aloud) True for you, ma’am; I would not
have come but for a divil of a pinch I’m in entirely. ITve got
to pay £8,000 to-morrow, or lose the Knockmakilty farms.
Mrs. C. (c.) Well, sir?
Corric. And I wouldn’t throuble ye—
Mrs. C. Trouble me, sir ?
Corric. Iss, ma’am—ye’'d be forgettin’ now that mortgage I
have on this property. Jt ran out last May, and by rights
Mrs. C. It will be paid next month.
Corrig. Are you reckonin’ on the marriage of Mister
Hardress and Miss Anne Chute?
Harp. (advancing, R.) Mr. Corrigan, you forget yourself.
Mrs. C. Leave us, Hardress, awhile. (HARDRESS retires, R.)
Now, Mr. Corrigan, state, in as few words as possible, what
you demand.
Corric. Mrs. Cregan, ma’am, you depend on Miss Anne
Chute’s fortune to pay me the money, but your son does not
love the lady, or, if he does, he has a mighty quare way of
shewing it. He has another girl on hand, and betune the two
he'll come to the ground, and so bedad will I.
Mrs. C. That is false —it is a calumny, sir!
Corrig. I wish it was, ma'am. D’ye see that light over the
lake ?—your son’s eyes are fixed on it. What would Anne
Chute say if she knew that her husband, that is to be, had a
mistress beyant—that he slips out every night after you're all
in bed, and like Leandher, barrin’ the wettin’, he sails across
to his sweetheart ?
Mrs. C. Is this the secret of his aversion to the marriage?
Fool! fool! what madness, and at such a moment.
Corric. That’s what I say, and no lie in it.
Mrs. C. He shall give up this girl—he must!
Corric. I would like to have some security for that. I
want by to-morrow Ann Chute’s written promise to marry him
or my £8,000.
Mrs. C. It is impossible, sir; you hold ruin over our heads.
Corric. Madam, it’s got to hang over your head or mine.
Mrs. C. Stay, you know that what you ask is out of our
power —you know it—therefore this demand only covers the
true object of your visit.
Corrig. Pon my honour! and you are as ‘cute, ma’am, as
you are beautiful!
Mrs. C. Go on, sir.
Corria. Mrs. Cregan, I’m goin’ to do a foolish thing—now,
by gorra | am! I’m richer than ye think, maybe, and if you'll
give me your personal security, Pll take it.
Se. 1. COLLEEN BAWN. 9
Mrs. C. What do yen mean?
Corric. I mean that lll take a lien for life on you, instead
of the moitgage I hold on the Cregan property. (aside) That’s
nate, I’m thinkin’.
Mrs. C. Are you mad?
Corrie. I am—mad in love with yourself, and that’s what
I’ve been these fifteen years. (Music through dialogue till ANNE
CHUTE is off)
Mrs. C. Insolent wretch! my son shall answer and chastise
you. (calls) Hardress!
Harp. (advancing) Madam.
Enter ANNE CHUTE and KyRb, R.
Corric. Miss Chute!
Harp. Well, mother? }-(together)
ANNE. Well, sir?
Mrs. C. (aside) Scoundrel! he will tell her all and ruin us!
(aloud) Nothing. (turns aside)
Corria. Your obedient.
ANNE.Oh! Crosses with KYRLE and exit,L.U.£.—Musicceases.
Corria. You are in my power, ma’am. See, now, not a
sowl but myself knows of this secret love of Hardress Cregan,
and I'll keep it as snug as a bug in a rug, if you'll only say
the word.
Mrs. C. Contemptible hound, I loathe and despise you!
Corria. I’ve known that fifteen years, but it hasn’t cured
my heart ache.
Mrs. C. And you would buy my aversion and disgust !
Corrie. Just as Anne Chute buys your son, if she knew but
all. Can he love his girl beyant, widout haten this heiress he’s
obliged to swallow ?—ain’t you sthtiven to sell him? But you
didn’t feel the hardship of being sold till you tried it on yoursc!f.
Mrs. C. I beg you, sir, to leave me.
Corric. That's right, ma’am—think over it, sleep on it. To-
morrow I'll call for your answer. Good evenin’ kindly.
Music.— Exit CORRIGAN in house, Le
Mrs. C. Hardress.
HArp. What did he want?
Mrs. C. He came to tell me the meaning of yonder light
upon Muckross Head.
Harp, Ah! has it been discovered. Well, mother, now
you know the cause of my coldness, my indifference for Anne.
Mrs. C. Are you in your senses, Hardress? Whois this girl ?
Harp. She is known at every fair and pattern in Munster
as the Colleen Bawn—her name is Hily O’Connor.
Mrs. C. A peasant girl—a vulgar barefooted beggar.
Harp. Whatever she is, love has made her my equal, and
when you set your foot upon her you tread upon my heart.
_
10 COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 1.
Mrs. C. "Tis well, Hardress. I feel that perhaps I have no
richt to dispose of your life and your happiness—no, my dear
son—I would not wound you—heaven knows how well [ love
my darling boy, and you shall feel it. Corrigan has made me
an offer by which you may regain the estate, and without
selling yourself to Anne Chute.
Harp. What is it? Of course you accepted it ?
- Mrs. C. No, but I will accept, yes, for your sake—I—I wil
He offers to cancel this mortgage if—if—I will consent to
—become his wife.
Harp. You—you, mother? Has he dared
Mrs. C. Hush! he is right. A sacrifice must be made—
either you or I must suffer. Life is before you—my days are
‘well nigh past—and for your sake, Hardress—for yours ; my
jpride, my only one.—Oh! 1 would give you more than my life.
Harp. Never—never! I will not cannot accept it. Ill tear
that dog’s tongue from his throat that dared insult you with
the offer.
Mrs. C. Foolish boy, before to-morrow night we shall be
beggars— outcasts from this estate. Humiliation and poverty
stand like spectres at yonder door—to-morrow they will be
realities. Can you tear out the tongues that will wag over our
fallen fortunes? You are a child, you cannot see beyond your
happiness.
Harp. Oh! mother, mother, what can be done? My
marriage with Anne is impossible.
Enter DANNY MANN, up rock, at back.
Danny. (R. C.) Whisht, if ye plaze—ye’re talkin’ so loud
she'll hear ye say that—she’s comin’.
Mrs. C. Has this fellow overheard us ?
Harp. If he has, he is mine, body and soul. I’d rather
trust him with a secret than keep it myself.
Mrs. C. (L. c.) I cannot remain to see Anne; excuse me to
my friends. The night perhaps will bring counsel, or at least
resolution to hear the worst! Good night, my son.
Music.— Exit into house, i.
DANNY. (R. Cc.) Oh! masther, she doesn’t know the worst!
She doesn’t know that you are married to the Colleen Bawn.
Harp. Hush! what fiend prompts you to thrust that act of
folly in my face. |
Danny. Thrue for ye, masther! I’m a dirty mane scut to
remind ye of it.
Harp. What will my haughty, noble mother say, when she
learns the truth! how can I ask her to receive Eily as a
daughter ?—Eily, with her awkward manners, her Kerr
brogue, her ignorance of the usages of society. Oh! what
have I done? .
Sc. 1.] - ©OLLEEN BAWN. 11
Danny. Oh! vo=-vo, has the ould family come to this! Is
it the daughter of Mihil-na-Thradrucha, the ould rope-maker
of Garryowen, that ’ud take the flure as your wife ?
Harp. Be silent, scoundrel! How dare you speak thus of
my love?—wretch that I am to blame her!—poor, beautiful,
angel-hearted Lily.
- Danny. Beautiful is it! Och—wurra—wurra, deelish ! The
looking-glass was never made that could do her justice; and if
St. Patrick wanted a wife, where would he find an angel that
’ud compare with the Colleen Bawn. As I row her on the lake,
the little fishes come up to look at her; and the wind from
heaven lifts up her hair to see what the devil brings her down
here at all—at all.
Harp. The fault is mine—mine alone—I alone will suffer!
Danny. Oh! why is’nt it mine? Why can’t I suffer for yez,
masther dear? Wouldn’t I swally every tear in your body,
and every bit of bad luck in your life, and then wid a stone
round my neck, sink myself and your sorrows in the bottom of
the lower lake.
HARD. (placing hand on DANNY) Good Danny, away with
you to the boat—be ready in a few moments, we will cross to
Muckross Head. (looks at light at back)
Music.—Exit HARpREss into house, L,
Danny. Never fear, sir. Oh! it isn’t that spalpeen, Corrigan,
that shall bring ruin on that ould place. Lave Danny alone.
Danny, the fox, will lade yez round and about, and cross the
scint. (takes off his hat—sces letter) Bedad, here’s the letter
from the Colleen Bawn that I couldn’t find awhile ago—it’s
little use now. (goes to lower window, and reads by light from
house) ‘‘ Come to your own Lily, that has not seen you for two
long days. Come, acushla agrah machree. I have forgotten
how much you love me—Shule, shule agrah.—Colleen Bawn.”
Divil an address is on it.
Enter KYRLE and ANNE, L. U. E.
ANNE. (C.) Have they gone?
KYRLE. (L.C.) It is nearly midnight.
ANNE. Before we go in, I insist on knowing who is this girl
that possesses your heart. You confess that you are in love—
deeply in love.
Kyrte, I do confess it-~but not even your power can ex-
tract that secret from me—do not ask me, for I could not be
false, yet dare not be true. Exit KYRLE into house, L.
ANNE. (L. C.) He loves me—oh! he loves me—the little
bird is making a nest inmy heart. Oh! I’m faint with joy.
DANNY. (as if calling after him) Sir, sir!
ANNE. Who is that ?
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12 COLLEEN BAWN. [Aor 1.
Danny. I’m the boatman below, an’ I’m waitin for the
gintleman.
ANNE. What gentleman ?
Danny. Him that’s jist left ye, ma’am—I’m waitin’ on him.
ANNE, Does Mr. Kyrle Daly go out boating at this hour ?
Danny. It’s not for me to say, ma’am, but every night at
twelve o'clock I’m here wid my boat under the blue rock
below, to put him across the lake to Muckross Head. I beg
your pardon, ma’am, but here’s a paper ye dropped on the
walk beyant—-if it’s no vally I’d like to light my pipe wid it.
(gives it)
ANNE. A paper I dropped! (goes to window—reads)
Danny. (aside) Oh, Misther Corrigan, you'll ruin masther
will ye? asy now, and see how Vl] put the cross on ye.
Anne. A love-letter from some peasant girl to Kyrle Daly!
Can this be the love of which he spoke? have I deceived myself?
Danny. I must be off, ma’am; here comes the signal. Jusic.
ANNE. The signal ?
Danny. D’ye see yonder light upon Muckross Head? It
is in a cottage windy; that light goes in and out three times
winkin’ that way, as much as to say, ‘‘ Are ye comin’?” Then if
the light in that room there (points at house above) answers by
a wink, it manes No! but if it goes out entirely, his honour
jumps from the parlour windy into the garden behind and
we're off. Look! (light in cottage. disappears) That’s one.
(ight appears) Now again. (light disappears) That’s two. (light
appears) What did I tell you? (light disappears) That’s three,
and here it comes.again. (light appears) Wait now, and ye’ll see
the answer. (light disappears from window, L.) That’s my gentle-
man. (Music change) You see he’s goin’—good night, ma’am.
ANNE. Stay, here’s money; do not tell Mr. Daly that I
know of this.
Danny. Divil a word—long life t’ye. (goes up)
ANNE. I was not deceived; he meant me to understand that
he loved me! Hark! I hear the sound of some one who leaped
heavily on the garden walk. (goes to house, u.—-looking at back)
Enter HARDRESS, wrapped in a boat cloak, u. U. &.
DANNY. (going down, R. Cc.) All right, yer honour.
(HARDRESS crosses at back, and down rock, R. C.)
ANNE. (hiding, L.) It is he, ‘tis he. (mistaking Hurdress
for Daly —closed in)
SCENE SeconD.—Tnre Gap of Dunloe. (1st groovea) Hour
before sunrise.
Enier CORRIGAN, R. 1 E.
Corric. From the rock above I saw the boat leave Tore
Cregan. It is now crossing the lake to the cottage. Who is
so
Sc. 2.] COLLEEN BAWN. 18
this girl? What is this mysterious mi#thress of young Cregan?
—that Ill find out.
(MYLES sings outside, L.)
“ Oh! Charley Mount is a pretty place,
In the month of July "
Corric. Who’s that ?—’Tis that poaching scoundrel—that
horse stealer, Myles na Coppaleen. Here he comes with a keg
of illicit whisky, as bould as Nebuckadezzar.
Enter MYLEs singing, with keg on his shoulder, t.
Is that you, Myles?
My Les. No! it’s my brother.
Corric. I know ye, my man.
My es. Then why the divil did ye ax?
Corric. You may as well answer me kindly—civility costs
nothing.
MYLES. (L.c.) Ownow! don’t it? Civility toa lawyer manes
six-and-eight-pence about.
Corric. (R. C.). What’s that on your shoulder ?
My es. What’s that to you?
Corric. Lam a magistrate, and can oblige you to answer.
My es. Well! it’s a boulster belongin’ to my mother’s
feather bed.
Corric. Stuff’d with whisky!
Myxes. Bedad! how would I know what it’s stuff’d wid?
I’m not an upholsterer.
Corric. Come, Myles, I’m not so bad a fellow as ye may
think.
My.es. To think of that now!
Corric. I am not the mane creature you imagine!
My tes. Ain’t ye now, sir? You keep up appearances mighty
well, indeed.
Corria. No, Myles! I am not that blackguard I’ve been
represented.
MYLES. (sits on keg) See that now—how people take away
a man’s character. You are another sort of blackguard entirely.
Corric. You shall find me a gentleman~--liberal, and ready
to protect you.
Mytes. Long life t’ye, sir.
Corric. Myles, you have come down in the world lately; a
. year ago you were a thriving horse-dealer, now you are a lazy,
ragged fellow.
Mytes. Ah, it’s the bad luck, sir, that’s in it. 3
Corrie. No, it’s the love of Eily O’Connor that’s in it—it’s
the pride of Garryowen that took your heart. away, and made
ye what ye are—a smuggler and a poacher.
MyLas Dhim’s hard words.
14 COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 1,
Corrie. But they are true. You live like a wild beast in
some cave or hole in the rocks above; by night your gun is
heard shootin’ the otter as they lie out on the stones, or you
snare the salmon in your nets; on acloudy night your whiskey
still is going—you see, I know your life.
My es. Better than the priest, and devil a lie in it.
Corric. Now, if I put ye in a snug farm—stock ye with
pigs and cattle, and rowl you up comfortable—a’ye think the
Colleen Bawn wouldn’t jump at ye ?
My es. Bedad, she’d make a lape I b’leve—and what would
I do for all this luck ?
Corria, Find out for me who it is that lives at the cottage
on Muckross Head.
My es. That’s asy—it’s Danny Mann—no less and his ould
mother Sheelah.
Corric. Yes, Myles, but there’s another—a girl who is hid
there.
Myues. Ah, now!
Corric. She only goes out at night.
Mytes. Like the owls.
Corrig. She’s the misthress of Hardress Cregan.
MYLES. (seizing CoRRIGAN) Thurra mon dhiol, what’s that ?
Corrie. Oh, lor! Myles—Myles—what’s the matter—are
you mad?
Myues. No—that is—why—why did ye raise your hand at
me in that way?
Corria. I didn’t.
Myes. I thought ye did—I’m mighty quick at takin’ thim
hints, bein’ on me keepin’ agin’ the gaugers—go on—I didn’t
hurt ye.
Corria. Not much.
My es. You want to find out who this girl is ?
Corriag. I'll give £20 for the information—there’s ten on
account. (gives money)
My es. Long life t’ye; that’s the first money I iver got
from a lawyer, and bad luck to me but there’s a cure for the
evil eye in thim pieces.
Corria. You will watch to night?
Mytes. In five minutes I’ll be inside the cottage itself,
Corric. That’s the lad.
MYLES. (aside) I was goin’ there.
Corric. And to-morrow you will step down to my office with
the particulars ?
My es. To-morrow you shall breakfast on them.
Corric., Good night, entirely. Exit CORRIGAN, L.
My es. I'll give ye a cowstail to swally, and make ye think \
it’s a chapter in St. Patrick, ye spalpeen! When he called
Kily the misthress of Hardress Cregan, I nearly sthretched
o
sc. 3.] COLLEEN BAWN. 15
him—begorra, I was full of sudden death that minute! Oh,
Eily! acushla agrah asthore machree! as the stars watch over
Innisfallen, and as the wathers go round it and keep it, so I
watch and keep round you, avourneen!
Song.—MYLEs.
Oh, Limerick is beautiful, as everybody knows,
The river Shannon’s full of fish, beside that city flows;
But it is not the river, nor the fish that preys upon my mind,
Nox with the town of Limerick have I any fault to find.
The girl I love is beautiful, she’s fairer than the dawn ;
She lives in Garryowen, and she’s called the Colleen Bawn.
As the river, proud and bold, goes by that famed city,
So proud and cold, widout a word, that Colleen goes by me!
Oh, hone! Oh, hone!
Oh, if I was the Emperor of Russia to command,
Or Julius Cesar, or the Lord Lieutenant of the land,
I'd give up all my wealth, my manes, I’d give up my army,
Both the horse, the fut, and the Royal Artillery ;
I'd give the crown from off my head, the people on their knees,
I'd give my fleet of sailing ships upon the briny seas,
And.a beggar I'd go to sleep, a happy man at dawn,
If by my side, fast for my bride, I’d the darlin’ Colleen Bawn.
Oh,. hone! Oh, hone!
I must reach the cottage before the masther arrives; Father
Tom is there waitin’ for this keg o’ starlizht—it’s my tithe;
I call every tenth keg “his riverince.” It’s worth money to
see the way it does the old man good, and brings the wather
in his eyes ; it’s the only place I ever see any about him—
heaven bless him! (sings) Exit MYLES, r.—Musie.
ScENE Turd. —Interior of Eily’s Cottage on Muckross Head *
Jire burning, R. 3 £. 3 table, R. C.3 arm chair; two stools, R.
of table ; stool L. of table; basin, sugar spoon, two jugs, tobacco,
plate, knife, and lemon on table.
FatHeR Tom discovered smoking in arm chair, R. C.—EILY in
balcony, watching over lake.
FATHER Tom. (sngs) “Tobacco is an Injun weed.” And
every weed wants wathering to make it come up; but tobacco
bein’ an Injun weed that is accustomed to a hot climate, water is
entirely too cold for its warrum nature—it’s whiskey and water
it wants. I wonder if Myles has come; I'll ask Eily. (calls) Eily
alanna! Eily a suilish machree!
EILy, (turning) Is it me, Father Tom?
FATHER T. Has he come ?
16 COLLEEN BAWN. fAct 1,
E1ty. No, his boat is half a mile off yet.
FaTHER T. Half a mile! I'll choke before he’s here.
Eity. Do you mean Hardress ?
FATHER T. No, dear! Myles na Coppaleen—ecum spiritu
Hiberneuse—which manes in Irish, wid a keg of poteen.
Enter MYLES, R. U. E., down Cc,
My tes. Here I am, your riverince, never fear. I tould
Sheelah to hurry up with the materials, knowin ye’d be dhry
and hasty.
Enter SHEELAH, with kettle of wuter, R. U. EB.
SHEELAH. Here’s the hot water.
My.es. Lave it there till I brew Father Tom a pint of
mother’s milk.
SHEELAH. We’ell thin, ye’ll do your share of the work, and
not a ha’porth more.
Mytes, Didn’t I bring the sperrits from two miles and
more? and I deserve to have the pref ’rence to make the punch
for his riverince.
SHEELAH. And didn’t I watch the kettle all night, not to
let it off the boil ?—there now.
MYLES. (quarrelling with SHEELAH) No, you did’nt, &c.
SHEELAH. (quarrelling) Yes, I did, &c.
Erity. No, no; I'll make it, and nobody else.
FaTHER T. Asy now, ye bocauns, and whist; Myles shall
in the whisky, Sheelah shall put in the hot water, and
ily, my Colleen, shall put the sugar in the cruiskeen. A
blessin’ on ye all three that loves the ould man. (MyLzs takes
off hat — WOMEN curtsey — they make punch) See now, my
children, there’s a moral in everything, e’en in a jug of punch.
There’s the sperrit, which is the sowl and strength of the man.
(MILES pours spirit from keg) That’s the whiskey. There’s the
sugar, which is the smile of woman; (Emmy puts sugar) with-
out that, life is without taste or sweetness. Then there’s the
lemon, (EILY puts lemon) which is love; a squeeze now and
again does a boy no harm; but not too much. And the hot
water (SHEELAH pours water) which is adversity—as little as
possible if ye plaze—that makes the good things better still.
My Les. And it’s complate, ye see, for it’s’ a woman that gets
} into hot wather all the while. (pours from jug to jug)
SHEELAH. Myles, if I hadn’t the kettle, I’d bate ye.
Myris. Then, why didn’t ye let me make the punch?
There’s a guinea for your riverince that’s come t’ye—one in
ten I got awhile ago—it’s your tithe—put a hole in it, and
hang it on your watch chain, for it’s a mighty grate charm
entirely. (they sit, SHEELAH near fire, COLLEEN on stool beside
her, FATHER TOM in chair, MYLES on stool, L. of table)
Se. 3.] COLLEEN BAWN. 17
Fatuer T. Eily, look at that boy, and tell me, haven’t yea
‘dale to answer for?
ErLy. He isn’t as bad about me as he used to be; he’s getting
‘Over it.
My es. Yes, darlin’, the storm has passed over, and I’ve
got into settled bad weather.
FATHER 'T’. Maybe, afther all, ye’d have done better to have
married Myles there, than be the wife of a man that’s ashamed
to own ye.
Eriy. He isn’t—he’s proud of me. It’s only when I spake
dike the poor people, and say or do anything wrong, that he’s
hurt ; but I’m gettin’ clane of the brogue, and learnin’ to do
nothing—I’m to be changed entirely.
My tes. Oh! if he’d lave me yer own self, and only take
away wid him his improvements. Oh! murder—LEily, aroon,
why wasn’t ye twins, an’ I could have one of ye, only nature
couldn’t make two like ye—it would be onreasonable to ax it.
Erty. Poor Myles, do you love me still so much?
My es. Didn’t I lave the world to folly ye, and since then
there’s been neither night nor day in my life—I lay down on
Glenna Point above, where I see this cottage, and I lived cm
the sight of it. Oh! Eily, if tears were pison to the grass
there wouldn’t be a green blade on Glenna Hill this day.
ErLty. But you knew I was married, Myles.
My es. Not thin, aroon—Father Tom found me that way,
and sat beside, and lifted up my soul. Then I confessed to
him, and, sez he, “Myles, go to Eily, she has something to say
to you--say I sent you.” I came, and ye tould me ye were
Hardress Cregan’s wife, and that was a great comfort entirely
Since I knew that (drinks—voice in cup) I haven’t been the
blackguard I was.
FatHER T. See the beauty of the priest, my darlin’—videte et
admtrate—see and admire it. It was at confession that Eily
tould me she loved Cregan, and what did I do ?—sez I, ‘‘ Where
did you meet your sweetheart ?” “ At Garryowen,” sez she.
“Well,” says I; “that’s not the place.” ‘“'Thrue, your
riverince, it’s too public entirely,” sez she. ‘Ye’ll mate him
only in one place,” sez 1; “and that’s the stile that’s behind
my chapel,” for, d’ye see, her mother’s grave was forenint the
spot, and there’s a sperrit round the place, (MyLEs drinks)
that kept her pure and strong. Myles, ye thafe, drink fair.
SHEELAH. Come now, Eily, couldn’t- ye cheer up his
riverince wid the tail of a song?
KrLy. Hardress bid me not sing any ould Irish songs, he
says the words are vulgar.
SHEELAH. Father Tom will give ye absolution.
FatHeR T. Put your lips to that jug; there’s only the
sthrippens left. Drink! and while that thrue Irish liquor
“18 COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 1,
warms your heart, take this wid it. May the brogue of ould
Ireland niver forsake your tongue—may her music niver lave
yer voice—and may a true Irishwoman’s virtue niver die in
your heart !
Myers. Come, Eily, it’s my liquor—haven’t ye awerd to
say for it ?
Song, Etty-—“ Cruiskeen Lawn.”
Let the farmer praise his grounds,
As the huntsman doth his hounds,
And the shepherd his fresh and dewy morn;
But I, more blest than they,
Spend each night and happy day,
With my smilin’ little Cruiskeen Lawn, Lawn, Lawn.
Chorus (repeat) Gramachree, mavourneen, slanta gal avourneen,
Gramazhree ma Cruiskeen Lawn, Lawn, Lawn,
With my smiling little Cruiskeen Lawn.
(chorussed by MYLES, FATHER T., and SHEELAB)
MYLEs.
And when grim Death appears
In long and happy years,
To tell me that my glass is run,
I'll say. begone, you slave,
For great Bacchus gave me lave
To have another Cruiskeen Lawn—Lawn—Lawn.
Chorus. —Repeat.
Gramachree, &c., &c.
HARD. (without, L. u. E.) Ho! Sheelah—Sheelah!
SHEELAH. (rising) Whisht ! it’s the master.
E1iy. (frightened) Hardress! oh, my ! what will he say if
he finds us here—run, Myles—quick, Sheelah—clear away the
things.
FatTHer T. Hurry now, or we'll get Eily in throuble. (akes
keg—MYLEs takes jugs —SHEELAH kettle)
HARD. Sheelah, I say!
Exeunt Faturr Tom and MYLgs, R. v. B., quickly.
SHEELAH. Comin’, Sir, I’m puttin’ on my petticoat.
Exit SHEELAH, R. U. E., quickly.
Enter Harpress and Danny, L. U. E. opening—DANNyY immee
diately goes off, R. U.E.
E1Ly. (c.) Oh, Hardress, asthore!
Harp. (L. ¢.) Don’t call me by those confounded Irish
words—what’s the matter? you’re trembling like a bird caught
in a trap.
Eirty. Am I, mavou—no Imean—is it tremblin’ I am, dear?
Harp. What a dreadful smell of tobacco there is here, and
Sc. 3.) COLLEEN BAWN. 19
the fumes of whiskey punch too, the place smells like a
shebeen. Who has been here
Eity. There was Father Tom an’ Myles dhropped in.
Harp. Nice company for my wife—a vagabond.
Eriry. Ah! who made him so but me, dear? Before I saw
you, Hardress, Myles coorted me, and I was kindly to the boy.
Harp. Damn it, Eily, why will you remind me that my wife
was ever in such a position ?
E1Lty. I won’t see him again—if yer angry, dear, I'll tell
him to go away, and he will, because the poor "boy loves me.
Harp. Yes, better than I do you mean?
Erry. No, I don’t—oh! why do you spake soto your poor,
Hily ?
i. ARD. Spake so! Can’t you say speak ?
Eiiy. V'll thry, aroon—I’m sthrivin’—’tis mighty hard, but
what wouldn’t 1 undert-tee-ta—undergo for your sa- -se—for
your seek.
Harp. Sake—sake!
EILy
mixed’em up! Why didn’t they make them all one way ?
HARD. caxige) It is impossible! How can I present her as
my wife? Oh! what an act of madness to tie myself to one
60 much beneath me—beautiful—good as she is
Eity. Hardress, you are pale—what has happened ?
Harp. Nothing—that is nothing but what you will rejoice at.
Ey. What @° ye mane ?
Harp. What do I mane! Mean—mean!
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34 COLLEEN BAWN. [Acr 2
this side till I want to go back—what’s that—it was an otter
I woke from a nap he was taken on that bit of rock there—
ow! ye divil! if I had my gun I'd give ye a leaden supper.
Cll go up and load it, may be I'll get a shot; them stones is
the place where they lie out of a night, and many a one I’ve
shot of them. Music.—disappears up rock, u. U. Ex
A small boat with Danny and E1ny appears, from R., and
works on to rock, C.
“ILY. What place is this you have brought me to ?
Danny. Never fear—I know where I’m goin’—step out on
that rock—mind yer footin’; ’tis wet there.
Erry. I don’t like this place—it’s like a tomb.
Danny. Step out, I say; the boat is laking. (EILY steps on
to rock, R. C.)
Eity. Why do you spake to me so rough and cruel ?
Danny. Eily, I have a word to say t’ye, listen now, and
don’t thrimble that way.
Eity. I won’t, Danny—I won't.
Danny. Wonst, Eily, I was a fine brave boy, the pride of
my ould mother, her white haired darlin’—you wouldn’t think
it to look at me now. D’ye know howI got changed to this?
Ei1Ly. Yes, Hardress told me.
Danny. He done it—but I loved him before it, an’ I loved
him afther it—not a dhrop of blood I have, but I’'d pour out
like wather for the masther.
Eiiy. I know what you mean—as he has deformed your
body—ruined your life—made ye what ye are.
Danny. Have you, a woman, less love for him than I, that
you wouldn’t give him what he wants of you, even if he broke
our heart as he broke my back, both in a moment of passion?
id I ax him to ruin himself and his ould family, and all to
mend my bones? No! [ loved him, and I forgave him that.
Kity. Danny, what d’ye want me to do? _
(DANNY steps out on to rock)
Danny. Give me that paper in your breast ? (boat floats off
slowly, R.)
Eiry. I can't—I’ve sworn never to part with it! You know
I have!
Danny. Eily, that paper stands between Hardress Cregan
and his fortune; that paper is the ruin of him. Give it, I tell
eZ.
Kity. Take me to the priest; let him lift the oath off me,
Oh! Danny, I swore a blessed oath on my two knees, and ye
would ax me to break that ?
DANNY. (seizes her hands) Give it up, and don’t make me
hurt ye. }
Eriy. I swore by my mother’s grave, Danny. Oh! Danny?
aer3t COLLEEN BAWN. 35
dear, don’t. Don’t, acushla, and I'll do anything. See now,
what good would it be: sure, while I live I’m his wife. (Musie
changes)
Danny. Then you've lived too long. Take your marriage
lines wid ye to the bottom of the lake. (he throws her from
rock backwdrds into the water, L. C., with a ery; she reappears,
clinging to rock.)
Ei1ty. No! save me. Don’t killme. Don’t, Danny, PU—
do any thing, only let me live.
Danny. He wants ye dead. (pushes her off)
Eriy. Oh! Heaven help me. Danny—Dan (sinks)
DANNY. (looking down) \’ve done it. She’s gone. (shot is
Jired, L. U. E. 3 he falls—rolls from the rock into the water, R. C.)
MYLES appears with gun on rock, L, U. E.
My es. I hit one of them bastes that time. I could see
well, though it was so dark. But there was somethin’ moving
on that stone. (swings across to R.U.&.) Divil a sign of him.
Stop! (Looks down) What’s this? it’s a woman—there’s
something white there. (jigure rises near rock, R. U. E.—
kneels down ; tries to take the hand of figure) Ah! that dress;
it’s Eily. My own darlin’ Kily. ( pulls off waistcoat—jumps off
rock. EILY rises R.—then MYLES and EILY rise up, C.—he turns,
and seizes rock, R. C.—EILyY across left arm.
ACT IIl1.
ScENE First.—ZInterior of an Irish Hut ; door and small opening
R. C., door L. C. flat.
Truckle bed and bedding, R. C.,.0n which DANNY MANN ts dis-
covered ; table with jug of water ; lighted candle stuck in bottle,
L.; two stools—SHEELAH at table, L.— Music.
DANNY. (tn his sleep) Gi’ me the paper, thin—screeching won’t
save ye—down, down! .(wakes) Oh, mother, darlin’—mother !
SHEELAH. (waking) Eh! did ye call me, Danny ?
Danny. Gi’ me a dhrop of wather—it’s the thirst that’s
killin’ me.
SHEELAH. (takes jug) The fever’s on ye mighty bad.
DANNY. (drinks, falls back, groans) Oh, the fire in me won't
go out! How long have I been here?
SHEELAH. Ten days this night.
Danny. Ten days dis night! have I been all that time out
of my mind?
SHEELAH. Iss, Danny. Ten days ago, that stormy night, ye
erawled in at that dure, wake an’ like a ghost.
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36 COLLEEN BAWN. fAcr 3.
Danny. I remind me now.
SHEELAH, Ye tould me that ye’d been poachin’ salmon, and
had been shot by the keepers.
Danny. Who said I hadn't?
SHEELAH. Divilaone! Wh y did ye make me promise not to
say aword about it? didn’t ye refuse even to see a doctor itself?
Danny. Has any one axed after me?
SHEELAH. No one but Mr. Hardress.
Danny, Heaven bless him.
SHEELAH. I told him I hadn't seen ye, and here ye are this
day groanin’ when there’s great doin’s up at Castle Chute.
To-morrow the masther will be married to Miss Anne.
Danny. Married! but—the—his——
SHEELAH. Poor Eily, ye mane?
Danny. Hide the candle from my eyes, it’s painin’ me,
shade it off. Goon, mother.
SHEELAH, The poor Colleen! Oh, vo, Danny, I knew she’d
die of the love that was. chokin’ her. He didn’t know how
tindher she was, when he give her the hard word. What was
that message the masther sent to her, that ye wouldn’t let me
hear? It was cruel, Danny, for it broke her heart entirely ;
she went away that night, and, two days after, a cloak was
found floatin’ in the reeds, under Brikeen Bridge ; nobody
knew it but me. I turned away, and never said . The
erature is drowned, Danny, and wo to them as dhruy her to it.
She has no father, no mother to put a curse on him, but there’s
the Father above that niver spakes till the last day, and
then (she turns and sees DANNY gasping, his eyes fixed om
her, supporting himself on his arm) Danny! Danny! he’s
dyin’—he’s dyin’! (runs to him, R. of bed)
Danny. Who said that? Ye lie! 1 never killed her—sure
he sent me the glove—where is it ?
SHEELAH. He’s ravin’ again.
Danny. The glove, he sent it to me full of blood. Oh!
master, dear, there’s your token. I tould ye I would clear the
path foreninst ye.
SHEELAH. Danny, what d’ye mane?
Danny, I'll tell ye how I did it, masther; ‘twas dis wa ,
but don’t smile like dat, don’t, sir! she wouldn’t give me de
marriage lines, so I sunk her, and her proofs wid her! She's
gone! she came up wonst, but I put her down agin! Never
fear—she’ll never throuble yer agin, never, never. (Lies down,
mutiers—SHEELAH on her knees, in horror and prayer )
SHEELAH. "T'was he! he !—my own son—he’s murdered her,
and he’s dyin’ now—dyin’, wid blood on his hands! Danny!
Danny! Spake to me!
Danny. A docther! will dey let me die like a baste, and
never a docther?
Sc. 1.] ' . @OLLEEN BAWN. 37
SHEELAH. I’lirun for onethat’llcure ye. Oh! weerasthrue,
Danny! Is it for this I’ve loved ye? No, forgive me, acushla,
it isn’t your own mother that ’ud add to yer heart-breakin’ and
pain. [ll fetch the docther, avick. (Music—puis on cloak,
and pulls hood over her head) Oh! bone—oh! hone!
Exit SHEELAH, L. door wm flat—a pause—knock—pause—
knock.
Enter CorriGAn, door in flat, L. C.
Corrig. Sheelah! Sheelah! Nobody here ?—I’m botherea
entirely. The cottage on Muckross Head is empty—not a
sow] in it but a cat. Myles has disappeared, and Danny gone—
vanished, bedad, like a fog. Sheelah is the only one remaining.
I called to see Miss Chute; I was kicked out. I sent her a
letther; it was returned to me unopened. Her lawyer has
paid off the mortgage, and taxed my bill of costs—the
spalpeen! (DANNY groans) What’s that? Some one asleep
there. *Tis Danny!
Danny. A docther—gi’ me a doctor!
Corria. Danny here—concealed, too! Oh! there’s some-
thing going on that’s worth peepin’ into. Whist! there’s
footsteps comin’. If I could hide abit. I’ma magistrate, an’
I ought to know what’s goin’ on—here’s a turf hole wid a
windy in it. Exit CoRRIGAN, openiny in flat, R. C.
Enter SHEELAH and FATHER ToM, L. C. door.
SHEELAH. (goes to DANNY.) Danny!
Danny. Is that you, mother?
SHEELAH. I’ve brought the docther, asthore. (DANNY
dooks up)
Danny. The priest !
SHEELAH. (on her knees R. of bed) Oh! my darlin’, don’t be
angry wid me, but dis is the docther you want ; it is’nt in your
body where the hurt is ; the wound is in your poor sowl—there’s
all the harrum.
FaTuer T. Danny, my son—(sits L. of bed)-—it’s sore-hearted
I am to see you down this way.
SHEELAH. And so good a son he was to his ould mother.
Danny. Don’t say that—don’t. (covering his face)
SHEELAH. I will say it—my blessin’ on ye—see that, now,
he’s cryin’.
Fatuer T. Danny, the hand of death is on ye. Will ye
lave your sins behind ye here below, or will ye take them with
ye above, to show them on ye? Is there anything ye can do
that'll mend a wrong? leave that legacy to your friend, and
he’ll do it. Do ye want pardon of any one down here—tell me,
avick ; I'll get it for ye, and send it after. you—may be ye’'ll
waut it. |
wb
-_—
38 COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 3,
DANnyY. (rising up on arm) I killed Eily O’Connor.
SHEELAH. (covers her face with her hands) Oh! oh!
Fatuer T. What harrum had ye agin the poor Colleen Bawn?
(CORRIGAN takes notes)
Danny. She stud in ze way, and he had my heart and sowl
in his keeping.
‘FATHER T. Hardress!
Danny. Hisself! I said I'd do it for him, if he’d give me
the token.
FATHER F. Did Hardress employ you to kill the girl ?
Danny. He sent me the glove; that was to be the token
that I was to put her away, and I did—I— in the Pool a Dhiol.
She would’nt gi’ me the marriage lines; I threw her in and
then I was kilt.
FATHER T. Killed! by whose hand ?
Danny. I don’t know, unless it was the hand ot heaven.
FATHER T. (rising, goes down—aside) Myles na Coppaleen
is at the bottom of this; his whiskey still is in that cave, and he
has not been seen for ten days past. (aloud-—goes to Danny)
Danny, after ye fell, how did ye get home?
Danny. I fell in the wather; the current carried me to a
rock; how long I was there half drowned I don’t know, but on
wakin’ I found my boat floatin’ close by, an’ it was still dark,
I got in and crawled here.
FaTuHER T, (aside) I'll go and see Myles—there’s more in
this than has come out.
SHEELAH. Won’t yer riverince say a word of comfort to the
poor boy ?—he’s in great pain entirely.
Fatuer T. Keep him quiet, Sheelah. (Music) I'll be back
again with the comfort for him. Danny, your time is short;
make the most of it. (aside) I’m off to Myles na Coppaleen.
Oh, Hardress (going up) Cregan, ye little think what a bridal
day ye'll have! Exit door in flat, L. C.
CORRIGAN. (who has been writing in note-book, comes out—
at back) \’ve got down every word of the confession. Now,
Hardress Cregan, there will be guests at your weddin’ to-night
ye little dhrame of. Exit door in flat, L. Cs
DANNY. (risiny up) Mother, mother! the pain is on me.
Wather— quick—wather !
(SHEELAH runs to L. table—takes jug—gives it to DANNY—
he drinks—SuHEELAH takes jug—DANNY struggles— Falls
back on bed—close on picture) )
Scene Seconp.—Chamber in Castle Chute. (1st grooves).
Enter KYRLE DALY and SERVANT, R.
KYRLE. Inform Mrs. Cregan that I am waiting upon her,
-
Sc. 2.} COLLEEN BAWN. 39
Enter Mrs. CREGAN, t.
Mrs. C, 1 am glad to see you, Kyrle. Exit SERVANT, L.
KyRLE. (R. Cc.) You sent for me, Mrs, Cregan. My ship
sails from Liverpool to-morrow. I never thought I could be
so anxious to quit my native land.
Mrs. C. I want you to see Hardress. For ten days past he
shuns the society of his bride. By night he creeps out alone
in his boat on the lake—by day he wanders round the neigh.
bourhood pale as death. He is heartbroken.
Kyrwe. Has he asked to see me ?
Mrs. C. Yesterday he asked where you were.
Kyr_p. Did he forget that I left your house when Miss
Chute, without a word of explanation, behaved so unkindly
to me?
Mrs. C. She is not the same girl since she accepted Hardress.
She quarrels—weeps—complains, and has lost her spirits.
Kyr.e. She feels the neglect of Hardress.
ANNE. (without, R.) Don’t answerme. Obey! and hold your
tongue.
Mrs. C. Do you hesr? she is rating one of the servants.
ANNE. (without) No words—I'll have no sulky looks neither!
Enter ANNE, R., dressed as a bride, with veil and wreath in her
hand.
Anne. Is that the veil and wreath I ordered? How dare
you tell me that. (throws iu off, R.)
Mrs. ©. Anne! (ANNE sees KYRLE—stands confused)
Kyrue. You are surprised to see me in your house, Miss
Chute?
ANNE. You are welcome, sir.
Kyrie. (aside) She looks pale! She’s not happy—that’s
gratifying.
Anne. He doesn’t look well—that’s some comfort.
Mrs. C. I'll try to find Hardress. Ezit Mrs. CREGAN, L.
Kyrce. I hope you don’t think [ intrude—that is—I came
to see Mrs. Cregan.
ANNE. (sharply) I don’t flatter myself you wished to see me,
why should you ?
Kyrur. Anne, I am sorry I offended you; I don’t know
what I did, but no matter.
ANNE. Not the slightest.
Kyrte. I released your neighbourhood of my presence.
Anne Yes, and you released the neighbourhood of the
presence of somebody else—she and you disappeared together.
KYRLE. She!
ANNE. Never mind.
Kyrwe. But I do mind. I love Hardress Cregan as &
40 COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 3.
brother, and I hope the time may come, Anne, when I can love
you as a sister.
ANNE. Do you? I don’t. cidade”
Kyrwe. I don’t want the dislike of my triend’s wife to part
my triend and me.
ANNE. Why should it? I’m nobody.
Kyrie. If you were my wife, and asked me to hate any one,
I'd do it—I couldn’t help it. ;
ANNE. I believed words like that once when you spoke
them, but I have been taught how basely you can deceive.
KYRLE. Who taught you ?
ANNE. Who ?—your wife.
Kyrie, My what?
ANNE. Your wife—the girl you concealed in the cottage on
Muckross Head. Stop now, don’t speak—save a falsehood,
however many ye have to spare. Isaw the girl—she confessed.
Kyrie. Confessed that she was my wife ?
ANNE. Made a clean breast of it in a minute, which is more
than you could do with a sixteen-foot waggon and a team of
ten in a week.
Kyrie. Anne, hear me; this is a frightful error—the girl
will not repeat it.
ANNE. Bring her before me and let her speak.
Kyrie. How do I know where she is?
ANNE. Well, bring your boatman then, who told me the same.
Kynrte. I tell you it is false; I never saw—never knew the
girl!
ANNE. You did not? (shews E1ty’s letter) Do you know
that? You dropped it, and I found it.
KYRLE. (takes letter) This! (reads)
Enter HARDRESS, L.
ANNE. Hardress! (turns aside)
Kyrie. Oh! (suddenly struck with the truth—glances towards
ANNE— finding her looking away, places letter to Harpress) Do
you know that ?—you dropped it.
Harp. (conceals letter) Eh?—Oh!
Kyrie. ’Twas he. (looks from one to the other) She thinks me
guilty ; but if T stir to exculpate myself, he is in for it,
Harp. You look distressed, Kyrle. Anne, what is the
matter ?
Kyrie. Nothing, Hardress. Iwas about to ask Miss Chute
to forget a subject which was painful to her, and to beg of her
never to mention it again —not even to you, Hardress.
Harp. I am sure she will deny you nothing.
Anne. I will forget, sir; (aside) but I will never forgive him
—never.
KYRLE, (aside) She loves me still, and he loves another, and
ta
Sc. 3.] COLLEEN BAWN. 41
I am the most miserable dog that ever was kicked. (erosses
to L.) Hardress, a word with you. Hatt KYRLE and HARDRESS, L.
Anne. And this is my wedding day. There goes the only
man I ever loved. When he’s here near by me, I could give
him the worst treatment a man could desire, and when he goes
away he takes the heart and all of me off with him, and I feel
like an unfurnished house. This is pretty feelings for a girlto »
have, and she in her regimentals. Oh! if he wasn’t married—
but he is, and he’d have married me as well—the malignant!
Oh! if he had, how I’d have made him swing for it—it would
have afforded me the happiest moment of my life. (Music)
Exit ANNE, I
ScENE THIRD.—L£xterior of Myles’s Hut, door R. in flat.
(2nd grooves.)
Enter FATHER To, L.
Fatuer T. Here’s Myles’s shanty. I’m nearly killed with
climbin’ the hill. I wonder is he at home? Yes, the door is
locked inside, (% ey Myles—Myles, are ye at home?
MYLES. (outside, R. 2 £.) No—I’m out.
Enter MYLES, R. 2 E.
Arrah! is it yourself, Father iow that’s in it?
FATHER T. I | ve a word to say t’ye.
My.es. I—I’ve lost the key.
FATHER T. Sure it’s sticken inside.
My es. Iss—I always lock the dure inside and lave it there
when I go out, for fear on losin’ it.
F'aTHER 'T. Myles, come here to me. It’s lyin’ ye are
Look me in the face. What’s come to ye these tin days past
—three times I’ve been to your door and it was locked, but I
heard ye stirrin’ inside.
My tes. It was the pig, yer riverince.
FaTuHER T. Myles, why did yer shoot Danny Mann?
Mytes. Oh, murther, who tould you that ?
FATHER T. Himself.
Mytes. Oh, Father Tom, have ye seen him ?
FATHER T. I’ve just left him.
My es. Is it down there ye’ve been ?
FATHER T. Down where?
My tes. Below, where he’s gone to—where would he be,
afther murthering a poor crature ?
Farser T. How d’ye know that ?
My es. How! how did 1 ?—whisht, Father Tom, it was his
ghost.
FatTuHeER T. He is not dead, but dyin’ fast, from the wound
‘ye gave him.
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43 COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 3,
MyLxs. I never knew ’twas himself ’till I was tould.
FATHER T. Who tould you?
Mytes. Is it who?
FatuHer T. Who? who?—not Danny, for he doesn’t know
who killed him.
MyYLes. Wait, an’ I'll tell you. It was nigh twelve that
night, I was comin’ home—I know the time, betoken Murty
Dwyer made me step in his shebeen, bein’ the wake of the
bald Callaghan, his wife’s uncle—and a dacent man he was.
* Murty,” ses I
FATHER T. Myles, you’re desavin’ me.
My tes. Is it afther desavin yer riverence I’d be?
F'aTHer T. I see the lie in yer mouth. Who tould ye it
was Danny Mann ye killed ?
Mytzs. You said so awhile ago.
FaTuer T. Who tould ye it was Danny Mann ?
My tes. I’m comin toit. While Iwas at Murty’s, yer river-
ince, as I was a-tellin’ you—Dan Dayley was there—he had
just kim’din. ‘Good morrow,—good day "—seshe. ‘Good
morrow, good Dan, ses I,”—jest that ways entirely—“it’s an
Opening to the heart to see you.” Well, yer riverence, as I
ware sayin’,—“long life an’ good wife to ye, Masther Dan,”
ses I. “Thank ye, ses he, and the likes to ye, anyway.” The
moment I speck them words, Dan got heart, an’ up an’ tould
‘Murty about his love for Murty’s darter—the Colleen Rue.
‘The moment he heard that, he puts elbows in himself, an’ stood
Jookin’ at him out on the flure. ‘You flog Europe, for bold-
ness,’ ses he— get out of my sight,” ses he,—“ this moment.”
‘ses he,—“ or I'll give yer a kick that will rise you from poverry
to the highest pitch of affluence,” ses he—“ away out ’o that,
'you notorious delinquent ; single yer freedom, and double yer
distance,” ses he. Well, Dan was forced to cut an’ run. Poor
‘boy, I was sorry for his trouble; there isn’t a better son not
‘brother this moment goin’ the road than what he is—said—
‘said—there was’nt a better, an’, an-—oh! Father Tom, don’t
ax me; I’ve got an oath on my lips. (music) Don’t be hard
‘on a poor boy.
FaTHerR T, I lift the oath from ye. Tell me, avich, oh! tell
me. Did ye search for the poor thing—the darlin’ soft-eyed
Colleen? Oh! Myles, could ye lave her to lie in the cowld
Jake all alone ?.
Enter E1ry from door k. flat.
MYLEs. No, I couldn’t.
Fatuer T. (twrns—sees Erty) Eily! Is it yerself, and alive
—an’ not—not Oh! Eily, mavourneen. Come to my
heart. (embraces E1ty)
MYLES. (crosses to L.) D’ye think ye’d see me alive if she
Sc. 3.] COLLEEN BAWN. 43
wasn’t? I thought ye knew me better—it’s at the bottom of
the Pool a Dhiol I’d be this minute if she wasn’t to the fore.
FaTuHER T. (c.) Speak to me—let me hear your voice.
Eity. Oh! father, father, won’t ye take me, far far away
from this place.
FATHER T. Why, did ye hide yourself, this way ?
K1ry. For fear he’d see me.
FatHerR T. Hardress. You knew then that he instigated
Danny to get rid of ye?
Erty. Why didn’t I die—why am [I alive now for him to
hate me?
FATHER T. D’ye know that in a few hours he is going to
marry another.
EiLty. I know it, Myles tould: me—that’s why I’m hiding
myself away.
Farner T. What does she mean?
MYLEs. (L.) She loves him still—that’s what she manes.
Fatuer T. Love the wretch who sought your life!
E1Ly. Isn’t it his own? It isn’t his fault if his love couldn’t
last as long as mine. I was a poor, mane creature—not up to
him any way; but if he’d only said, “ Eily, put the grave
between us and make me happy,” sure I'd lain down, wid a big
heart, in the loch,
FATHER T. And you are willing to pass a life of seclusion
that he may live in his guilty joy ?
ErLy. If J was alive wouldn't I be a shame to him an’ a ruin
—ain’t I in his way? Heaven help me—why would I trouble
him? Oh! he was in great pain o’ mind entirely when he let
them put a hand on me—the poor darlin’.
FATHER T, And you mean to let him believe you dead ?
EILy. Dead an’ gone: then perhaps, his love for me will come
back, and the thought of his poor, foolish little Eily that wor-
shipped the ground he stood on, will fill his heart awhile.
FaTHEeR T. And where will you go?
Eriy. I don’t know. Anywhere. What matters ?
MYLES. (against wing, L.) Love makes all places alike.
EiLy. I’m alone in the world now.
FaTuHER T. The villain—the monster! He sent her to heaven
because he wanted her there to blot out with her tears the
record of his iniquity. ily, ye have but one home, and that’s
my poor house. You are not alone in the world—there’s one
beside ye, your father, and that’s myself.
My Les. T'wo—bad luck to me, two. I am her mother; sure
I brought her into the world a second time.
Farner 'T. (looking, Rr.) Whist! look down there, Myles—
what’s that on the road ?
MYLEs, (crosses, R.) It’s the sogers—a company of red-coats.
What brings the army out ?—who’s that wid them ?—it is ould
COLLEEN BAWN. [Acr 3.
Corrigan, and they are going towards Castle Chute. There’s
mischief in the wind.
FATHER T, In with you, an’ keep close awhile ; I'll go down
to the castle and see what’s the matter. (crosses R.)
Etxy. Promise me that you'll not betray me—that none but
yourself and Myles shall ever know I’m livin’; promise me
that, before you go.
_ Paruer T. I do, Eily; I'll never breathe a word of it—it is
as sacred as an oath. Exit L.—music.
EILy. (going to cottage) Shut me in, Myles, and take the key
wid ye, this time. Exit in cottage, B.C.
Mytes. (locks door) There ye are like a pearl in an oyster;
now I'll go to my bed as usual on the mountain above—
the bolster is stuffed wid rocks. and I'll have a cloud round me
for a blanket. Exit MYLES, R. 2. E.
Scene Fourtu.— Outside of Castle Chute. (1st grooves)
Enter CORRIGAN and siz SOLDIERS, R. 1 E.
Corrie. Quietly, boys; sthrew yourselves round the wood—
some of ye at the gate beyant—two more this way—watch the
windies ; if he’s there to escape at all, he’ll jump from a windy.
The house is surrounded.
Quadrille music under stage.— Air, “ The Boulanger.”
‘Oh, oh! they’re dancin’—dancin’ and merry-making, while the
net is closin’ around em. Now Masther Hardress Cregan—I
was kicked out, was I; but I'll come this tine wid a call
that ye’ll answer wid your head instead of your foot. My
letters were returned unopened; but here’s a bit of writin’ that
ye'll not be able to hand back so easy.
/
Enter CORPORAL, R.
Corp. All right, sir.
Corrié. Did you find the woman, as I told ye?
Corp. Here she is, sir.
Enter SHEELAH, guarded by two SOLDIERS, R.
SHEELAH. (crying) What's this? Why am I thrated this
way—what have I done?
Corric. You are wanted awhile—it’s your testimony we
require. [Bring her this way. Follow me! Exit, L.
SHEELAH. (siruggling) Let me go back to my boy. Ah!
good luck t’ye, don’t kape me from my poor boy! (struggling)
Oh! you dirty blackguards, let me go—let me go!
Exit SHEELAH and SoLpIERS, Le
Sc. 5.] COLLEEN BAWN. 45
Scene Firta.— Ball Roomin Castle Chute. Steps, c.; platform
—oalustrades on top; backed by moonlight landscape—
docrs R. and L.; table L. C.; writing materials, books, papers
on; chairs; chair tL. 2 E.; chairs R.; chandeliers lighted.
LADIES and GENTLEMEN, WEDDING GUESTS discovered,
HyLaNnp CreaGcu, Bertie O’Moore, Ducite, KATHLEEN
CREAGH, ADA CREAGH, PATSIE O’Moorz, BRIDESMAIDS and
SERVANTS discovered.—Music going on under stage.
HYLAND. Ducie, they are dancing the Boulanger, and they
can’t see the figure unless you lend them the light of your
eyes.
KATHLEEN. We have danced enough; it is nearly seven
o'clock.
Ducie. Mr. O’Moore ; when is the ceremony to commence ?
O’Moore. The execution is fixed for seven—here’s the
scaffold, I presume. ( points to table)
Hy tanb. Hardress looks like a criminal. I’ve seen him
fight three duels, and he never shewed such a pale face as he
exhibits to-night.
Ducic. He looks as if he was frightened at being so happy
HyLanp. And Kyrle Daly wears as gay an appearance.
Enter KYRLE DALY, down steps, C.
Ducie. Hush! here he is.
Kyrie. That need not stop your speech, Hyland. I don’t
hide my love for Ann Chute, and it is my pride, and no fault
of mine if she has found a better man.
Hy .anp. He is not a better man.
Kyrue. He is— she thinks so—what she says becomes the
truth.
Enter Mrs. CREGAN, L. 2 E.
Mrs. C. Who says the days of chivalry are over? Come,
gentlemen, the bridesmaids must attend the bride. The guests
will assemble in the hall.
Enter SERVANT, R. 2 £., with letter and card on salver.
Serv. Mr. Bertie O’Moore, if you plase. A gentleman
below asked me to hand you this card.
O’Moorr. A gentleman; what can he want? (reads card)
Ah! indeed ; this is a serious matter, and excuses the intrusion.
HyLanp. What’s the matter ?
O’Moore. A murder has been committed.
Au. A murder ? »
O’Moore. The perpetrator of the deed has been discovered,
and the warrant for his arrest requires my signature.
HyYLaAnp. Hang the rascal. (goes up with Ducie)
46 | COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 3.
O’Moors. A magistrate, like a doctor, is called on at all
hours.
Mrs. C. We can excuse you for such a duty, Mr. O’Moore,
O’Moorke. (crossing, x.) This is the result of some brawl at a
fair I suppose. Is Mr. Corrigan below ?
Mrs. C. (starting) Corrigan?
O’Moore. Shew me to him.
L£xit O’Moore and Servant, Rk. 2 E.—Gursts go up and
of L. U. E.
Mrs. C. Corrigan here! What brings that man to this
house ? Exit Mrs. CREGAN, R. 8 E,
Enter Harpress, down steps, C. frony R., pale.
HarpREss. (sits, u.) It is in vain—I eannot repress the terror
with which I approach these nuptials—yet, what have I to
fear? Qh! my heart is bursting with its load of misery.
Enter ANNE, down steps, c. Jrom Rk.
ANNE. Hardress! what is the matter with you?
Harp. (rising L. c.) I will tell you—yes, it may take this
horrible oppression from my heart. At one time I thought
you knew my secret: I was mistaken.—The girl you saw at
Muckross Head
ANNE. (R. C.) Eily O'Connor.
Harp. Was my wife!
ANNE. Your wife?
Harp. Hush! Maddened with the miseries this act brought
upon me, I treated her with cruelty—she committed suicide.
ANNE. Merciful powers !
Harp. She wrote to me bidding me farewell for ever, and
the next day her cloak was found floating in the lake. (ANNE
sinks in chatr) Since then I have neither slept nor waked—I
have but one thought, one feeling ; my love for her, wild and
maddened, has come back upon my heart like a vengeance.
(Music—tumult heard, R.)
ANNE. Heaven defend our hearts, what is that ?
Enter Mrs. CREGAN, deadly pale, &. 3&.—Locks door behind her.
Mrs C. Hardress! my child!
Harb. Mother!
ANNE. Mother, he is here. Look on him —speak to him—
do not gasp and stare on your son in that horrid way. Oh?
mother, speak, or you will break my heart.
Mrs. C. Fly—fly'! (Harpress going, R.) Not that way.
No—the doors are defended!. there is a soldier placed at ever
entrance! You—you are trapped and caught—what shall we
do?—the window in my chamber —come—come—quick—
quick !
_-
&c. 5.] COLLEEN BAWN. 47.
Anne. Of what is he accused ?
Harp. Of murder. I see it in her face. (noise, R.)
Mrs. C. Hush! they come—begone! Your boat is below
that window. Don’t speak! when oceans are between you
and danger—write! Till then not a word. (forcing him off,
L. 3 E.— noise, R.)
Anne. Accused of murder! He is innocent!
Mrs. 0. Goto your room! Go quickly to your room, you
will betray him—you can’t command your features.
ANNE. Dear mother, | will.
Mrs. C. Away, I say—you will drive me frantic, girl My
brain is stretched to cracking. Ha! (noise, R.)
ANNE. There is a tumult in the drawing room.
Mrs. C. They come! Youtremble! Go—take away your
uny love—hide it where it will not injure him—leave me to
ace this danger!
ANNE. He is not guilty.
Mrs. C. What’s that to me, woman? Iam his mother—
the hunters are after my blood! Sit there—look away from
this door. They come!
Knocking loudiy—crash—door 8. 3 8. opened—enter CoR-
PORAL and SOLDIERS who cross stage, facing up to charge
—GENTLEMEN with drawn swords on steps, C.; LADIES
on at back—O’MOoRE, R. 3 E.—enter CORRIGAN, R. 3 E.—
KYRLE on steps, C.
Corric. Gentlemen, put up your swords, the house is sur-
founded by a military force, and we are here in the king’s
mame.
ANNE. (R.) Gentlemen, come on, there was a time in Ireland
when neither king nor faction could call on Castle Chute
without a bloody welcome.
Guests. Clear them out!
KyYRLE. (interposing) Anne, are you mad. Put up your
aswords—stand back there—speak—O’Moore, what does this
etrange outrage mean ?
(Sotviers fall back—GENTLEMEN on steps—KYRLE comes
forward)
O’Moore. Mrs. Cregan, a fearful charge is made against
your son; I know—I believe he is innocent. I suggest, then,
that the matter be investigated here at once, amongst his
friends, so that this scandal may be crushed in its birth.
Kyrue. Where is Hardress ?
Corric. Where ?—why he’s escaping while we are jabbering
here. Search the house. Exit two SOLDIERS, R. 3 E,
Mrs. C. (L.) Must we submit to this, sir? Will you,a
Magistrate, permit
O’Moore. I regret, Mrs. Cregan, but as a form—
Mrs. C. Go on, sir!
48 COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 3,
Corria. (at door, Lu. 3 £.) What room is this? ‘tis locked— |
Mrs. C. That is my sleeping chamber.
Corric. My duty compels me.
Mrs C. (throws hey down on ground) Be it so, sir.
Corrig. (picks up key—unlocks door) She had the key—he's
there. Exit CorRIGAN, CORPORAL and two SOLDIERS,
Mrs. C. He has escaped by this time.
O’Moore. (atu. table) I hope Miss Chute will pardon me
for my share in this transaction—believe me, I regret
ANNE, (R.) Don’t talk to me of your regret, while you are
doing your worst. It is hate, not justice, that brings this
accusation against Hardress, and this disgrace upon me.
Kyriez. Anne!
ANNE. Hold your tongue—his life’s in danger, and if I can’t
love him, I'll fight for him, and that’s more than any of you
men can do. (to O0’Moorr) Go on with your dirty work. You
have done the worst now —you have dismayed our guests,
scattered terror amid our festival, and made the remembrance
of this night, which should have been a happy one, a thought
of gloom and shame. |
Mrs. C. Hark! I hear—I hear his voice. It cannot be.
Kie-enter CORRIGAN, L. 3 E.
Corric. The prisoner is here!
Mrs. C. (c.) Ah, (utters a ery) is he? Dark bloodhound, have
you found him? May the tongue that tells me so be withered
from the roots, and the eye that first detected him be darkened
in its socket ?
Kyrre. Oh, madam! for heaven's sake!
ANNE. Mother! mother! :
Mrs. C. What! shall it be for nothing he has stung the
mother’s heart, and set her brain on fire ?
Enter HARDRESS, handcuffed, and two SOLDIERS, L. 3B.
I tell you that my tongue may hold its peace, but there is not
# vein in all my frame but curses him. (‘urns—sees HARDRESS;
Jalls on his breast) My boy! my boy!
Harp. (L.) Mother, I éntreat you to be calm. (crosses to c.)
Kyrle,therearemy hands, do youthink thereis blood upon them?
(KYRLE seizes his hand— GENTLEMEN press round him, take
his hand, and retire up)
Harp. I thank you, gentlemen; your hands acquit me,
Mother, be calm—sit there. (points to chair, L.)
ANNE. (R.) Come here, Hardress; your place is here by me,
Harp. (Rk. c.) Now, sir, lam ready.
Corrig. (L. of table) I will lay before you, sir, the deposition
upon which the warrant issues against the prisoner. Here is
the confession of Daniel or Danny Mann, a person in the
Sco. 5.] COLLEEN BAWN. 4y
service of the accused, taken on his death-bed; in articulo
mortis, you'll observe.
O’Moore. But not witnessed.
CorriG. (calling) Bring in that woman.
Enter SHEELAH and two SOLDIERS, R. 3 E.
[ have witnesses. Your worship will find the form of law in
perfect shape.
O’Moore, Read the confession, sir.
Corria. (reads) “The deponent being on his death-bed, in the
presence of Sheelah Mann and Thomas O’Brien, parish priest
of Kinmare, deposed and said ”
Enter FATHER ToM, R. 3 E.
Oh, you are come in time, sir.
FaTHER T. I hope I am.
Corria. We may have to call your evidence.
FaTHER T. (c.) 1 have brought it with me.
Corric. “ Deposed and said, that he, deponent, killed Eily
O'Connor; that said Eily was the wife of Hardress Cregan
and stood in the way of his marriage with Miss Anne Chute;
deponent offered to put away the girl, and his master employed
him to do so.” |
O’Moore. Sheelah, did Danny confess this crime ?
SHEELAH. (L. C.) Divil a word—it’s a lie from end to end,
that ould thief was niver in my cabin—he invented the whole
of it—sure you're the divil’s own parverter of the truth!
Corrig. AmI? Oh, oh! Father Tom will scarcely say as
much? (¢ohim) Did Danny Mann confess this in your presence?
FATHER T. I decline to answer that question !
Corrie. Aha! you must—the law will compel you!
Fatuer T. I'd like to see the law that can unseal the lips
of the priest, and make him reveal the secrets of heaven.
ANNE. So much for your two witnesses. Ladies stand close.
Gentlemen, give us room here. (BRIDESMAIDS down, R.)
Eait FATHER Tom, R. 2E
Corrig. We have abundant proof, your worship—enough to
hang a whole county. Danny isn’t dead yet. Deponent agreed
with Cregan that if the deed was to be done, that he, Cregan,
should give his glove as a token.
Mrs. C. Ah!
Harp. Hold! Iconfess that what he has read is true.
Danny didmake the offer, and I repelled his horrible proposition.
Corrie. Aha! but you gave him the glove ?
Harp. Never, by my immortal soul—never!
Mrs. C. (advancing) Vut I—I did! (movement of surprise)
/, your wretched mother—l gave it to him—I am guilty§
E
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5 AS, : Ad eb RED SS
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50 COLLEEN BAWN. [Act 3.
thank heaven for that! remove those bonds from his hands
and put them here on mine.
Harp. "Tis false, mother, you did not know his purpose—
you could not know it. (CoRPORAL takes off handcuffs)
Mrs. C. I will not say anything that takes the welcome
guilt from off me.
Einter MYLES from steps, c. from R.
My rs. Won’t ye,ma’am? Well; if ye won't, I will.
ALL. Myles!
My es. Save all here. If you plaze, I'd like to say a word;
there’s been a murder done, and I done it.
Att. You!
My es. Myself. Danny was killed by my hand. (to Corria.)
Wor yez any way nigh that time?
CorrRia. (quickly) No.
MyYLes. (quickly) That’s lucky; then take down what I’m
bayin’. I shot the poor boy—but widout manin’ to hurt him.
it’s lacky I killed him that time, for it’s lifted a mighty sin off
the sowl of the crature.
O’Moore. What does he mean?
My.es. I mane, that if you found one witness to Eily
Q’Connor’s death, I found another that knows a little more
‘bout it, and here she is.
Enier Eitty and FaTHER Tom down steps, c. from R.
ALL. Eily !
Mytes. The Colleen Bawn herself!
Eiiry. Hardress !
Harp, My wife—my own Eily. i
Kity. Here, darlin’, take the paper, and tear it if you like.
(offers him the certificate) |
Harp. Kily, I could not live without you.
Mrs. C. If ever he blamed you, it was my foolish pride
spoke in his hard words—he loves you with all his heart.
Forgive me, Lily.
Kity. Forgive.
Mrs, C. Forgive your mother, Eily.
EILY. (embracing her) Mother!
(Mrs. CreGAN, Harpress, Eiy, Farner Tom group
together—ANNE, Kyrur, and GENTLEMEN —LADIES
together—their backs to CORRIGAN—CORRIGAN takes bag,
puts in papers, looks about, puts on hat, buttons coat, slinks
up stage, runs up stairs and off k.—MYLES pomts off
afier him—several GENTLEMEN run after CORRIGAN)
ANNE. But what’s to become of me, is all my emotion to be
Sc. 5.] COLLEEN BAWN. 51
summoned for nothing? Is my wedding dress to go to
waste, and here’s all my blushesready? I must have a
husband.
Hy tanpd and GrntLEMEN. Take me.
O’Moors. Take me.
Anne. Don’t all speak at once! Where’s Mr. Daly!
KyYRLE. (R.) Here Iam, Anne!
ANNE. (R. C.) Kyrle, come here! You said you loved
me, and I think you do.
KyrizE. Ob!
Annet. Behave yourself now. If you'll ask me, I'll have
you.
KyR.eE. (embracing ANNE) Anne! (shouts outside, R. U. BE.)
Att. What's that?
Myuxs. (looking off at back) Don’t be uneasy! it’s only
the boys outside that’s caught ould Corrigan thryin’ to get
off, and they’ve got him in the horsepond.
Kyrie. They'll drown him.
Myters. Nivir fear, he wasn’t born to be drownded—he
won’t sink—he’ll rise out of the world, and divil a fut
nearer heaven he’ll get than the top o’ the gallows.
Ey. (¢o Harv.) And ye won’t be ashamed of me?
Anne. I'll be ashamed of him if he does.
Eity. And when I spake—no—speak ——
ANNE. Speak isthe rightsound. Kyrle Daly, pronounce
that word.
Kyrue. That’s right; if you ever spake it any other
way L’|l divorce ye—mind that.
HarHer T. Hily, darlin’, in the middle of your joy, sure
you would not forget one who never forsook you in your
sorrow.
Hiny. Oh, Father Tom!
Fatuer T. Oh, it’s not myself I mane.
Anne. No, it’s that marauder there, that lent me his top
coat in the thunder storm. (pointing to MYLEs)
Myers. Bedad, ma’am, your beauty left a linin’ in it that
has kept me warm ever since.
Hity. Myles, you saved my life—it belongs to you.
There’s my hand, what will you do with it P
Myurs. (takes her hand and Haxrprgss’s) Take her, wid
all my heart. I may say that, for ye can’t take her widout.
IT am like the boy who had a'penny to put in the poor-box—
I’drather keep it for myself. It’s ashamrock itself ye have
got, sir; and like that flower she’]ll come up every year
fresh and green forenent ye. When ye cease to Jove her
may dyin’ become ye, and when ye do die, lave yer money
to the poor. your widdy to me, and we’ll both forgive ye.
( joins hands.)
Einy. I’m only a poor simple girl, and it’s frightened I
am to be surrounded by so many ——
Anne, Friends, Hily, friends. o>
§2 COLLEEN BAWN,.
Bity. Oh, if I could think so—if I could hope that I had
established myself in a little corner of their hearts, there
wouldn’t be a happier girl alive than Tux CoLLEEN BAwn.
SOLDIERS. SOLDIERS.
GUESTS. GUESTS.
HYLAND.
O’MOORE, SHEELAH.
RYRLE. ANNE. MYLES. HARDRESS. EILY. FATHER TOM. MRS. CREGAN.
zg Kk.
Curtatn.
Costumes.—Periop, 179~—.
Haxrpress.—Green broad-skirted body coat of the time, double-
breasted light silk waistcoat, leather pantaloons, top boots, hair
rather long, steeple-crowned gold-laced hat, and white muslin
cravat. 2nd Dress: Blue body coat, white waistcoat, white kersey-
mere breeches, silk stockings, and shoes.
Daty.—Brown coat, &c., same fashion as above. 2nd Drese:
Full dress.
Creacu, O’ Moore and GrenTLEMEN.—Evening dress.
Farner Tom.—Broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, faded black
suit, black riding boots, and white cravat.
Danny. (a Hunchback) Blue frieze jacket, corduroy breeches,
yellow waistcoat, grey stockings, shoes and buckles, and old scal-
skin cap.
Mytes.—Drab great coat, with cape, red cloth waistcoat, old
velveteen breeches, darned grey stockings, and shoes.
Corrigan.—Black suit, top boots, and brown wig.
Mus. Crecan.—Puce silk dress of the time, white muslin neck-
kerchief, and powdered hair. 2nd Dress: Handsome embroidered
silk dress, jewels and fan.
Anne.—Gold-laced riding habit, hat and veil. 2nd Dress: White
embroidered muslin dress, and coloured sash.
Kiry.—Blue merino petticoat, chintz tuck-up body and skirts
short sleeves, blue stockings, hair plain with neat comb, red cloak,
and hood,
THE
BALANCE OF COMFORT.
AN ORIGINAL PETITE COMEDY,
IN ONE ACT,
BY
BAYLE BERNARD,
Author of “ His Last Legs,” ‘A Storm im a Tea Cup,”
‘© Platonic Attachments,” ‘‘ The Dumb Belle,”
« Tnicille,” ** A Passing Cloud,”
ge. Fe. Fe.
THOMAS HAILES LACY,
WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND,
LONDON,
First Performed at the Theatre Royal Haymarket,
November 23, 1854.
Characters.
DOWMIN EPO 25g O25 oe fe pes Mr. Howe.
EOS eee er Mr. Roggrs.
SHEEPSHANKS PEE a
Ee ge ee, CLARE
aia 6! ee) = reer
Rospert rs Saree See
ee aoe
a
ae
Mrs. TorRINGTON .. .,
- Miss Reynonzps.
Mtiee 2 OLSARD. Gh sso, - Miss Granruam.
LEE SE pe 8 TGS Cn TAD SRI PO Miss E. Cuarur.
eS — ==
_————
Time— The Present Day,
- : § eS
re en > ene oe
> = a eT aa —+% Seer
Scene—A Villa in Hampshire.
FASHIONABLE COSTUMES OF THE PERIOD.
PNA NANI NNR INS SPALL
=
Time in Performance, Fifty-five Minutes.
THE
BALANCE OF COMFORT.
SCENE—Drawing-Room of a Villa, opening at back on a
lawn and garden—Door x.u.—Doors u.n. 2 and 3 r.—
The room is elegantly furnished, with piano, canterbury,
prtures, Se,
ROBERT enters from the lawn R.H., followed by TorRineTON
im a great coat, and Batss.
Rosert. Noa, she bean't here. (goes to door i. H. 2 &.,
and calls) If you please, Ma’am, you're wanted! Noa—
nor there neither. She be gone for a walk—p’r’aps down
the orchard. So if you'll just tak’ a zeat, Zur, Ill run
there and zee.
Tor, Thank you, my good friend.
Rosrert. What name shall I zay, Zur?
Tor. Oh, never mind the name—say an old friend from
London.
Rogsert. Ees, Zur, I wool.
He goes off by the lawn, u.n.
Tor. Well really, I must say, a very charming retreat.
Bartss. Yes, Sir, it is.
Tor. Only four hours from town by the safest of rails,
and yet as hidden as a bird’s nest in the green depths of
Hampshire. Famous indeed !—though really, to do her
justice, I must own that my wife, upon points of this kind
—(sinks into a chair R.4.)
Bates. Your wife, Sir?
Tor. Yes, Bates.
Bates, Why, you don’t mean to say, Sir, that
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THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Tor. That I’m married? I am.
Bates. And though I’ve been a year in your service, I
never heard it before.
Tor. Well, that’s no such wonder—I’d nearly forgotten
it myself.
Barres. And yet really, Sir, seeing how much I was
trusted
Tor. You thought you had a right to know all my em-
barrassments. But you see, she’s a claim that’s not at all
pressing,—she’s a sort of acceptance that for the present’s
withdrawn.
Barres, You mean to say, Sir, you’re separated ?
Tor. Yes, Bates, we are. We couldn't agree, sO we
came to an arrangement to “love and honour’’ by post.
The knot was still tied, but we made it a running one.
The fact is, we were neighbours’ children, who had grown
up together—had had everything in common—a governess,
a pony, a purse, and the measles. Ms
Bates. I see, Sir.
Tor. And a beginning of this sort mostly goes on. If
coupled in childhood, you must always be coupled. You
are like colts in a field,—if you’ve always run to the same
sieve, you must take to the same harness.
Barrs. And so, of course, you fell in love, Sir?
_ Tor. Well, not exactly fell in it ;—Love’s a sort of pond
on the great Common of life, into which most people tum-
ble ;—but we walked into it, Bates—we walked into it
leisurely. | |
Bares. Aud how did you get out of it?
Tor. How? Why, by marrying. We were rescued by
our curate and the hook of a ceremony. Marriage cer-
tainly rendered us a very great service, for it enabled us to
see we hadn't a prospect in common—that, in fact, she
and I had the most opposite tastes. Her views were Ar-
cadian,—a home like a hermitage—a spot such as this—
where, with books, birds, and flowers, she could dispense
with society; and naturally enough, for she had _ been
whisked into the world when scarcely fifteen, and so grew
weary of life before she had learnt to enjoy it.
Bats. Whilst you, on the contrary
Tor. Oh, I had been cooped up by the side of a sick
a)
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT, 5
mother, and only made my escape on the day of my mar-
riage; so of course I required a little excitement—a little
life and adventure—and somewhere abroad. TI was tired
of the stupor of English existence, and wanted my share
in our great age of movement—wanted to jump into a
steamer for the East or the Straits, and have a cruise round
the Cape, or a run up to Nimroud.
Bartrs. And as that was the case, Sir-
Tor. Why, I did all I could on our wedding excursion.
It was a tolerably good one. We finished off Europe,—
Europe, I may say, was thor ‘oughly done,—from Paris to
Naples, ‘and the Rock to the Baltic, —when, merely on my
proposing a peep into Asia, just a look at the Caucasus, or
a plunge in the Desert, we positively quarrelled—she flatly
refused.
Barss. She did, Sir?
Tor. She did—said I was actually killing her—that we
could never be happy—and the best thing we could possi-
bly do was to part.
‘Barss. I see, Sir—lI see.
Tor. So, as I made it a rule never to deny her anything,
of course I agreed, and to tngland we came; and as she
had a settlement, her object was easy; so she came down
here to enjoy her ideal, and I then was off to realize mine.
She took this house, which she found ready furnished ; and
I bought a tent, to be pitched by the P yramids.
Bates . And now coming home, Sir, at the end of two
years
Tor. I Jand in her neighbourhood, and give her a call.
Batrs. And propose, when it’s over, to go up to town
Tor. Ex actly so, Bates—by the very Siret. train.
Batts. Well, how odd, to be sure! And you don’t
think it likely you ll make matters up with her?
Tor. W hy, hardly, till I’m as tired of life as herself.
Bates. But of course you are good friends, Sir ?
Tor. The best, Bates, the best. —our parting caused
that,—our parting, which was the means of our enjoying
our union. At our Sete: , we felt we could have died for
each other, and simply because we were going to live for
ourselves,
Rozsert looks in at the back.
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THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
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Roserr. Missis be coming, Zur.
Tor. Very good. Well then, Bates, you can dine at
the inn, and be re: ady to start by the four o’clock train.
Bares. Very well, Sir, I will; though, after all I have
heard, Sir, I hardly want dinner—I'm quite full already.
Kavt at back, R.H,
TORRINGTON, from L.H.
Mrs. T. Why
Tor. Yes, Milly, yes.
Mrs. T. You, Charles, yourself? Well, this zs a sur-
prise !
Tor. Well, so I expected.
Mrs. T. (advances and meets him warmly) In Engl land
again, when I was beginning to doubt you were still in
existence! And when did you arrive?
Tor. Only four days ago.
Mrs. T. at Southampton, of course
Tor. Yes, by the steamer; and as] fans I was so near
you, I th« ought it onl ly civil to give you a call.
Mrs. T. Well, that was quite right, and (they sit)
Tor. And how do I find you ?—vou look very well.
Mrs. T. Oh, I was never better. And you—just the
same ?
Tor. And you've really a nice place here—a positive
dovecote.
Mrs. T. Well, so I am told.
Tor. You couldn’t have fouud a more appropriate spot.
Mrs. T. Delighted you think so. And in return, let
me say that I hope 7 you've enjoyed yourself.
Tor. Oh, thoroughly, Milly.
Mrs. T. Had excitement enough since you bid me good
bye?
Tor. Well, really, if it wasn’t so ungallant a confes-
sion
Mrs, T. Now don’t be absurd.
Tor. Then I have had—abundant. I doubt there’s a
source of it that I haven’t explored—a grand event that
I've missed, or a Lion not visited. I’ve been to all the
great fétes, grand reviews, and carnivals,—rode at all the
> can it b eC possi ble ? t
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 7
best hunts, and shot at all the best matches. I've had
sledges in Russia, and camels at Cairo,—I've gallopped
wit Tartars, and waltzed with Hungarians.
Mrs. T. Tolerable, certainly.
Tor. And with the wonders of nature I’ve been exceed-
ingly lucky. I’ve been up all the mountains, and across all
the chasms; and though I was lost for two days in a ca-
vern in Styria, I got to Tunis in time for the shock of an
earthquake.
Mrs. T. And still you are unsatisfied.
Tor. Not with Europe e, perhaps; but I confess I’ve some
notion of trying America.
Mrs. T. And what to do there?
Tor. There’s Niagara, you know.
Mrs. T. What! [ suppose you’d take a boat and go
over the Falls ?
Tor. And in the Pacific, I am told, there are some very
fine water-spouts.
Mrs. T. Which of course you consider as so many
shower-baths.
Tor. Well,—and now as to your own case. I hope
you've been happy ?
Mrs. T. Of course I have, Charles—had the truest en-
joyment.
Tor. But you don’t mean to say you've fulfilled your
intention !
Mrs, T. Indeed, but I do, thongh.
Tor. What! have lived all alone here?
Mrs. T. Yes—all alone.
Tor. Without the society of even your neighbours ?
Mrs. T. Of even my neighbours. I had some friends
here at first; but for s everal months past [ couldn't have
been more s seclucen in the heart of a desert.
Tor. W ell, how very extraordinary! I should have
thought it impossible.
Mrs. T. Why, you'll remember there’s such a thing as
internal resources.
Tor. Yes, yes—but still——
Mrs. TY. There are books, and there’s art—there’s
music and drawing.
Tor. All very well, when their pleasure’s partaken.
-
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Mrs. T. But sufficient, I say, for independent enjoy-
ment.
Tor. To me, such a life appears positive madness.
@tes: T. Weil, I’m sure, it’s as rational as the one you
have pursued.
Tor. To shut yourself up in a voluntary dungeon !
Mrs. T. But you’ve run about as if you'd escaped one.
Tor. Why, it’s an outrage on nature.
Mrs. T. Not more than your own, Sir.
Tor. And it can't have succeeded, as one may see by
your looks.
Mrs. T. My looks, indeed!
Tor. Yes, you seem dreadfully moped.
Mrs. T. And I must tell you, vou look fairly worn out.
Tor. I’m sure you’ve been fretting.
Mrs. T. I beg you'll be civil.
Tor. And your scheme’s been a failure.
Mrs. T. Mine, mine, Sir ?}—it’s yours.
fie-enter Bates from back.
Batzs. I beg pardon, Sir, but there’s a gentleman at
the inn who has followed you from Southampton,—he’s
come from your solicitor, on particular business.
Tor. Then I suppose I must go. Well, good bye, my
love; glad to find you well, though you really don’t look
so. Hope to call again before I leave England ; though,
as that’s uncertain, perhaps it may not be till I get back
from the West. So adieu, love, adieu! TI wish you all
joy in your perfect retirement.
Exeunt Torrineron and Bates, at back.
Mrs. T. And that man’s a husband. He hasn't seen
me for two years, and scarcely stops here two minutes ;
but of course, as he doesn’t care for me, that’s long enough.
Besides, what’s his value? A man that’s half mad—who
can only exist in a life of extremes—who must be unhappy;
and yet to have the impertinence to say I’m the same—to
lay claim to the triumph of thinking me punished. And
yet he has cause. I can’t deny now, that my project has
failed,—a sweet dream, perhaps; but still, no reality. One
requires some acquaintance, some little society ; and yet,
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 9
here I myself have been the means of forbidding it. So
there's but one thing to do,—I must give up this place ;
I’ve said so for a month past, and it’s time it was done.
It’s useless to talk of internal resources. One can’t
always be reading and improving one’s mind,—one’s mind
half the time doesn’t seem worth the trouble. One can’t
always be walking, when there's only two paths to take—
this over the hill, and that round the haystack. Even
one’s birds tire at last—they’re always sulky or sick—never
singing when they ought, or screaming when they do ;—
and if "it’s true that I find some relief in my gar den, why,
it rains half the time, and so I can’t enter it.
Mary runs on from the garden x.u., in bonnet, with books,
: s)
YC.
Mary. Well, Ma’am, I’m back.
Mrs. T. Back indeed! Yes, like a borrowed umbrella;
but you've been a long time in coming. Why, where have
you been staying?
Mary. Staying, Ma’am ?
Mrs. T. Staying? You were sent to the tradespeople,
but not on a visit. Well, what have you brought me ?—
no letters, I suppose ?
Mary. No, Ma’am, there isn’t.
Mrs. T. Well, and what books?
Mary. Well, as you said, Ma’am, you'd like to have
something amusing— (she gives one)
Mrs, T. (opens it) ** Fox’s Book of Martyrs.” Come
now, that’s sensible—that’s a subject, certainly, to put one
in spirits; and the other, “ St. Clair of the Isles.” Why,
I've had this stupid nonsense at least twenty times.
Mary. "Twas all she,d got in, Ma’am.
Mrs. T. I know ev ery word of it,—mawkish, miserable
stuff, which could only be borne on an East India voyage,
—a positive opiate. They make a great fuss about che-
mists selling laudanum, and yet these library people may
dose you with this. (opening one of the volumés, a note
drops out) Why. what’s that ?
Mary. (picks it wp and gives it) It looks like a letter,
Ma’am.
‘é
ahi” ot
10 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Mrs. T. (opens tt and reads) “ Algernon Sheepshanks.”’
Why, it’s that creature that pesters me. So you're aiding
that man, Mary.
Mary. Indeed, Ma’am, I’m not,—he must have got
hold of the books whilst I was gone to the butcher's, for I
left them behind me, and—-—
Mrs. T. And this is retirement. I can’t take a walk,
but this monster besets me, and compels my return. And
even home’s no protection. There's my amiable landlord
—that horrible Pollard—who, whenever he can’t see me,
throws notes over the wall, with a pebble inside—the hap-
piest emblem of his own precious heart. Well, and what’s
your news ?—you’ve heard some, of course, by your stay-
ing so long?
Mary. No, Ma’am, I haven't.
Mrs. T. What! nothing to enliven me ?—no one mar-
ried or buried, or had any accident ?
Mary. No, not a soul, Ma’am.
Mrs. T. Oh, this sweet country! this Eden to live in!
Did you call at the doctor’s ?
Mary. Yes, Ma’am, I did.
Mrs, T, And why hasn’t he been here?
Mary. Because he says you ain’t ill, Ma’am.
Mrs. T. Ain’t ill?—what of that, if I’m willing to pay
him? A pretty thing indeed! Does he never attend but
where people require him? Nothing doing in the village?
—no one coming or going, or——
Mary. Why, there’s the glazier gone away.
Mrs. T. The glazier gone away? and you said there
was no news.
Mary. Oh yes, I beg pardon; and there’s a pic-nic to-
day.
Mrs. T. A pic-nic?
Mary. A pic-nic of some of the neighbours,
Mrs. T. And you never to mention it till this very
minute! Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Well, and who are they ? and where are they going ? Now
tell me all about it, down to what's in the baskets.
Mary. Indeed, Ma'am, I cant. All I heard was, that
the spot was the hill over yonder, and they were just set-
ting out,
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. Tt
Mrs. T. They were going to the hill >—why then I can
see them—that is, with my glass. Where is it ?—oh, here.
(takes up a small telescope and looks off) Yes, Mary, yes—
some one’s crossing the fields—two men with a basket, —
that must be them ;—and now a whole party. Yes, there
they are—and how happy they look! I can‘see their
bright faces, and their light bounding steps.
Mary. Can you indeed, Ma’am? Well, I wish you
were with them.
Mrs. T. I? why should I be? what do I want with
pic-nics? I came here, remember, to give up society.
Haven't I my books, and my birds, and my flowers, and—
(puts up her glass again) Really, these people will have a
deal of enjoyment.
Mary. And I’m certain of one thing—you’d be welcome
enough.
Mrs. T. Why, how stupidly you talk, Mary! How
could I jointhem? Didn’t I come here for retirement—
for a life of seclusion—which has made me quite happy, as
you know it has, Mary, and as it would also make you, if
you had any sense. Good gracious me, don’t yawn in that
manner! One would imagine you hadn’t been in bed for
a month. No, I’m quite happy, and don’t want acquaint-
ance. I came here, as you know, to derive my enjoyment
from internal resources—to—to— (puts up her glass again)
They’ve got to the hill, and now are finding a spot. And
what fun they’re all having! I can fancy I hear their
happy laughter and jokes. Worthy, sensible beings! they
deserve to be happy—when pleasure’s so rational—no pre-
tence, no parade, but just a bit of honest and healthy en-
joyment.
The Scene begins to darken, and Thunder is heard
an the distance.
—Why, Mary, what’s that?
Mary. It sounded like thunder, Ma’am; and eh? bless
my soul, how dark the sky’s getting !
Mrs. T. There’s a storm coming on, and those unfortu-
nate people will be drenched to the skin.
Mary. They will, Ma’am, indeed, for there’s nothing to
run to,
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12 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Mrs. T. No, not atree. Why, what will they do? It
will pour in an instant. Eh? it is pouring!
Rain and Thunder heard.
Mary. (running to the back, and looking off) Yes,
Ma’am, it is; and—why, where will they go?
Mrs. T. It’s a mile to the village.
Mary. Why, our door is the nearest, Ma'am.
Mrs. T, Ours?
Mary. I’m sure of it; and now I look again, I think
they’re all coming here.
Mrs. T. Mary!
Mary. It’s true, Ma’am—they’re all flying this way as
fast as they can.
Mrs. T. Then go to the gate, and as soon as you see
them
The gate bell rings violently.
Mary. Eh? there they are!
Mrs. T. Then ruu to them instantly, and ask them all in.
Mary. Yes, Ma’am, I will.
Runs off at back R.A.
Mrs. T. Well, how very delightful! I shall have a
house full of people—people that ['m bound to see—that
it's my duty to welcome, as a piece of humanity; and who
are doubly to be pitied, in being robbed, as they are, of a
whole day’s enjoyment. |
The party now enter hurriedly from the garden—
the Lapirs with their gowns turned u yp over ther
bonnets—the GENTLEMEN with turned-up collars,
holding parasols over the Ladies, §c.—Mary and
Rosert following.
Emity Pottarp. We are really much obliged to you.
Mrs. T. Don't name it, I beg—I only regret that my
roof waS not nearer at hand. Will you step up to my
room, ladies? for I’m sure you're very wet; and I'll have
fires lighted in an instant, to prevent ill effects.
Emity. This is really most kind of you.
Mrs. T. Oh, not at all. Will you follow me? Mary,
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 13
eall the cook; and you, Robert, stay here, and attend to
these gentlemen.
Mrs. Torrineton goes off t.u.2n., followed by
the Lapirs and Mary—Porztarp and Snerp-
SHANKS advance with the other Grnriemen,
wiping their clothes, and putting themselves in
order,
Lhe sky growing light again.
Sugep. (aside) By Jove! in the citadel—under her own
secure roof—face to face with the charming widow—and
by her own invitation.
Po. (aside) What a great piece of luck! This storm's
a better friend than a twelvemonth’s fine weather.
SuEEP. (aside) To be sure, there's this Pollard; but I
shall soon settle him.
Pox. (aside) This Captain—confound him! However,
Mary’s my friend. Of course she’s picked up my last note
in the garden.
Suzep. (aside) I see my first step. I must come to
terms with the girl. Can’t always make an envelope of a
library novel,
Mary eénéers from door u.H. 2 &.
Mary. Oh gentlemen, if you'd like to step into the
kitchen, there’s a capital fire there, and you can pull off
your boots.
Gent. Thank you, my good girl—not a bad notion.
They all, eacept Potrarp and Surersuanxs, go off
by door u.H.4 &.
Mary. And Robert, you must go to the gate, and assist
in the servants who’ve come with the baskets.
Rosert. Ees, Mary, I wool.
Eat at back, rR.
Mary. (seeing the others—aside) My goodness me!
Pou. (aside to her, .) Mary, my dear, I wish to speak
to you presently.
SuEEp. (aside to her, x.) My love, when shall I be able
to see you alone?
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14 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Mary. (aside) Why, what shall I do? I must get rid
of them somehow.
Pox. (aside to her) I made you a promise, which I
haven't forgotten.
Surep. (aside to her) I want you to see that you speak
to a gentleman.
Rozert returns from the garden r.u., followed by
Servants carrying baskets.
Mary. Oh Robert, these baskets are to be placed in the
parlour, and then you'll go with these gentlemen to the
kitchen, if you please.
Rosert. Ees, Mary, I wool. ;
Po. (aside to her) But remember now, Mary, I must
see you directly.
Suzrp. (aside to her) Now now, don't speak to that
fellow—speak to a gentleman.
They go off by door u.v.x., eyeing each other, fol-
lowed by Rozpert and SERVANTS.
Mary. And so they’re both here—both blown in by
this storm, like a couple of gnats, that will buzz and tor-
ment her. Now I know what she’ll say—that it’s all of it
my doing—I brought them—I planned it—I
Mrs. Torrinaton enters from door L. 2k.
Mrs. T. Well, Mary, well—you mustn’t stand there,
you know, with a house full of people, and but little assist-
ance. Isuppose I needn’t say, our guests will stop here
to-day ?
Mary. Will stop, Ma'am?
Mrs. T. Of course. You wouldn't have me so unfeeling
as to turn them out in this weather ?
Mary. Why, the storm is all over.
Mrs. T. But the ground is quite damp, and they've all
got thin boots on; and do you think I'd run the risk of
throwing them into consumptions ?
Mary. Why, hardly, Ma’am.
Mrs. T. Hardly! Some delicate girls, whose lives I
wouldn’t answer for in six months from this. No, no,—
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 15
now they're here, here they must stay. I didn’t seek them,
remember—lI didn’t ask them to come.
Mary. Well, that I know.
Mrs. T. I came here on purpose to get rid of society ;
but since they are here, and on grounds‘of humanity--why
they may as well stop and have a sociable time of it.
Mary. Well, I’m sure, with all my heart.
Mrs. T. So I’ve arranged that the pic nic’s to be eat in
my parlour; and, after that, they’re to have a ramble about
the garden and meadows—after which they'll come in to
a plain cup of tea, and we can wind up the evening with
a little music and dancing.
Mary. Well, that will be capital.
Mrs. T. So you can put out the wine and cake before
they go in the garden—they’ll want to taste something,
though they are to dine early; and
The gate bell rings violently, R.H.
Mary. Some more of the party, Ma’am.
Mrs. T. Well, I suppose so—run and admit them.
Mary goes to the back, and looks off, R.H.
Mary. The gate’s open, and they’re coming—it’s a gen-
tleman, Ma’am.
Mrs, T’. A gentleman, eh?
Mary. Yes, Ma’am, it is—and
my master.
Mrs. T. Who do you say?
Mary. My master himself, Ma’am. ©
Why, Ma’am, it’s
ToRRINGTON re-enters at the back, followed by Bates with
his bag.
Tor. Well, Milly, I’m back again.
Mrs, T. And pray what’s the cause ?
Tor. Why, that you shall know
Mrs. T. Mary, you can leave us.
Mary goes off by door, u.v.z.; and Barus, bowing,
retures at back, Rn.
Tor. My messenger has brought me some very queer
news. To be frank with you, Milly, my affairs at this
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16 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
moment are not in the best state of health, and ’twill take
my worthy lawyer a few months to doctor them.
Mrs. T. Well, that doesn’t surprise me.
Tor. But the worst of it is, he won’t allow me to shew—
says if I go to town now, I shall have a crowd of acquaint-
ance who will prove very troublesome; so I must vegetate
somewhere till he can bring them to trder. and as that is
the case, I thought perhaps, love--you could make room
for me--here.
Mrs, T. Here?
Tor. As you’re so very retired, and——~
Mrs. T. It’s utterly impossible !
Tor. What do you say ! e
Mrs. T. You can't stay a night, even; and it’s really
very provoking you should have come here at all.
Tor. And why, pray ?
Mrs. IT’. Why—why, because you will place me ina
most awkward predicament.
Tor. Well, now, I think, Milly, it’s you must explain.
Mrs. T. Good gracious! Well then, plainly—when I
came here to live—knowing how wives in my position are
always maligned, since it’s never believed that the husband’s
in fault—to escape any slanders or impertinent gossip--l
called myself--a widow
Tor. A widow?
Mrs. T. A widow—'twas my only protection.
Tor. Well, really, I think you might have told me of
my death.
Mrs. T. I had no other resource ; and now, after en-
joying the most perfect security, hereyou come to expose me.
Tor. Indeed I do not. I’ve not the slightest wish to be
known as your husband—I’ll pass as your friend.
Mrs. I’. As my friend? How absurd, Sir! Do you
want to rob me of my character?
Tor. Well, I don't see the crime. I suppose a man has
a right to steal his own property.
Mrs. T. The proposal’s all nonsense. You've no right to
disgrace me, if you’ve committed yourself. You can’t stay
here an instant.
Tor. And not even when I come to you a positive
convert ?
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. ]
~~?
Mrs. T. A convert ?
Tor. Yes, Milly—you’ve conquered. I don’t hesitate to
tell you that I’m tired of excitement.
Mrs. T. Well, and if you are
Tor. Like yourself, love, at last, I look upon quiet as
the true source of happiness.
Mrs. T. But I don’t think it so; and if you'd had as
much as I have, you'd say the same thing. I’m sick of
retirement, and—and—in addition to that—I—I have a
house full of friends
Tor. A house full of friends ?
Mrs. T. Who've been driven here by the storm; and
yet how can I meet them if I am to introduce your
Tor. Well—can't I be your cousin ?
Mrs. T. A cousin indeed! why, that’s as bad as a friend.
Tor. Well then, a relation—an uncle or brother.
Mrs. T. Well—you might be my brother.
Tor. Of course—nothing easier.
Mrs. T. I don’t see it's so easy,—it must appear very
strange you never came here before; but as I suppose it
can't be helped, I must say you've come to see me after a
long stay abroad.
Tor. Very good, that will do.
Mrs. T. That will do indeed! It’s very well, Sir, to say
that. Here have I been as happy as a woman need be, for
a couple of years ; and now you must come, and derange
all—merely because you’re my husband.
Tor. Well, I hadn't a notion I was so hardened ‘a villain.
Mary comes from door 1.2 x.
Mary. If you please, Ma’am, the ladies are all comfort-
able now, and they're assembled in the parlour.
Mrs. T. Very well, then I'll go to them,—or no—I'll
see them here; and yet I’ve great doubts that this tale
will suceeed—they'll be sure to suspect.
Tor. Oh no, they sha’n’t—we’ll be very attentive—as
loving as possible ; and who, after that, will suppose that
we're married ?
She goes to door u.u.x., and opens it—The Lapixs
come from it, followed by the GENTLEMEN.
Mrs. T. Ladies and gentlemea, will you allow me the
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18 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
pleasure of introducing my brother, who is just returned
from the continent, and intends passing a few days with me
on his way up to town.
Pou.
and (aside) Her brother!
SHEEP.
Mrs. T. I’m afraid he’s too tired to join in our tour of
the garden, and must have a traveller’s privilege of taking
his ease; however, I’ve no doubt he'll soon be restored,
and make himself agreeable when he meets us again.
Now, ladies, this way.
She goes off with them to the garden, R.H., followed by
the GENTLEMEN—Manry going off by u.u. door v.£.,
Bates comes from the back with bag, R.H.
Tor. And so my dear wife is no recluse after all! After
all her tirades against the world and society, she’s as fond
of them, it seems, as any one else.
a
Bates. Beg pardon, do you stop, Sir:
Tor. Yes, Bates, I do, but upon rather hard terms. I’m
put out of the world.
Bares. You’re what, Sir?
Tor. I’m dead!
Bares. You're dead, Sir?
Tor. It’s a fact; and if doubted at all, I find I am
under the necessity of swearing to it myself.
Bates. Well, I wouldn't have believed it, if you hadn't
told me.
Tor. My wife is a widow, and I am her brother. She
hasn’t named my room, but there’s one, I see—take posses-
sion of that.
Bates. Very good, Sir; I will; and then I suppose I
may go and drink something to my late master’s health.
He enters the room R.u. at back.—Torrincrox takes a
seat.—PoLLarp comes from the garden.
Pou. (aside) He’s alone, as I hoped, and now to attack
him. (advancing) Ahem! if it’s not intruding too much,
might I beg, Sir, the favour of half a dozen words with
you.
Tor. Certainly, Sir. Pray take a seat.
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 19
Pou. (draws a chair beside him) I presume, Sir, I needn't
say that your sister is a most charming, adorable woman.
Tor. Oh, youre very good.
Pox. One who has ‘only to be known, to be acknow-
ledged an angel.
Tor. (aside) She hasn’t lost her attraction.
Por. You knew her husband of course, Sir?
Tor. Well--I can’t say we were strangers.
Pou. And is it a fact, Sir, he was so horad a brute?
Tor. What, Sir ?
Pot. For so I’ve been told—that he treated her shame~
fully.
Tor. Well, I--I won't go to that extent.
Pout. No, no, you're too generous—but I fear it’s the
truth—that he was one of tone selfish, tyrannical raseals,
who
Tor. Now, now, my dear Sir, he’s a dead man, remem-
ber—nil mortuis—nil mortuis.
Pot. Well, that’s very true ; but still, Sir, when I reflect
that such a being as your sister should have been tied to a
man who was a positive wretch——
Tor. Sir, Sir, you must stop. It really pains me to hear
you. |
Pou. Sir, I honour this delicacy, and of. course say no
more. ‘To proceed, then, to my object. Of course your
dear sister intends to marry again—she must intend that,
to obtain compensation—but meanwhile | must tell you
she’s exposed to great danger—yes, Sir, great danger.
She is beset by a harpy, who’s only intent on her money—
a swindler, a scamp, Sir—who dubbs himself Captain, but
who is a mere buccaneer, robbing under red colours.
Tor. I see.
Pot. A man, I regret to say, who is now under this
roof—but who, Sir, "T have sworn, shall not have his
victim.
Tor. And very noble of you, really.
Pont. Yes, Sir, I am ready to make your dear sister my
wife; and of course, in such a cause--I should have your
warmest aid.
Tor. Well, Sir, if you think that--I could be of any
service,
|
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20) THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Pot. You! who so much? And J am not without
clams. In the first place, I am her landlord ;—in the
next, [ have good reason to think I am her favourite.
Tor. Her favourite ?
Pox. It’s a fact—all our tastes are the same. She loves
home—so do I; loves the country—so doI1; indeed, on
this point I’ve had various proofs, which--of course you ll
excuse me if I’m not able to mention.
Tor. (aside) So so, Mrs. Milly!
Por. Now all this I'm sure you must be happy to hear.
Tor. Oh, very !
Pon. It must show you she’s likely to get some atone-
ment, some repayment, for the misery she endured from a
wretch who
Tor. Again, Sir?
Por. I really beg pardon; but my feelings are so strong
that
Mrs. Torrineton crosses the garden with her Guests,
from x. to u., SHEEPSHANKS trying to give her his
arm.
Surrp. My dear Mrs. Torrington, allow me, I beg.
Por. Eh? why look there, Sir--there he is--by her side.
Tor. Well well, Sir, I see.
Pot. But you don't see, Sir, you don’t,—he wants to
give her his arm.
Tor. Well then, if you like, Sir, go and give him your
foot.
Pot. Kick him ?—well, I ought. Hang it! I will!
(gowng, he returns) I should have your full consent ?
Tor. You're quite sure of that.
Pou, And if he retaliated ?
Tor. I should be equally pleased.
Pot, Sir, you're very good: I must go to her rescue—
I must— (aside) A good thought! There’s my Emmy,—
I'll introduce her; and if she should attract him, why that
strengthens my hold.
Exit at back, i.
Tor. And so now all’s explained. My recluse, quiet
wife has a couple of lovers; and retirement merely means
a safer mode of flirtation. No wonder it is to be endured,
NL,
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 21
when relieved in this fashion. Pretty doings, Mrs. Milly!
I’ve returned in good time.
Mrs. Torrinaton returns from garden.
Mrs. T. Well, really, what pleasant, frank, sociable
people! What a niony I’ve been not to know them before
—to sit moping and solitary day after day, foregoing all
happiness for an idle chimera. Well, brother “Charles,
what do you think of my friends?
Tor. Oh, pleasant enough—and, I dare say, convenient.
Mrs. T. Convenient ?
Tor. People you can use like a fan—both as a blind and
a plaything.
Mrs. ‘I’. Why, what is it you mean?
Tor. Why, that I now see the advantage of your being
a widow, since it enables you to receive certain pleasant
attentions which
Mrs. T. Which I trust, Sir, you'll allow me to be the
best judge of.
Tor. Oh! then I’ve no right to interfere in the matter?
Mrs. T. Not in the least, Sir, till you can shew I’ve
done wrong. Why shouldn’t I have attentions if they're
kept within bounds? Because I’ve lost yours, am I to lose
the whole world’s ?
Tor. Then you actually expect me to stand here and
look on?
Mrs. T. No, Sir, I don’t—you can go when you like!
I didn’t ask you to come, and don’t wish you to stop—you
are here as my guest, Sir—and not as my censor.
Tor, Oh, I perceive!
Mrs. T. A good joke, indeed, that I’m to be talked to
in this way! Why, it couldnt be worse if we were living
together !
Tor. (aside) Well, if I'm to stand this ——
Mrs. T. These men are my abhorrence—my positive
pest—and yet if I encouraged them had I no right?
Tor. No right, Madam.
Mrs. T. Yes, Sir! how was I sure vou were living--with
such tastes as you've got—running into all sorts of dangers : ?
How did I know but that the first. post would bring me news
of your death?
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99 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Tor. And so I suppose
Mrs. T. Do you mean to say I had no right to prepare
for events—because my first choice was bad, I wasn’t to
think of asecond? So don’t beso stupid, but make yourself
pleasant, if you’re going to stay here—I consider that the
the condition. Go and talk to these people, about Egypt
and Naples—you know when you please you can be vastly
amusing—so go and be good, my dear brother Charley,
whilst I go to Mary and look after the dinner.
Exit by door t.v.8.
Tor. So this is the condition—she’s to flirt as she likes,
and I, like a plaster cast, am to look on and say nothing
that is, if I stop; for I have an alternative, and not to
adopt it seems rather degrading--and yet I can’t say I’m
very willing to go. Whatever pride dictates--there are
counter motives, and not of mere anger. I—I can’t help
confessing I—I am again in her power—I have all the old
feeling—yes, all is come back—there can’t be a doubt of it.
I'm actually jealous! This is the good of my seeing her.
Whilst I kept away I was tranquil enough—cared as little
for her then as she does for me. Ah! there’s the sting !
If I thought she did care for me! Of course I could go
easily, but to be turned off in this way—to be laughed at,
despised! I certainly should like to determine that fact—
to learn whether she’s really so very indifferent! Well,
there's only one way to do it—turn her guns on herself—
flirt with some one in turn. I should very soon see how
the attempt was received, and
Mrs. Torrineton returns from L.H. door.
Mrs. T. Well, Charles, you’re not gone?
Tor. Gone? why, no, Milly, I require time to reflect
and
Mrs. T. And what's your decision ?
Tor. Why, certainly, since you prescribe the sole terms,
; es
PoLbLArp appears at the back with Emity.
Pot. Pardon me, my dear Sir, if I’m induced to return
to
Tor. (aside) Ah! the very thing! (aloud) A young
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 9%
friend of yours. My very dear Sir, a thousand thanks for
the honour !
He joins them, and goes off with them at back.
Mrs. T. Ha, ha! he submits, and I’ve bowed his proud
spirit—thanks to the lecture I gave him. ’Pon my word
it was wanted. These husbands really think they may do
as they please—go off, and come home, and say the bitterest
things. To talk of these men--who are my utter abhor-
rence--as if I had been the means of their joining’ this
party! And yet it’s lucky they both came---since they
antagonize each other, Jike an acid and alkali, and so, after
fermenting, perhaps may get quiet. Well, now for my
duties." Dinner will soon be ready, but I find we want
wine, so I must send to the inn—a few words will do,
which Robert must run with. (sits at table and writes) Ha,
ha! my poor Charles! he little expected ‘the lesson he got
—and yet could it be spared As if a woman of sense
couldn't take care of herself—as if she needed protection—
didn’t know what was due to her own self-respect, and
Pottarn advances to her from the garden,
Pout. Mrs. Torrington !
Mrs. T. (aside) Good powers !
Pot. Pardon me, I beg, if now I see you alone——
Mrs. T. (aside) And to be caught at this moment!
Pou. Pardon me, I say, if I seize the happy chance to—
Mrs. T. Really, Mr. Pollard, I must beg you'll retire!
You see I am engaged, Sir.
Pox. But you'll spare me one word, Madam—one small
word of hope?
Mrs, T. (rising) Hope, Sir? of what?
Pou. Can you ask, Madam, after all the devotion I’ve
shewn ?---after all my letters? What have my letters con-
veyed?
Mrs. T. Why, they've conveyed a lot of stones which
have disfigured my garden. I must beg, Sir, you’ll eye
me—your friends will observe you. |
Pot. And if they do, can it matter, when I have the
consent of your brother—your excellent brother, Madam ?
Mrs. T. Oh! he has sent you, has he ?—the amiable
creature !
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O44 4 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Pot. Who one day, perhaps, may have even friendlier
feelings. My nicce, that you see with him, is attractive,
has property, and——
Mrs. T’. Impossible, Sir! if such are your views, I must
tell you at once that that gentleman’s married.
Por. Is married?
Mrs. T. Is married.
Pot. When I understood him to say he was as free as
yourself.
Mrs. T. Well, and if he did, Sir, why
my heart!
Pou. Still, if that bond’s forbidden, may I not hope for
another ? 5
Mrs. T. No, Sir, you may not. I respect you, of course,
but as for anything further, it’s wholly ridiculous!
Pot. Don't tell me that, Madam, you'll drive me to
madness!
Mrs. T. [really can’t help it, if it drives you to Sydney !
Your views are preposterous! and, as that is the case, I beg
that you'll instantly return to your friends.
Pot. Mercy, Madam, mercy! see it asked at your feet!
(seizes her hand and kneels)
Mrs. T. Mr. Pollard! are vou mad, Sir? Rise, I de-
sire you!
Pox. Impossible, Madam, unless hope may rise also!
Mrs. T. Do you wish to be seen, Sir? I insist you
get up!
Pou. Mercy, Madam, mercy!
Torrineton walks in with Emity from back.
Oh! bless
Tor. And so, really, Miss Pollard, as I was observing—
Eh? bless my soul! I really beg pardon!
He wheels round and walks off again—Por.iarp rises.
Mrs. T, There. Sir! you were seen—you were, as | ex-
pected !
Pox. But only by your brother, Madam, and he must be
pleased—so pardon me if again I renew an entreaty that—
Mrs. T. (asede) Good gracious powers! is there no
escaping this plague?
Pot. If again at your feet I implore your compassion,
and
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 95
Mrs. T. (aside) Is there no one who will take this man
away to a pond?
He is about to kneel again as SHEEPSHANKS comes
from the back.
SHeEpP. Mrs. Torrington !
Mrs. T. (aside) Deliverance! Acid and alkali—now
they'll be neutralized.
SHEEP. The ladies, Mrs. Torrington, are anxious to see
you—will you allow me the honour of conducting you back
to them ?
Mrs. T. Oh, certainly, certainly—most happy I’m sure.
I have only to finish this note, and shall be really delighted.
She sits at table, and writes again.
Pox. (aside) And if he gets her arm, he'll keep it all
day. Mrs. Torrington, allow me to conduct you to our
friends.
Sueep. Allow you—what do you mean, Sir?
Pot. I mean, Sir, I have a right which I don't mean to
resign. I was talking to this lady—and, of course, have a
claim to her.
SHeep. And so to set up a nuisance, you think makes a
claim.
Pot. What’s that vou say?
Mrs. T. (rising) Gentlemen, gentlemen
SueeP. Retire, Sir, instantly. Mrs. Torrington, I at-
tend you.
Por. I'll never resign her. Mrs. Torrington, your
arm !
She advancing, they offer an arm on each side,
Mrs. T. But good gracious, gentlemen, I can’t go with
both of you.
Sueep. Of course not, Madam, but you can make your
selection.
Por. Yes, Mrs. Torrington, you can choose, you ¢an
choose.
Mrs. T. But I don’t choose to choose; so I beg youll
return, and let me go by myself.
Sueer. Go alone, Madam ?—never.
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96 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Pou. Never, Madam—never.
SHEEP. I can never permit you to endure this indignity.
Pot. Nor I, Madam, to suffer so gross an annoyance.
SHEEP. If you enter that carden you shall have my
protection, Madam.
Pot. And I say if she enters it she shall have mine.
Mrs. T. And I say I'll have neither. I insist that you
both leave me, and return to your friends. (throws herself
into her chair again)
SHEEP. And so all this disappointment is owing to you,
Sir?
Pot. To me, you precious puppy! it’s owing to you!
Suzep. Puppy, you rascal! who do you call puppy?
Por. Rascal, you puppy! who do you call rascal ?
SHerep. Retract it directly, Sir.
Pou. Pooh, pooh, Sir—pooh, pooh!
Surep. If you dare say that again, Sir
Pot. Say it—I’ll bawl it—pooh, pooh, Sir—pooh, pooh!
They go off, butting at each other.
Mrs. T. And so all’s at an end. Now, I can’t enter the
garden—but both of these terriers are certain to fly at me;
and all this while that dear husband of mine looking on,
and not making the slightest attempt to relieve me.
A loud laugh is heard outside, ua
— They're very merry out there. What’s the occasion ?
She rises, and looks off at the back, u.u.
— Why, it’s Charles. He's making an amazing sensation.
So, then, I’ve had these people here to oblige him it seems.
And that girl he is with seems singularly struck with him ;
though no wonder at that, for he’s rather superior to the
creatures about him. Ah! it was just in that way that he
walked with me once—when I thought him such an angel
—such a being of beings! How wesen I should have ieee
then to see him walk with another! Well, well, thank
goodness I’ve got over all that—rather wiser now, I think
—~yes, yes, rather wiser !
ToRRINGTON crosses with Miss PoLtarp in the garden,
L.H. to R.H., conversing.
—Why, what are they talking about? He’s saying some-
THE BALANCE OF GOMFORT. 97
thing very tender, by her mode of listening! And now he
has plucked a rose for her, and given it with a manner that
I really hope he’s not trifling with that poor girl's
affections! He’s not the wretch to make love to her—and
before my own face !
TorRINGTON returns from R.H. to L. with Miss Pot-
LARD, conversing aloud.
Tor. Yes, my dear Miss Pollard, such indeed would be
life—a life of passion and fervour, of heart meeting heart,
which
Mrs T. Passion and fervour—and heart meeting heart !
He has a design on that girl! and I should be the basest
of women if I didn’t part them directly! and now she’s
dropped the rose—it almost looked purposely—and he’s
picked it up, and now stooping to restore it—he (she
screams) Charles !
TorRINGTON. (without) Very good; then I’ll go for her.
Mrs. T. Oh! now they’re parted, and I think it was
time, too—lI think it was time!
She throws herself in the chair again—He comes from
the garden.
Tor. Well, Milly, well, I agree with you again—society’s
the true thing—nothing like that!
Mrs. T. Indeed, Sir! then I beg to say I’m sick of
society, and regret that these people ever entered my doors.
Tor. Well, really, my love, I don’t see the reason—they
all seem very worthy—especially your friend Pollard and
his sweet little niece.
Mrs. T, Because you've designs on her.
Tor. Designs?
Mrs. T. Don't deny it! I heard you, I saw you—saw
you pick up that flower. But do you think [Il permit it ?
No, Sir! I’m happy to say that her uncle knows everything.
Tor. What, that I’m married?
Mrs. T. Yes, that you're married.
Tor. And, of course, to yourself ?
Mrs. T. No, not to myself—I didn’t think that was
necessary.
Tor. And so, then, whilst you are to have lovers at
your feet, I’m not permitted to pick up a flower?
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98 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Mrs. T. I’ve no intention, Mr. Torrington, to blight
peoples’ happiness.
Tor. But you can allow it to be blighted, and I suppose
that’s as bad.
Mrs. T. Well, Sir, if you’re so indignant you needn’t
remain—you can shorten a visit which you find so un-
pleasant.
Tor. And you can conclude it at this very instant—
acknowledge I’m your husband, and I’ll quit you at
once,
Mrs. T. Acknowledge you indeed! and so lose all my
friends ?
Tor. Well, then, I must tell you I shail compel the
avowal. |
Mrs. T. You will compel it ?
Tor. Compel it ;—in less than an hour you shall freely
declare me. :
Mrs. T. Freely?
Tor. Yes, freely.
Mrs. T. Well, now, that’s hkely !
Tor. Likely or not, you shall do me this justice.
Mrs. T. And if I do, I'll consent to overlook all the
past.
Tor. Very good; that’s a bargain—and so now all’s
arranged.
Mary comes from door ..H.u.E.
Mary. If you please, Ma’am, dinner’s ready.
Mrs. T. It is? Very well; then you can step to our
guests, and Stop, stop, there’s the wine, and my note
isn't sent—isn’t even sealed up yet, but that’s soon effected.
She goes to the table and seals note.
Tor. (aside) Yes, yes, that’s my plan—one that’s sure to
succeed; but Bates must assist me. (aloud) Bates! (opens
R.H. door and beckons.—aside) And now, Mrs. Milly, we'll
see who’s to conquer ! ;
He goes out at the back, x.u., Bates following from
R.H. door,
Mrs. T. There! now it’s done. Give it to Robert, and
tell him to run instantly.
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 99
Mary. Yes, Ma’am, I will.
Exit at back, r.u.
Mrs. T. Acknowledge him indeed! confess my decep-
tion, and before the whole party. How exceedingly probable!
A clever plan, really, that would tempt me to that. Well,
TI shall have some amusement in watching his efforts, <
Amusement do I say? when here are my two plagues!
Is there no way to escape them? no contrivance, no plan,
that Eh? yes—I see! put the names in the plates,
and set these two in the centre, opposite to each other,
where they can growl as they please, and, if they like, ex-
change compliments under the table. Ha, ha! why that’s
famous—a capital notion! so I'll do it at once.
She sits at table and tears up papers—A murmur of
vowes 1s heard outside, R.H.
—Eh? why, what’s that ?
Mary comes from back.
Mary. Oh, if you please, Ma’am, I’m afraid some-
thing’s happened.
Mrs. T. Happened, Mary ?
Mary. Yes, Ma’am, some difference or other among
some of the gentlemen.
Mrs. T. Why am I deemed to misfortune—is it never
to end? |
The murmur is heard again—Pouiarp comes from
the garden hastily, followed by Barus, who enters
R.H. door,
Pot. Mrs. Torrington, I’m here, don’t be alarmed.
Mrs. T. Why, what has occurred, Sir?
Pou. This encounter, if painful, was not to be avoided.
Mrs. T. Encounter of whom ?
Pox. Your brother has been insulted by that scamp of a
Captain.
Mrs. T. And is it Charles? Why then, go Sir, and
part them directly.
Pox. And insult him myself, Madam ?
Mrs. T. Never mind that Sir, if you can prevent ill
results.
SS = SS ee ee
30 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Pou. But I should prevent good ones. Your brother’s
object of course is to turn him out of the house.
Mrs. T. But how wrong of him—how foolish—how
needless to do it.
Bates comes from x.u. door with pistols,
Bares. Eh, bless my soul !
He hides them in apparent confusion,
Mrs. T. Pistols!
Bates. Howawkward. Well, there’s no help for it.
He runs off at the back.
Mrs. T. Stay—put them down, Sir—put them down
instantly. Mr. Pollard, you'll follow him, and recover
those weapons.
Pou. I, Madam.
Mrs. T, You, Sir, or never dare see me again.
Pon. (aside) Why, how very ungrateful, when he actually
proposes to send a ball through that fellow, I to be the
person to go and prevent him.
He goes out at the back—The Lavizs run in in a
body.
Aut. Oh, Mrs. Torrington !
Mrs. T. Iknow—I know all; but where are the gentle-
men to prevent such a madness—it’s no use our staring
like so many sheep. We must part them ourselves then—
we must go ladies.
Two shots are heard outside,
—Ah! its too late, and perhaps he has fallen.
Emity. No, no—let us trust not.
Mrs. T. Oh, if he has, I shall never forgive myself—
for I know this encounter was entirely for my sake ;—it
was thus he replied to my ill-nature—my cruelty!
Mary runs in from the garden, followed by some of
the GENTLEMEN
Mary. Oh, Ma’am!
Mrs. T. Is he shot ?
Mary. Only in the knee, Ma’am—only in the knee; and
as that has settled the matter, now he and the Captain
are as good friends as ever,
THE BALANCE OF COMFORT. 31
Mrs. T. As good friends—the wretch! I hope he’ll never
meet me again.
Mary. W hy, as it’s only his leg, Ma’am
Mrs. T. His leg ; and is that nothing—when Charles
was perhaps the best polker in Europe?
Mary. Well, here he comes, Ma’am—shall I place a
chair.
ToRRINGTON now enters from the garden, a hand-
kerchief bound round his knee, leaning on Barras,
and limping—Surrrsuanks and others following
—Mnrs. Torrinoron flies to his side, and assists
him to the charr in front.
Mrs. T. Oh, my poor Charles! how mad of you to do this!
but you're not injured seriously—the ball will come out ?
Tor. Perhaps so— but if not—what does it matter? If
my leg must go off, why I must go also.
‘Mrs. T. Don’t talk in that manner. Do you think me
such a wretch? I know I was very cruel—but
Tor. But what does it matter—you lose but a brother.
Mrs. T, A brothér, indeed! and can you mock me in
that way at such a momentas this? I[ shall lose a‘beloved
husband.
Susep, and Por. (advancing) A husband!
Mrs. T. Yes,a husband. Ican’t tell stories now, Sir.
Tor. Well—if that’s—your confession—
Mrs. T. It is Charles—it is,
Tor. Why then, of course
that’s sufficient.
He unwinds the handkerchief from his knee, and,
rising, flaps his boot with it.
Mrs. T. Why, you monster !
Tor. Perhaps so—but still Im your husband.
Mrs. T. And this was a trick, aftr all?
Tor. Which is rather an odd characteristic of husbands.
SHEP. But, perhaps, you'll inform me, Sir, what sucha
trick means ?
Tor. Oh! with the greatest willingness. It was a plan
to recover certain unavowed rights, for which I saw but
one means—our fictitious encounter. And I've now only
to say if vou're displeased with that form of it, I’m quite
prepared to renew it in the most positive manner.
32 THE BALANCE OF COMFORT.
Mrs. T. And so be shot in reality. Indeed, you shall
not.
Tor. Plainly then, gentlemen, you see how the case
stands. As I am this lady’s husband, she can’t have
another ;—it’s very awkward certainly—but such is the
fact—however, I’ve no doubt she'll be very good friends
with you, which is perhaps more than she could have
promised had she been married to either.
Mrs. T. Much more.
Tor. And now, Milly, a word with you—we've both
been in fault—both had extreme notions of how life was to
be enjoyed ;—you in seclusion—I in society ; and both I
believe have come to reasonable views—find that truth, as it
usually does, lies in a medium ; so as a separated couple,
like a broken pair of scissors, are of very little use till they’re
rivetted again, what do you say if we take hands and
make a new outset?
Mrs. T. Well, I suppose it’s the best. I certainly find
there’s one use in a husband—he keeps off other plagues—if
he’s a great one himself. (she gives him her hand)
Tor. There, and now all's renewed, I suppose we must
regard this as a second wedding-party. I won't keep our
friends waiting, but still I must hope, that though I and my
partner have indulged in extremes———
Mrs. T. Our judges will view uswith due moderation. (she
advances) Ladies and Gentlemen, in diplomatic circles we
frequently meet with such a term as the balance of power
that happy equilibrium of various great nations, which se-
cures, as we are told, the repose of the world. There are
few will deny that home is a world; anda world, sad to say,
that’s not undisturbed by occasional wars. In this world,
then, of home, we should introduce peace—we should have
an equilibrium—but let us alter the term; and, instead of
trying to maintain any balance of power, let us rather
seek to establish a Balance of Comfort.
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CURTAIN,
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR
FIVE POUNDS.
An orginal Farce,
IN ONE ACT.
BY
JOHN MADDISON MORTON,
“Member of the Dramatic Authors’ Society),
AUTHOR OF
Box and Cox, John Dobbs, The Woman I Adore, A Capital Match,
Your Life’s in Danger, Who Stole the Pocket Book? Poor
Pillicoddy, Friend Waggles, Where there’s a Will there's
a Way, The Writing on the Wall, Betsy Baker
éc., &c.,
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SSC DRS
en
First performed at the Theatre Royal Haymarket,
on Saturday, February 5th, 1853.
i il
BPAAAA AAAA AAAAY PPPS. “n—na3an—as$s>s OO OOOO
Characters.
MR. SAMUEL SNOZZLE........... Mr. Buckstone.
Bees, OL RIGGINS... ..cccesee, secscccece MR. LAMBERT,
MR. CITARLES MARKHAM...... Mr. Howe.
LIEUTENANT SPIKE, R.M......... Mr. Rocers.
POUNCE (a Detective Officer)... Mr. Brain.
JOSEPH (a Waiter)......... iseews Mr. Crark.
SUPERINTENDENT.............000.... Mr. Hastines.
TELEGRAPHIC.CLERK....,......... Mr. Cor.
GUARD ... Mr. Epwarps.
MISS FANNY SPRIGGING........ .. Miss A. Vinine.
Scexe—Tunbridge.
Costumes.
Mr. Samuert Sxozzrr—White trowsers, light waistcoat, slate
coat, white over coat, white Jersey hat.
Cartes Marxnram.— Modern sui‘, blue cloak.
Mr. Spriecins.—White trowsers, black body coat, white hat,
with crape.
Lrevrenanr SrKe.—Blue coat, gilt buttons, dark trowsers,
black hat.
Pounce.—Plaid trowsers, check waistcoat, pilot coat, shawl and
black hat.
JosEPH.—Modern waiter.
SUPERINTENDENT—Single breasted blue frock, gilt button and
glazed cap.
Crierx.—Modern dress and white hat.
PassENGERS.—Modern travelling suits.
Fanny.—Blue silk dress, white bonnet and maize coloured
shawl,
load
Time in Representation, 55 minutes.
TC PARIS AND BACK .FOR FIVE POUNDS.
Scenz.— Tunbridge—between the Railway Station and an Inn—Plat-
form leading to La ilway, U. £.R.—direction posi, ‘To the Railway,”
u. E. R.—line of railway over a viaduct seen nm the distance, from
nr. to u.—Hotel, u. 2 and 3 ¥.—Electric Tdeqraph Office x.1 E.
—“‘Electric Telegraph” written over it on wing. Josern busy
placing refreshments on table outside hotel. u.c. Two garden
chairs,—luggage on steps leading to the platform. Pounce, in shabby
genteel costume comes down the steps x. of the platform, and looks
at names on luggage—comes forward.
Poun. I don’t see the name—but I know I’m on the right scent
for all that—(sces Josern)—Oh, here’s the waiter! I'll pump him!
(to Joseru, who is about to run into hotel)) Stop, young man, don’t
be in a hurry!
Jos. Nothing I should like better, sir—but ve expect the Paris
Excursion Train down from London every miaute—it stops here
at Tunbridge, to take up passengers !
Poun. It’s rather behind time, isn’t it?
Jos. Yes, sir! and no wonder, sir—I dare say there'll be a
matter of thirty carriages—and that’s no joke for one horse—lL
mean one engine! but who can be surprised at the quantity of
people— To Paris and back, with bed and brerkfast in the French
metropolupus for a fortnight for £5!” I wonder how they does it
-—but does it they does! (bell rings in hotel, 1.) Coming! (going)
Pour. Stop! have you any parties in your hotel going by this
excursion train? (mysteriously)
Jos. Yes, sir! there’s No. 5—No. 7, and two children— No. 13,
wife and lady’s maid, and No. 15, and daughter—(bell rings again, L)
—Coming!
Poun. Stop! what about this No. 5—is he « gentleman?
Jos. Can’t say, sir!—he hasn’t had his bill yet!
Poun. And pray—might his name be Markiam ?
Jos. (anxiously) Well, sir, perhaps it might if if wasn’t Smith!
(bell again, u.) Coming! (runs into archway of hotel i.)
Pour. Umph! bump of communicativeness by no means promi-
nent—surely my information can’t be wrong) (taking letter out of
his pocket)—here we have it clear enough—(riads)—“ Mr. Charles
Markham,”—and so on—“ principal in a duel” and so forth, “ left
London last Monday by ten o’clock train—gotout at Tunbridg e—
supposed to be lying snug till hecan slip away to the Continent,” &c.
&c.—pity they didn’t send the young gentkman’s description
especially as I haven’t the honor of his acquaintance! never mind
*
— =. Lo ao S aphte Mi
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ln a
Se Se : x
rs
4 TO PARIS AND LACK FOR FIVE POUNDS.
—I’ve only got to keep my cars open, and, as soon as I hear the
name of Markham, pounce down upon the individual who answers
to the name of Markham, and nab him!—so, now to keep a sharp
look out! (goes up—casting his eye over luggage—ascends platform
and disappears)
Enter Marxuam at x. 1 £. he is enveloped in a large cloak, and seems
cautious.
Mark. Here’s a pretty sort of existence to lead—afraid to ven-
ture out with the thermometer at 92 in the shade, without muffling
myself up like muffins at Christmas—and what's my offence, after
all ?—-standing wp at twelve paces to be shot at by a peppery fellow
, who fixes a quarrel upon me because a lady preferred me for a
artner in a polka to him !—a charming creature she was too—and
i should certainly have cultivated her acquaintance, only I un-
fortunately winged my adversary, and was obliged to do what he
couldn’t—fly !_ My friend, Dick Dashley, promised to write me
word how matters were going on—addressing me under an assumed
name, of course—but I’ve been afraid to venture out of my hiding
lace ’till this evening—however, I must know my fate at all
azards—so here goes—Waiter! (hitting the table with his stick)
Enter Joseru, running, u. from archway.
Jos. Coming!
Marx. Have you a letter addressed to Mr. Charles Mar I mean
My. (aside)—Damn it—I forget my name! (aloud—and sud-
denly recollecting) Mr. Richard Thompson ?
Jos. Yes, sir! came by post this morning ! (takes letter out of his
waistcoat pocket)
Marx. Give it me! (snatches at it)
Jos. Ber pardon, sir—but is your name Thompson ?
Marx. Do you doubt it—there’s a shilling for you! (givesmoney)
Jos. (giving letter) Thank you, sir!—happy to supply you with
any number of letters, in any number of names, on the same terms,
you think proper to mention, sir !
Marx. Go!
Jos. Gone! (rushes off into hotel)
Marx. Now then, to know my fate !—(opens letter and reads\—
‘Dear Markham—Look out for squalls—your hiding place is
discovered—and a sharp-scented member’ of the fraternity of
detectives is on your track !—confusion—“ In your place, I should
give myself up—it’l] only be six months in one of Her Majesty’s
jails at the utmost. Yours truly, Richard Dashley.”—Six months!
and grouse shooting beginning !—to say nothing of that afore-
said charming creature, who haunts me night and day — six
months!—I’d back myself to make love, pop the question, marry
her, and settle down into a quiet, respectable father of a family
in half the time! It’s enough to make a man hang, drown. or
Shoot himself! (suddenly) Egad!—not a bad idea! Why
shouldn’t I hang, drown, or shoot myself !—a few brief, heart-
rending words, written with a trembling hand on half a sheet of
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS. 5
note paper, moistened with my tears, and left upon this table, may
be the means of putting this ‘ sharp-scented member of the
fraternity of detectives” on the wrong scent !—I’ll do it! Waiter!
(hitting table again)
Lnter Joseru, running from hotel, u.
Pen, ink, and paper !
Jos. Yes, sir! (runs into hotel)
Mark. Let me see—what shall it be! Shall I hang myself?
—no, V’ll be hanged if I hang myself !—it’s common, low—and
I certainly shan’t shoot myself, instead of the grouse—so I must
drown myself !—yes, painful as the operation may be, I must
drown myself !—waiter ! (hitting table again)
JOSEPH runs in, L.
Jos, Here you are, sir! (putting pen, ink, and paper on table)
Mark. There’s a shilling for you (gives it)
Jos. Thank you, sir !—happy to furnish you with pens, ink, and
paper, on the same terms, sir, to any amount you think proper to
mention, sir! (runs into hotel)
Marx. Now, then, for something excessively touching! (writing)
‘* What's life to me ?—nothing! ” That’s not bad! (writing) “I
forgive everybody, even my creditors!” That’s satisfactory for
them—the only satisfaction, by-the-bye, they are likely to get!
“Ere this meets a human eye, the waters of the’—of the—what
the devil’s the name of the river? I suppose they have a river at
Tunbridge? never mind—(writing again)—“the waters of the
river will have closed over the brief and troubled career of the
unhappy, broken-hearted Charles Markham.” That'll do remark-
ably well !—but it isn’t enough !—evidence of previous temporary
insanity is absolutely necessary—so here goes !—waiter! (banging
tuble with his stick)—-waiter, I say !—(banging table again)
JOSEPH runs in.
Jos. Coming!
Mark. (throwing his feet up on table and nodding familiarly at
Joseru) How are you? and who are you? (fiercely)
Jos. (starting) The waiter, sir!
Marx. No such thing—you’re the First Lord of the Admiralty :
your uncle, Julius Cesar, just told me so—tol-de-rol !
Jos. (alarmed—and aside) I don’t half like this! (running off )
Mark. (shouting) Stop!—come here! (seizing JosEPH) do you
sell warming pans? I thought not—so bring be a bottle of thunder
—with the chill off—begone !—fly !—ha, ha, ha! (laughing wildh,
at Josrrn, and rushing at him—who runs off at full speed into hotel
Come, that'll do very well!—and now to deposit these aforesaid
‘few but heart-rending words ” in my pocket book, along with my
dey cotton I had the precaution to get made out in case [
11d the opportunity of bolting—there! (laying pocket book on table)
There it’ll sure to be found by somebody or other—I shall be
supposed to have made away with myself—the law will be satisfied
and so shallI!—ha, ha ha! (railway whistle and noise of engine
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6 TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS.
heard) Here comes a train from town—Egad! it’s just possible
Dashley may send me further intelligence by it—I’ll wait and see!
Swe 20a! a up in his cloak again, and retires—whistle again
louder—train heard to come in R.—Passexcens hurry fron hotel and
U. E. L., up platform, x. u. E.—great bustle kept up without—Boys
with “* Morning’s Times,” dc. cc. dc.)
SPRIGGINS. (outside, R. u. E.) Stop! let me out, conductor—let me
out, I say!
Guarp. (outside nr. vu. £.) What’s the matter, sir!
Spria. Let me out, I say!
Guarp. The train’s just going on, sir—it can’t wait for you!
Seria. I don’t want it to wait for me—open the door, fellow—or I'll
precipitate myself headlong, with my carpet bag, out of the window !
Guarp. Oh, very well, sir!
Sprieains comes down platform, x. followed by Faxny,
Mark. (up L. recognizes her) Eh? Yes! my charming partner,
as I live. (observes and catches Fanny’s attention)
Fan. (aside) The gentleman who danced the Polka so beautifully,
and helped me to such a quantity of negus and sponge cake.
(exchanges looks with Marxuam)
Seria. (1. c. looking about anxiously) No sign of my nephew,
Samuel Snozzle—not a symptom of him—not the minutest particle
of my nephew, Samuel Snozzle, can I distinguish! What's to be
done? (suddenly going up to Marxuam) I beg your pardon, sir—
but you don’t happen to have seen a gentleman here, waiting with
considerable anxiety for the train to come in?
Mark. No, sir!
Fan. (t. aside) So much the better.
Spric. (r.) He’s my nephew, sir, the future husband of my
daughter, sir.
Manx. (aside) Don’t be too sure of that old gentleman!
Pan. (aside) Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,
uncle.
Spric. We are all three to go to Paris to enjoy ourselves for a
fortnight, but as he had business in this part of the country, it
was arranged that he should mect the excursion train here at
Tunbridge! but he’s not here, and we can’t go without him !—here
are the three tickets (producing them) perhaps they’ll return the
fifteen pounds.
Marx. I'm afraid not!
Sprig. Then the money’s as good as thrown away.
Marx. I am sure, sir, I shall be most happy to be of any
assistance to you and your charming daughter in this unpleasant
predicament—l’ll wait here till your nephew comes, and tell him
you've arrived—but you must be good enough to describe his person
to me.
Serie. That would rather puzzle me, considering I haven’t seen
my nephew Sam, since he was breeched !
Manx. (crosses to c.) Perhaps the young lady can furnish his
description ?
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDs. |
Fan. I have never seen cousin Sam, at all—not even before he
was (suddenly stops) you know, sir.
Sprig. No! but as 1 know the young fellow to be well to do in
the world—I wrote and proposed the match to him a week ago,
and he said “yes” at once.
Marx. And you, madam?
Spric. She said * yes” too.
Fan. No I didn’t, papa.
Sprig. You didn’t say no !—which comes to the same thing.
Marx. AsI said before, I shall be delighted to be of service to
you—will you step into the hotel—or perhaps you'd prefer taking a
stroll through the town and seeing the lions?
Fan. Oh, yes, papa, do let’s see the lions!
Manx. I shall a delighted to escort you—we have three objects
well worthy the attention of the traveller—the Church—the Town
Hall—and the Pump—they’re close together! for instance—suppose
I’m the Church—this lady’s the Town Hall, and you are the Pump!
—allow me. (offers his arm to Fanny, who takes it)
Spric. But if my nephew, Sam, should happen to arrive?
Mark. (crossing with Fanny to rn.) He'll have to wait, and serve
him right—it ’ll teach him to be more punctual for the future.
Fan. Of course it will—so come along, papa.
Hit quickly with Marxuam. zr. 1 B.
Spric. Stop! Fanny !—IT’'ll just have two words with the waiter,
in case Samuel Snozzle should happen to come. Here, waiter!
Enter JosErH L. running.
Jos. Yes, sir!
Spric. If a gentleman should happen to enquire for Mr. or Miss
Spriggins, you'll be good enough to say to him (looking off at x.)
damn it, they’re out of sight. (runs rapidly of, rn. 1 ©. after
Fanny and Marxuam)
Jos. Ob, ’m to say to him “damn it, they’re out of sight.”
(shouting off after Spriaains) Oh, very well, sir!
Lxit &.,
Linter Surertntexvent, from platform vu. ¥. RB.
Sur. Allright. (blows whistle, and the train is heard to move
slowly off at the same moment)
Sxoz.E. (without, 1. u.) Here! Stop, stop—(rushes in x. with
portinanteau, hat box, and umbrella, and waves his umbrella and
shouts) Stop the train. (about to rush up platform, but is prevented
by Surerinxrenvent, who pushes him back)
Sup. (r.) Holloa, go back, sir! the train’s gone.
Snoz. (u.) I know it’s gone, that’s why I want to run after it and
catch itup! (making another attempt to run)
Sup. Pooh, pooh—nonsense (stopping him again)
Sxoz You think I couldn't, eh ? Bless you—you’ve no notion
ofthe celerity of my movements—perhaps you'll oblige me by
observing the celerity of my movements. (about to start again)
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8. TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS.
Sur. (pulling him back) Once for all, sir, the train’s gone, and
you must stop where you are.
Sxoz. My dear, sir, allow me respectfully to submit to you—
(perhaps you'll hold my carpet bag in the mean time)—that you’re
talking nonsense, in point of fact, you can form but a very faint
idea of the nonsense you are talking! My uncle that is, and my
wife that is to be, are in that train, sir, and as they can’t possibly
go to Paris without me, you must, I am sure, at once, see the
necessity of my running after that train in order to catch that train
up. (starting again)
Sur. ( pulling him back again) It was your business to have been
here in time, sir!
Syoz, So I was! in plenty of time, if the train had only stopped
for me.
Sur. You must wait for the next.
Snoz. Oh, then there will be another excursion train, eh?
Sur. Yes!
Sxoz. That’s lucky—when?
Sup. Why, about Michaelmas.
Sxoz. Michaelmas! this is an imposition! Now listen to me,
sir, while I put it to you, as an intelligent oflicer of this railway
company—the Great Western, I believe ?
Sup. No—the South
Snoz. True !—the South Western !
Sur. No—Eastern!
Snoz. Exactly—the Great Southern Western Eastern—now, sir,
this is my case, which I am sure the intelligent officer before me
will at once comprehend! My uncle takes three tickets, for
himself, my cousin Fanny, and me, in the excursion train “To
Paris and Back for Five Pounds.” I undertake to meet the train
here at Tunbridge—I do not meet it here—not from any fault
of mine, but simply because I happen to be too late—well, the
train containing my uncle and cousin Fanny comes in and goes
off again without me, and when I propose adopting the only
rational course of proceeding under the circumstances—namely,
running after that train and catching that trainup, I’m coolly told
that I must wait ’till next Michaelmas! It’s absurd, sir, so where
are your directors? Instantly produce your directors!
Sur. Hark’ye, sir—if you'll take my advice, you'll just hold
your tongue—get a mouthfull of something to eat, go to bed, off
to Dover by the first train to-morrow morning, over to Boulogne, on
to Paris, and there you are.
Sxoz. Well, I suppose that is the only thing that can be done,
unless you'll start a train on purpose for me ?
Sup. Certainly, sir, if you'll pay for it !
Syoz. Ha, ha, you’re a wag! (poking him in the side, and
depositing his carpet bag and umbrella near the table)
Sur. By-the-bye, sir, as your friends may be anxious about
you when they arrive at Dover, perhaps you’d like to senda
message ?
Snoz. Of course I should—but who’s to take it?
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS. 9
Sur. The clectric telegraph, sir.
Sxoz. I never thought of it! you’re an intelligent creature—the
moment I saw your phrenological development, I said to myself,
*¢ that’s an intelligent creature.”
Sur. That’s the telegraph office, sir. (points to office, n., 1 B,
then exit up platform)
Snoz. I thank you! (goes to window at telegraph-office, and knocks
at it; CrierK puts out his head.) I hope I see you, sir! 1 want to
dispatch a telegraphic message to Dover, sir!
Crierk. Very well, sir. Who to?
Sxoz. To cousin Fanny, sir!
CrerK. Who’s cousin Fanny?
Sxoz. My cousin Fanny, of course! I shouldn’t think of taking
such a liberty with anybody else’s cousin Fanny.
Crerk. I mean, what’s her name ?
Sxoz. (shouting) Fanny! If you’re hard of hearing, my dear sir,
you should petition the directors to provide you with a trumpet.
Crerx. What's her other name?
Sxoz. Spriggins!
Cierx. Where does she live?
Sxoz. I really don’t know whether I’m justified in telling you
where she lives—you may be a highly respectable man, but
Crerk. If you don’t tell me where she lives, how is she to get
your message ?
Snoz. True! Here’s another intelligent creature—she lives at
No. 15, Red Lion Square, Holborn.
Crrerx. I thought you said she was at Dover?
Snoz. So I did! but I don’t know where abouts in Dover. The
fact is, she’s just gone on by the Paris excursion train.
Crerk. Then your best plan will be to telegraph the guard of the
train, and he’ll deliver the message to your friends when they
arrive at Dover.
Snoz. Of course! This line of railway literally swarms with
intelligent creatures.
Cierx. Now, sir, what do you wish the guard to say to the lady ?
Snoz. I wish the guard to say this to the lady—t My beloved
Fanny”
Crier. Go on!
Sxoz. No, sir, I don’t want him to say “go on,” or anything of
the sort! ‘My beloved Fanny, don’t be uneasy; I will follow
you and uncle Spriggins to Paris to-morrow”’—that’s all!
Cierx. Your name, if you please, sir?
Snoz. Samuel!
Cierx. I must have your other name, too, sir?
Snoz. Is that absolutely necessary ?
Creek. Yes, sir!
Snoz. Before I indulge your curiosity, sir, perhaps you'll show me
your authority—you’ll be good enough to remember we’ve no In-
quisition in this country, sir !
CrerK. Nonsense !
Snoz. Very well, then, my other name is——(moving his lips
without speaking)
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10 TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS.
Cienk. (trying to hear) What? (Sxozzxe moves his lips again)
You really must speak out, sir!
Sxoz. (shouting) Snozzle!
Cierk. Mr. Samuel Snozzle—ha, ha, ha! (laughing)
Snoz. (crosses to u.) I knew how ’twould be! ‘This is what I
have to go through at least fifty times every day of my life. How
any woman—my mother especially—could marry a man with such
a name as Snozzle, I can’t understand.
Crerk. Is that all, Mr. Snozzle—ha, ha, ha!
Snoz. (shouting, and crosses to R.) I tell you what, sir; if you
sresume to laugh again, I’ll pull your telegraphic wires about your
ears! Yes, sir, that és all!
Crerk. Very well, sir! (small bell heard to ring, n.) One pound
seven and sixpence!
Sxoz. What for?
Crerk. For the telegraphic message, sir!
Sxoz. Then, on second thoughts, you need not trouble yourself
to send it.
Crerx. It’s gone, sir!
Sxoz. Gone! pooh—I know better! It couldn’t possibly go
without my seeing it.
Crerx. Come, sir! Shell out!
Sxoz. (aside, and suddenly) Good gracious! Now I think of it!
cousin Fanny or uncle Spriggins, will be sending me an answer
back, to a certainly—and probably a long one! (to the Max) My
dear, Sir, might I ask, as a particular favour—a very particular
favour—(insinuatingly)—that Miss Spriggins may be desired not
to send me an answer, as it costs such a deal of money!
Cierk. Certainly, sir!
Sxoz. I am obliged to you, sir; if you'll put your hand out, sir,
Ill make it my immediate business to shake it, sir (little bell
TINGS a7AiN, R.)
Crerx. That’s one pound one more, sir!—two pounds eight and
sixpence altogether !
Sxoz. Oh, two pounds eight and sixpence altogether ?—you’re
sure that’s all? Then I'll settle your little account the next time
I come this way! (going)
Crerx. Come! no nonsense, sir, or I’ll call a policeman!
Sxoz. Don’t trouble yourself—can you give me change for a
thousand pound note!
Crerx. Yes, sir!
Sxoz. Never mind—there’s your money—your plunder !—here,
sir—take it, sir! (holding out money—CuErx puts his head out of
window, and takes it—Sxozztx bonnets him—he retreats indignantly
and closes door) Waiter!
Linter Joseru, running, L.
Jos. Yes, sir!
Sxoz. Can I have a bed here to-night ?
Jos. Yes, sir—half a dozen, if you like!
Sxoz. Thank you! It’s a foolish habit I’ve got—but I seldom
sleep in more than one bed at a time—how much ?
Jos. Three and sixpence, sir—including the chamber-maid !
Ss es
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS. 1}
Syoz. (with dignity) But I don’t wish to include the chamber:
maid, sir—(aside)—especially as I haven’t seen her—I never had
such a proposal made to me in any respectable hotel, in all my
life—and people call this a moral country !
Jos. What name, sir !
Snoa. Mr. never mind the name—go along !
Exit Josreru, tL.
Sxoz. If I had mentioned my nane there’d have been another
shout of laughter—somebody, I don’: exactly know who—probably
some obscure literary person or other has said, “ What’s in a
name?’ I contend there’s a great deal in a name !—for instance,
if I’d been in the army, or even in the militia, and had distinguished
myself in some brilliant action, could I have allowed my self to be
gazetted as Major General Snozzle 2—there’d be one universal
shout from one end of the ‘Army List’ to the other! And then,
if ever I fall in love, which I do akout three times a week, on an
average, I never dare mention my name! I’m always obliged to
keep Snozzle in the back ground—it was only this very morning
that I got into a second- class carriage at Canterbury, and found
myself alone with a first-class femaie—a very fine woman indced,
and plenty of her—we got quite intimate, and before we got to our
journey’s end, she not only told me her name was ‘ Sparkins,’ and
that she lived here at Tunbridge—bat she actually asked me if I’d
tea with her—or cocoa with her—I forget which—now as I must
stop here ’till to-morrow morning, there’s nothing I should like
better tha oa with her—just merely to
passer le toms,as we say in Franse—people may put whatever
construction they think proper on what I say; but I emphatically
repeat that it would be merely to pusser le toms !—pbut, then, she’d
naturally ask me my name, and I could no more tell her it was
Snozzle than I could fly! No—I must give up the fair sex in
general, and stick to cousin Fanny, in particular—and yet it’s a
hard thing—it’s a cruel thing that one can’t go and passer le toms
with a first-class female, because one’s name happens to be Snozzle?
(sitting down at table, u.) I repeat it’s a very cruel thing! (hitting
table) Holloa !—some gentleinan has left his pocket book on the
ip it’s of consequence to him—so I'll just see if his
1ame’s in it. (opens pocket book—a yaper falls out) Here’s a letter,
I declarc—Il’ll read it—It’ll give me some clue to the owner of the
pocket-book!—(opens paper and izeads)—‘* What’s life to me!
Nothing!” Good Gracious ceumatag eons Apc and reading
again) ” Well, now,
that’s kind—it Ss a very common thing for a man to forget his
creditors—but to forgive them is something sublime !— (reading
again) —“ Ere this meets a hum: n €ye the waters of the river”—
Gracious, goodness !—what’s this !— the waters of the river will
have closed over the brief but troubled career of the unhappy,
broken-hearted Charles Markham!” Goodness, gracious [com t
let me get into a state of excitemeat! Snozzle, be calm! (reads
again) —* the waters of the river will have closed over” I see
it ail—he’s gone and chucked himself into the river, with his
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12 TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS.
clothes on!—and shall I stand calmly by while a fellow creature
is struggling with the billows of the briny deep ?—No! stop though
—I can’t swim !—besides it’s too late—I should get wet through
for nothing ;—poor fellow! poor Charles M: wkham! How a man
with such a Bee oeeishoe name as Markham could do sucha thing,
I can’t imagine—if it had been Snozzle, I shouldn’t have been
surprised—(suddenl))—E h? yes > nobody knows anything about
this little affair, except me and Markham—J shan’t mention it—
and I don’t suppose he will—l’ll do it !—yes !—I’ll cease to be a
Snozzle, and under the more aristocratic name of Markham, will
I straitway proceed, and passer le toms with the first-class female!
Waiter (very laud)
Linter Joseru, running from L
Jos. Yes, sir!
Snoz. Have supper ready for me at ten o’clock—something
light and digestible—a dozen or two of kidneys, or pickled salmon,
and cuc umber, anda pint of sherry—and, as it’s very warm, I'll
have it here—and a bed—recollect I’m very particular about my
bed—the one I had last night at Canterbury wasn’t at all com-
fortable—it was lumpy—and if there is anything I object to, its a
lumpy bed!
Jos. You’ve been at Canterbury seeing the great cricket-match,
I suppose, sir!
Snoz. Cricket-match ? Oh; that accounts for it—for when I
examined my bed, this morning, to ascertain the cause of its
rae ss, I ‘found I’d been laying on a couple of cricket-bats,
four bal Is, and two sets of stumps, all night !
Jos. You can have No. 7, sir.
Snoz. You're sure the sheets are aired ?
Jos. Quite sure, sir! Sam, the ostler, his wife, and three
children have been sleeping in ’em for the last ten days!
Snoz. Very well! Desire the chamberm: aid to bring up a jug of
hot water to my room at cight o’clock; and you may as well tell
her it'll be no sort of use her trying to come in, because I shall
lock my door at night—that’ll do stop! if anybody calls, and
inquires for Mr. Markham
Jos. Markham?
Snoz. Yes, sir. Mr. Charles
a stroll.
Jos. Yes, sir. (aside) Markham! That’s the name that shabby-
genteel individual was asking me about just now. I think he went
on to the platform—lI’ll see if I can find him. (crosses behind, and
uP to platform, R. U. BE.)
SNoz. Come, that’s settled! and now I’m off to my fascinating
friend, Miss Sparkins stop! I’d better just write a line to that
first class female—tell her who I am—send it up to her by ihe
servant, and then she’ll be prepared to receive me! (sits ai table
and prepares to write)
Markham
say I’ve gone out for
Enter Marxuam, BR. 1 5,
Marx. She’s an exquisite creature, and perfectly irresistible
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS. 13
and shall I suffer this odious cousin of hers to carry off such a
treasure? Never! but how the deuce shall I prevent it when I’m
in danger of being arrested every moment! By-the-bye, that
paper containing my pathetic farewell to existence wiil find its way
into the newspapers to a certainty; and though it might be the
means of procuring my safety, I have no right to trifle with the
feelings of my friends—no!—so I'll destroy it at once, and make
the best fight of it I can. (goes up to table, and begins turning things
over, looking for his pocket-book) How very odd, I don’t see it!
Snoz. (quietly) When you've quite done joggling the table, sir,
perhaps you'll mention it!
Mark. (paying no aitention to him) Lleft it here. I am sure of it;
perhaps the waiter has put it into the drawer. (opens table drawer)
No! (shutting tt with a fois slam)
Sxoz. (throwing down his pen, and leaning back in his chair) It’s
nouse! I give it up.
Marx. (to Snozziz) I beg pardon—do you happen to be sitting
upon anything ?
Snoz. Of course, Iam! You don’t suppose I sit upon nothing.
Marx. Because I rather think it belongs to me.
Sxoz. I beg your pardon, it belongs to me!
Marx. Perhaps you'll oblige me by getting up? Do you hear,
sir, get up! (banging the table with his stick. Syozzin jumps UD.
Marxum looks on the chair) No! how very extraordinary! (sitting
on side of table, and swinging his legs to and fro)
SNoz. (silting down again, and trying to write) You're jogeling
worse than ever, sir! (shouting)
Mark. Pshaw! (jumping of table, and walking about)
Snoz. (coming down to c.) There, I think that will do very well.
(reading) ‘‘ Dear Miss Sparkins,—Will you permit me to accept the
kind invitation to tea, which you gave me this morning. I am
waiting in the passage till I receive your permission to present
myself. Your obedient servant, and second-class admirer, Charles
Markham.”
Marx. (overhearing) Wey! what's that? (coming down, and
giving Sxozzix a violent slap on the back)
Sxoz. (not flinching, nor looking round; then, after a short pause)
Come in!
Mark. I beg your pardon, sir; but what name did you say?
Sxoz. What name? Why, my name!
Mark. Say it again!
Snoz. (u.) Really, my dear, sir
Mark. (r.) Say it again! (violently)
Sxoz. Charles Markham!
Marx. Oh! Charles, eh? You're sure it’s Charles ?
Sxoz. Why, having fortunately been present at my own christen-
ing, I presume I ought to know my own name,
Mark. Indeed! Ha, ha, ha! and you say this seriously before
my face ?
Snoz. Yes, sir! aud what’s more, I would even assert it behind
your back !
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14 TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS.
Mars. Pshaw! Listen to me—you’re an impostor!
Sxoz. An impostor! Ofcourse you'll retract that powerful ex-
pression, sir?
Mark. Certainly not!
Sxoz. Well, if you won’t, I can’t help it~only don’t go and say I
didn’t ask you.
Marx. I repeat, you are an impostor! Jam Mr. Charles
Markham !
Snoz. It’s evident he’s seen the letter too, and has hit upon the
same idea as I have. (aloud) My dear, sir, let’s unde retand one
another—I don’t mind confessing to you that I am not Mr. Charles
Markham—no = are you—consequently, if I’m an ‘a toens
youre another
Mark. But t tell you, sir, I am that individual.
Snoz. Pooh, pooh, you san’t be in two places at once, sir. I
tell you that individual is at this me Bs at the bottom of the
river, sir—and you are not/—and what’s more, you haven’t been
there, or you’d be wet!—to say nothing of the perriwinkles and
barnacles that would be sticking to you!
Marx. Hark ye, sir—lI feel an irresistible resi to send
brace of bullets through your impertinent little body. (seeing
Pounce, who appears x.1 xu. look
at MAarkuam and SNozzie,
crosses up and off L. U. E.—aside) Pounce, the Police Officer! by
Jupiter! I know the fellow well enough, though he doesn’t
know me! He’s : Egos me, that’s clear !—how the dnc shall I
givehim the slip? Eg: ad—I haveit—it’s my only chance | (aloud)
1 repeat, sir, my first ~impuls <¢ was to blow your brains out, but
on second thoughts
SNOzZ. (hastily) That's right—second thoughts are always best—
wl
so stick to °em !—be particularly adhesive : to your s second thoughts.
Marx. On second thoughts, as you must have som very
pressing motive for assuming a name that doesn’t belone to you
—I’vye no objection to humour the joke, Mr. Charles Markham.
(aloud, and looking anxiously after Pouncy, who appears at door
of hotel, and overhears)
Snoz. I thank you!
Marx. But on this condition—that you retain the name you
have assumed, with all its contingencies, for four-and-twenty hours!
svoz. T hat? s all I want.
Manx. (nudging Sxozzir) I’m afraid you're a sad doz! (shaking
his head at SNOZZLE) ten t ree now. You’ve o rot some tute j Hany
on hand here which you're afraid to earry out under your own
name, ech? Fie! fie! (nudging Syozzte again)
Sxoz. Go alone, do! (nudging MarxkHam) Well, I don’t mind
telling you that there is a female inthis Town—a Miss 8) ype
oue of the most majestic women you ever saw—she’d make two of
me—and having nothing better to do, I certain ly did intend
calling on her just merely to passer le toms. (MARKHAM smiles)
It’s a most extraordinary thing that L ean’t get anybody to believe
wat my ere fur visiting that first-class female is merely to
peescr le toms
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS. 15
Mark. Well, I’m the last man in the world to spoil sport, so L
vish you a pleasant evening, Mr. Charles Markham. (very loud,
end again looking out for Pounce) By-the-bye, (in an under tone
to him) as you have taken my name, perhaps you'll provide me
with another?
Sxoz. Certainly—I’ll make you a present of mine—Samuel
Snozzle.
Manx. Snozzle !
Sxoz. Don’t turn up your nose at it—I pledge you my honour
it’s one of the oldest and most respectable Anglo-Saxon names in
the whole parish of Bloomsbury.
Manx. Well, be it so, and for four-and-twenty hours J am Mr.
Samuel Snozzle—and you are Mr. Charles Markham. (seeing
Pouxer, who again appears at door of hotel)
Sxoz. Yes—I am Mr. Charles Markham !
Poun. (from behind) So, so, then, I’ve nabbed my man at last!
(comes down t, laying his hand heavily on Sxozzin’s should r) Now,
Mr. Markham, come along to jail with me.
Sxoz. Jail! What should I go to jail for?
Pous. You goes to jail because I takes you there !
Snoz. Do you! I tell you what, my corpulent friend, if you
don’t immediately remove your hand from my shoulder, you'll
rouse the British Lion !—and the result will be that I shall have to
ask my friend there, to knock you down.
Poux. Come, come, no nonsense !—my name’s Pounce, and now
you know’s all aboutit!
— Mans. (n. with pretended concern) I’m sorry for you my dear
Markham—but it’s all over, my poor dear friend! (putting his
hand] 7? ; oF fo h is eyes)
Sxoz. (¢.) Pooh, pooh!
Poun. Come, it’s no use kicking over the traces, my tulip !—
here’s my warrant, so come along. (showing warrant)
Sxoz. Warrant! what for? Bounce, I put it to you, what for ?
Poun. Shooting Captain Blazes last Monday morning, on
Wimbleton Common!
“soz. T shoot Captain Blazes—pooh—pooh—why I never could
even shoot a sparrow— -hbesides, my dear Mr. Bounce
Poun. Pounce!
Sxoz. My name isn’t Markham!
Poun. It won’t do! Why, I heard you say it was, “I am Mr.
Charles Markham,” says you!
Sxoz. But that was ina joke! Wasn't it, my dear friend? (to
Marknam)
Manx. (fiercely) I am your friend no longer, sir, your want of
common spirit on this occasion, sir, is a disgrace to a long and
illustrious line of Markhams, and I east: you off! Yes, sir,
Snozzle casts you off for ever! (crosses to tL.)
Sxoz. But, goodness gracious
Man. Silence! (shouting) Mr. Pounce, does your warrant apply
to the principal in this late affair only
Poun. That’s all, sir!
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16 TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS.
Mark. Then, as I can no longer consent to shelter a coward
from the vengeance of the law. I beg to state that I was that
person’s second in the duel you refer to !—so take him away!
Sxoz. Pooh—pooh!
Poun. Come along! (seizing Snozzuz) Come along, I say, Mr.
Markham. (dragging Syozzin towards x. 1 B.)
inter Linutenant Spike, v. &. L.
Spike. Markham! The very man I want—which is Markham?
Where is Markham? (fiercely)
Mark. (tL. aside) That voice! ’Egad, it’s the peppery old
gentleman that insisted on picking a quarrel with me last night
coming out of the assembly rooms!
Poun. (R.) Here’s Mr. Markham, sir, but I can’t let him go!
Snoz. That’s right, Bounce—don’t let me go!
SPIKE. (L. c.) Just for a minute—I only want to whisper
something in the gentleman’s ear! (grasping Sxozztn’s arm, and
leading him forward, then in @ voice of thunder) My name’s
Spike !
‘ine. Good gracious! If that’s your style of whispering, I
shouldn’t like to be within five miles of you when you holloa.
Spike. I repeat—I’m Lieutenant Spike!
Snoz. Are you ?
Spike. R. U.!
encugh !
Snoz. Quite enough!
Srixe. Stop!
before.
Syoz. I don’t recollect your cast of countenance, sir, and yet
yours is a physiognomy that I shouldn’t be likely to forget.
Spike. You didn’t see my physiognomy, sir!—we met in the
dark last night, outside the Red Lion.
Snoz. Pooh, pooh! Inever was outside a Red Lion in all my
life—I wouldn’t attempt such a thing for the world! I should fall
off to a certainty !
Srrke, Pshaw !—you wanted to take the wall—which was mine
—clearly mine !
Snoz. Pooh, pooh!—another man’s wall is just about the last
thing I should dream of taking—so awkward to carry!
Srixe. Pshaw!—words ensued—I said you were ‘‘no gentle-
man”’—you called me another—cards were exchanged—I gave
you mine—you gave me yours—and here it is (putting it under
Snozzie’s nose) Mr. Charles Markham—and now I demand an
apology—or satisfaction—I don’t care a button which !
Snoz. But JZ do !—several buttons, and since you require an
apology, Mr. Smike——
Sprrxe. Spike!
Mark. (to Snozztx) Mr. Markham—he good enough to recollect
you have nothing whatever to do with the affair !
Syoz. There—you hear, Smike——
Spike. Spike!
No, &, If, Royal Marines—I presume that’s
(about to go)
(stopping him) I needn’t remind you we've met
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS. 17
Sxoz. He confesses I have nothing whatever to do with it—I
knew it wasn’t me that took your wall!
Mark. As you’ve placed the matter in my hands, you've
nothing whatever to do with it—except to fight this gentleman !
Snoz. Oh, that’s all!—ha, ha, ha! (laughing hysterically)
Poun. It can’t be done! (to Srme) Mr. Markham is in my
custody for shooting a gentleman last Monday—and though
‘twould give me a great deal of pleasure to let him shoot you, I
can’t allow it !
Snoz. (aside to him) You’re sure you can’t?
Povun. Certain !
Snoz. (aside) If that’s the case, I'll go it a bit—(to Spmr)—you
hear, sir!—luckily for you, I’m in the custody of this officer !—
(aside to Pounce)—lay hold of me—(aloud)—who knows his duty
too well to let me go—(aside to Pounce)—mind you don’t—(aloud
to Sprke)—or else I’d have exterminated you—blown you clean
off the surface of the earth! Iwould by the blood of the
Markhams !—you wretched old Smike, you——
Spike. Zounds! and the devil
Sxoz. Ah! (grasping Pouncr’s arm—and pretending to struggle
with him)—Unhand me !—(aside to him)—don’t do anything of the
sort—(aloud)—let me get him—(aside)—hold me tight—( aloud—
and still struggling with Pounce)—It’s no use, in vain I struggle
—he drags me away! (dragging Pounce offr. 1 £. Sprxe following)
Marx. Ha, ha, ha!—come, I’m safe for the present at all events
—and now for my charming little acquaintance again! I’ve half
a mind to trust her with my secret—no, I can’t do that—at least
not for four and twenty hours, when I cease to be a Snozzle—
Snozzle—what a name to make love under!
SprKE. Sir—Mr.—Snozzle—I think
Re-enter Srrxe, Rr. 1 £.
Mark. Yes, sir—Snozzle !
Spike. Should yon have any further communication to make to
me on the subject of dispute, between your friend and myself, here’s
my card (giving card to MARKHAM)
Marx. Lieutenant Spike, R. M. (reading)
Spike. Royal Marines! You'll find me at my nieces—Miss
Sparkins, No. 4, High Street!
Mark. Sparkins! (aside) surely that’s the name that (runs
to table, u., takes up the letter that Sxozzue has written—and looks at
address)—it is—(hastening to Srixe)—Sir, when you lay your
venerable head on your pillow to-night, be grateful that the
timely arrest of my friend, Markham, has prevented you shooting
your nephew through the head—or being shot through the head
by your nephew!
Spike. My nephew! ;
Marx. Yes, sir—your nephew that will be by virtue of his
intended marriage with your niece!—he adores her; and is pre-
ete to lay his fortune at her feet—if you doubt me, here’s his
etter to her soliciting an interview! (givingSxozzux’s letter to Srixe)
18 TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE POUNDS.
SprKe, (reading ut) So itis, I declare—but he’s in custody—on a
very serious charge, too!
Marx. A mere trifle—go to the magistrate and bail him out—
then hurry him off to your charming niece—tell them to rush into
each other’s arms—join their hands—give ’em your blessing—and
the thing’s settled !
Srrxe. I’ll do it! Snozzle, I’m
Marxuam’s hand—Spriaciys appears,
obliged to you, Snozzle!
SPRIG. (overhearing) What's that, Snozzle ?
Spike. And I wish you a very good evening, Snozzle!
out, 1 ©. R., after Snozzite and Pouxcr
Seria. (behind) Snozzle, again! I see it all!—ha, ha, ha! He’s
my young rascal of a nephew after all; and he wanted to judge of
his cousin Fanny before he declared who he was! ‘’Egad, I’ve
half a mind to pay him off in his own coin! I will (aloud)
Ahem.
Mark. (aside, nr.) Oh, here’s the uncle! (seeing Spriaains grin-
ning and winking at him; aside) What’s the matter with the old
gentleman ?
Spric. Well, sir! seen anything of my nephew, yet? eh?
(grinning)
Marx. No, sir. Nothing whatever !
Sprig. Oh! nothing whatever! what a pity! He—he—he!
Marx. (aside) I’d give a trifle to know what's the mafter with
him!
Spric. Well; I suppose we must give him up! No great loss
after all! At any rate, Fanny won’t break her heart about him.
(with intention, and looking knowingly at MARKHAM)
Manx. (delighted) Indeed!
Sprig. Not she. Between you and me, I suspect she’d rather
marry somebody else !
Marx. My dear, sir, I’m delighted to hear it!
eins’ hands, and shaking them)
Spric. (aside) He keeps it up famously well; but I'll have him
now! (aloud) By-the bye, as you've been so remarkably civil, I
should like to know your name. (grinning knowingly)
Marx. My name! (aside) I can’t say it’s Snozzle,
being laughed at. (aloud) My name--why—I—th
Spric. Well? (suddenly, and triumphantly) Ha, ha, ha! §So I’ve
got you at last, have I? (giving him a violent poke in the side)
Come, come; don’t put on such an air of astonishment, you young
hypocrite, you; but confess at once you’ve been trying to make a
fool of your old uncle!
Mark. Sir!
Spric. If you call me sir a gain, or anything but “ Uncle
gins,” I'll disinherit you as sure as your name’s Snozzle!
Marx. Snozzle—me? Oh! then you know—_—
Spric. Knew you again in a moment, And what do you think
of Fanny for a wife—eh ? ‘Egad, she little suspects you’re her
cousin Sam, though—ha, ha, ha!
obliged to you— (shaking
U. E. L.)—I repeat, I’m
(hurries
(grasping Sprig-
I don’t like
at is——.
Sprig-
TO PARIS AND BACK FOR FIVE pouUNDS. 19
Mark. (forcing a laugh) Ha, ha! (aside) What the devil’s to be
done ? (aloud) Sir!
Sprig. Sir again!
Mark. I mean Uncle Wiggins—I should say, Figgins.
Spric. Spriggins
Marx. Of course, Spriggins. Suppose we conceal that fact from
her a little longer—just for four-and-twenty hours, eh ?
spric. No, Sam; no more masquerading! Oh, there she is!
Here, Fanny! Fanny! (goes up, beckoning off at back) Fanny,
I say! Lxit, L. U. E.
Marx. ’Egad—let matters take their course—I’m desperate.
Linter Josern, t., with tray and a pint decanter of sherry, which he
places on table, wu.
Jos. Here you are, Mr. Markham; pickled salmon—cucumber—
pint ofsherry! Couldn’t get any kidneys, so I brought a lobster.
(laying things on table without loohing at Manxuam. ell rings, L.)
Coming! (runs into hote l)
Marx. Supper for Mr. Markham? Well, as I’m the only Mr.
Markham present, I’d better eat it; especially as my poor friend
Snozzle is not likely to put in an appearance—thanks to Messrs.
Pounce and Spike. (eating and drinking) Capital sherry—pickled
salmon, ditto.
SPIKE. (without, R. 1 E.) Come along, my dear friend! It’s all
right.
Enters arm-in-arm with Sxozun, and hurrying him along, Sxozzx’s
hat comes very much over his eyes.
I’ve had the intense satisfaction of putting in bail for your
before the bench appearance to-morrow.
Snoz. Have you? Then all I can say is, that if my appearance
to-morrow isn’t a decided improvement on my present appearance,
I shall rather astonish the bench.
Spike. (r.) What do you mean?
Snoz. (c.) Why, I mean, that after having been deposited in the
town jail by that ruffian Bounce, I was shown into a sort of cellar,
and coolly told that I was to pass the night there; and when I
remonstrated, which I confess I did in rather energetic terms, they
said I was refractory, and at onee proceeded to one of the most
atrocious acts of violence ever perpetrated in Christian community !
Spike. What? you make my hair stand on end!
Sxoz. That’s exactly what they did to mine! Look here!
(takes off his hat, and shows his hair cropped to the roots) And I was
obliged to give the turnkey ten shillings for this old hat! and I
was going to be photographed to-morrow. Ofcourse, I can’t be
photographed with such a crop as this ?
Spike. I see !—you intended to present your portrait to her you
wish to marry—eh ? ( pol LI him in the side)
Snoz. Exactly! (aside) I wonder how it is that Smike knows all
about me and cousin Fanny!
Spike. (grasping Sxozzin’s hand) She’s yours! I’ve said it,
that’s cnough! so come to your uncle’s arms!
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20 ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS.
Mason. (to Victor) Sir, you shall give me satisfaction on
the spot. I never travel without my pistols!
(producing pistols from his pocket, and presenting one to
VicTor)
Victor. (in a furi
bull dog !
Masor. Insolent puppy!
this table, in the American style!
be second to both of us.
(Vicror and Masor place themselves one on each side of the
table)
Spric. (wringing his hands) Oh, dear—oh, dear! a duel
across my best bit of mahogany! (rushing between them—roare
ing) Gentlemen—gentlemen! this isn’t Chalk Farm !
Magsor. Now, then, sir, are you ready ?
SpriG. (in a paroxysm of fear) Murder! fire! police !
Magor. Keepstill, you old jackanapes, or—(suddenly looking
in the direction of the window) Hallo! can I believe my eyes?
(runs violently to window, and opens tt,
ous rage) Sare, you are one enragé ros-bif
You shall receive my fire across
Old What’s-his-name shall
Enter Mrs. Spricains, c. from.
Mrs. §. Why, what on earth is the meaning of all this
noise ?
Magor. (looking out of window) Zounds and confusion! if
there isn’t my wife looking in at a bonnet shop! By Jupiter,
she’s coming here! (shuts down window violently, and breaks a
pane of glass)
Sprig. (despairingly) There goes half a crown’s worth.
Masor. Now, then, I shall discover the truth at last. I'll
conceal myself behind these window curtains, and mark me—
if one of you, by word or sign intimate that Iam in the room
—(with calm ferocity) I—Tll blow his brains out. (conceals
himself behind curtain—he occasionally clicks the lock of a pistol,
as a reminder.
Mrs. S. (alarmed) Mercy on us! what a ferocious monster.
Spric. (dolefully) If I’m not laid up after all this, it’s a
pity! Oh, what a fool I was ever to let lodgings—and what
an idiot I was to stick up “Ici on Parle Francais!”
Enter Juuta, c. from i.
Jura. Dear me, how very vexatious; my husband appears
merely to have stopped a few minutes at the hotel, and then to
have gone outno one knows where. (observing their silence and
constraint) But what’s the matter with you all? What doyou
all mean by staring at one another in this way.
Spric. (confused) I—I—I—don’t feel exactly the thing.
Juuia. Has anything happened during my absence?
ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS. eI
strict silence—t) Spricains) Has my husband been hee
again? (no oneanswers) Have either of you seen him, I gay ?
Spric. No!
Mrs. 8. No!
Victor. No!
Jutta. So much the better, (to Vicror) forif he had found
you here, monsieur, there’s no knowing what might have
happened.
Masor. (whorepeatedly pops his head from behind curtains—
—aside) So, she was anxious on the fellow’s account; fire and
fury!
JULIA. (continuing) My poor husband is so dreadfully
jealous. (to Mrs, Spricerns) If he had even seen the friendly
shake of the hand which your husband gave me just now at the
door—
Spric. (horrijly alarmed) It’s no such thing! I—I—I
didn’t give you a friendly anything! (aside—writhing) I’m
certain the monster is taking deliberate aim at me between the
shoulders,
JULIA. (appears surprised at SPRIGGINS’ manner, but con-
tinues) I’m sure you, monsieur, (addressing Victor} must
have noticed how fiercely he glared at you in the train, every
time you happened to look my way. (Victor says nothing, but
nods his head violently) I do beliceve—ha, ha, ha! I do believe
he was jealous of you—of you who confess that you are dying
in love with the young lady you met at a ball in Paris.
Masor. (asiae, popping his head from between curtains) A
young lady—bal—Paris ?
JULIA. (continuing) A young lady to whom you must indeed
be deeply attachzd, since you have journeyed to this town for
the sole purpose of seeking after her.
Masor. (aside) What's that she says? (rushes violently to-
wards Victor, and as he does so, drags down curtains)
JULIA. (extrenely astonished) My husband!
Mrs. S.
SPRIG.
Mason. (stumbling over curtains) Confound your curtains!
throws them away—to Victor eagerly) Is it really true that
. 0 are in love with somebody else ?
Victor. Vat you mean, sare?
Sprig. To be sure ke is—the somebody in question happens
to be my daughter.
Masor. Your daughter? why, you never told me you had
a daughter! Produce her! produce your daughter, sir!
(v2 agony) The curtains!
Enter ANGELINA, R.1 £., during the last words.
Sprig. Here she comes!
23 ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS.
Masor. Hem! Ah! nice looking girl, not in the least like
her father. (to ANGELINA—impressively) Young woman, 1s
this seductive foreigner in love with you?
ANGEL. (glancing archly at Victor) At any rate, he says so!
Victor. (rapturously approaching her) And he mean it, too
—and once more, (turning to Spriaeins) my dear old gentlee
mans, I pray you to accord to me se hand of your charmante
female shild; my father, he vere rich—Dubois et Compaguie,
Rue Saint Lazare, Paris.
Masor. (hastily) Dubois and Co., Rue St. Lazare—bless my
soul—know the firm well—got a house out at the Cape! (aside)
By Jove then, I’ve been making an ass of myself all this time:
(abruptly) Take her, young man—she’s yours! (handing ANGE-
LINA to VictoR—patheticaily) Bless you, my children !
Spric. (hastily) Hallo! there—not quite so fast—as I’m
only the young lady’s father, allow me to have some share in the
matter! Mrs. S. and I must talk the matter over, and if, upon
inquiry, I find Mr. Dubois’ description of himself to be correct,
I see no reason why we shouldn’t accept him as our son-in-law.
Victor. (kissing ANGELINA’s hand) Oh, bonheur!
Enter Anna Marta, c. from L., with bonnet and shawl on.
Anna. (with great dignity) Please to pay me my wages, and
to examine my box, for my cousin, the policeman, has called to
fetch it away.
Sprig. My good girl, we'll see ahout all that presently—Mrs.
Spriggins, you were perfectly right—If ever I speculate again,
I'll take precious good care it shan’t be on my own premises,
and, for the future, my only method of ‘letting lodgings,” will
be to * let lodgings alone !”
Anna. (eagerly) Let lodgings alone! then I resumes my
place. (takes uff bonnet and shawl)
Sprig. Thankee! (continuing) And as for French, my dear,
I give up all idea of it, whether before or after breakfast, for al-
though my pretensions to that language have brought me ason-
in-law, I am firmly convinced I shall never have it in my power
conscientiously to say—(tapping himself on the forehead)
| “6 Icr ON PARLE FRANCAIS!”
Anna. Mrs.S. Sprig. ANGEL. Victor. JuniA. MAsor.
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THE
MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG;
A Furte,
LOR SS ee Sa
BY
GILBERT ABBOTT A’BECKETT,
AUTHOR OF
The Mendicant, The Postilion, Jack Brag, Man-Fred, King Incog,
Unfortunate Miss Bailey, The Revolt of the Workhouse,
The Roof Scrambler, Figaro in London, The
Turned Head, St. Mark’s Eve,
&e., &e.
THOMAS HAILES LACY,
89, STRAND, LONDON.
REMARKS.
The (Man with the Carpet Bag.
Tus farce turns upon an ingenious incident. it has
simplicity of plot ; neatness of execution ; humour of dia-
logue ; shrewdness of remark ; and a natural and satisfac-
tory conclusion. Considerable mirth is excited at the ex-
pense of the law ; which the law can well afford, seeing to
what expense it puts its clients.
Mr. Grab, an attorney of unscrupulous conscience, is
employed to carry on the suit of ‘* Fleece versus Pluck-
well.’? Fleece hopes to recover certain estates from Pluck-
well, on the plea that there are no deeds to entitle him to
hold them. Pluckwell depends much upon a possible
lucky discovery of the said deeds, and more upon the fo-
rensic eloquence of Counsellor Wrangle, who, in the event
of success, is to marry his daughter with a fortune, and,
per contra, without one. The dumps depend upon dad’s
being put out of them, by winning his cause. Now Lu-
cifer, who, from their wickedness, must have something to
do with the affairs of this world, has put the missing
parchments into the possession of Grab. But Grab wants
a confederate to assist him in his plans ; and who so fit as
Mr. Griraes, his confidential clerk ?
With due caution the wily practitioner discloses the im-
portant secret to his dependant; who is to swear (to the
best of his belief!) to the non-existence of the deeds.—
The action will not lie, unless Grimes does! A weekly
five shillings to his pound is to be the price of his perjury.
The case comes on a few miles from London; and a diffi-
culty arises as to the temporary disposal of the papers
during his absence. His chambers may be searched—
robbed; they must not be left there. In sight, Grimes is
to be safely trusted; but out of sight, the pupil may
‘better the instruction’’ of his preceptor! It is decided
that he too shall repair to the scene of action, and carry
with him, not in a blue bag, which looks like a lawyer, but
in a carpet bag, which looks like a gentleman! the im-
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6 REMARKS.
portant deeds; and that no suspicion may arisé as to his
respectability, he is not to know his master on his travels.
Mr. Wrangle has arrived at the Hog and Hatband, an inn
that stands highest and charges highest of any in the town.
The brandy and water is weakly, and the newspaper daily :
he sits down to discuss the one, and digest the other. Mr.
Wrarttle, like certain of his professional brethren, is a
spice of Mr. Puff. He joins fond couples in holy matri-
mony that never saw one another before—murders men
for a crown that are alive and merry, and gets a supple-
mentary two-and-sixpence the next day for bringing them
to life again! He is paragraphist, purveyor for the press,
penny-a-liner ;—one of the interminable tribe of “* We ;”?
a dry dog over his porter—a more dry one in print; an
oracle in a small way, and portentously and pertinaciously
political! In the ‘‘ Tap-Tub’’* he recognises an extem-
pore fratricide, perpetrated in his own chambers over an
extra pint of half-and-half; and, as an appendage to the
editor’s leading article, ‘‘ Ingenious Swindling !’’ another
flam from the same everlasting manufactory, and conceived
when the waiter demurred to bring in the second glass be-
fore he touched for the first. Ingenious Swindling”’ is
a happy flight of imagination, cautioning landlords against
a perambulating prigger—a man with ‘‘a carpet bag,”
who stuffs his utensil full of cabbage leaves, which he
leaves in his bed-room, and supplies their vacuum with
anything he can cabbage. Jests sometimes prove melan- —
choly things: ‘‘ Half the strange stories (says Johnson)
you hear in the world come from people’s not understand-
ing a joke.”’? The landlord of the next inn takes imagina-
tion’s flight for gospel: he marshals his household to give
them warning against the man with the “ carpet bag.’’—
Wrangle, Grab, and Grimes, arrive at the inn, where the
‘* caution’’ has just made such a stir. Boots is particu-
larly eloquent, and contributes not a little to the hilarity
of the scene. All eyes are suddenly fixed on the man
with the ‘carpet bag.’? Grab and Wrangle agree to take
a chop together; Grimes, too, as ‘ Uncle pays for all!”
is similarly inclined, and asks the waiter what he has got
in the house. ‘‘ More than you will take out of it!” is
the ominous reply. He requires a bed-room: the cham-
bermaid will let no bed-room to the man with the “ carpet
bag!’’ Grimes never felt so uncomfortable since he was
* Lord Brougham’s appropriate cognomen for “ The Morning
Advertiser,”
REMARKS. 7:
ducked in the Fleet! He beckons Bouts. The benefi-
cent Boots can hardly believe he is “‘ sich a willin!’’? But
some of your hardest rogues look the softest; and such a
rogue is the man with the ‘‘ carpet bag!’’ He is ex-
horted by Boots to repent, and give up his evil deeds !—
He calls for a glass of brandy and water, hot—*‘ Tkat’s
cool !’’ cries the waiter—‘‘ and with a si/ver spoon in it !’’
The landlord is next appealed to: he has called for several
things in his house. No doubt; but he won’t carry them
away with him! This is a finisher: he will leave the inn ;
but there are two words to that bargain. His ‘‘ carpet
bag’’ must be searched ere he is allowed to depart. —
Wrangle, seeing the mischief that is likely to ensue, in-
terferes in his behalf; and Grab, whose character and
costs are in jeopardy, volunteers to be the ‘‘ carpet bag”’
man’s professional adviser. He insists that the bag shall
not be searched; it is an infringement of the subject’s li-
berty. The appearance of Mr. Pluckwell, the magistrate,
brings matters to a crisis. Grimes, alarmed at the scrape
he has got into, and in spite of Grab’s strenuous opposi-
tion, agrees to the search. The mysterious ‘‘ carpet bag’’
is opened, its contents are examined, and the estates
finally secured to the Pluckwell family. The barrister is
united to the young heiress, and the fortune gained.
The quaint sayings and home-thrusts of Grimes were
given with strong effect by Mr. Mitchell. This character
is entirely epigrammatic; and the hard hits against the
legal profession are truly subtle and searching. Boots
(ludicrously represented by little Ross) is a Trojan in
a smaller degree; and the magistrate’s daughter is not a
whit behind hand in her anti-legal wit. ‘‘ The Man with
the Carpet Bag’’ is one of Mr. A Beckett’s best produc-
tions; and, what is somewhat remarkable in modern
farce, it reads well.
ts D.-—G.
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4
Gast of the Characters,
As performed at the Metropolitan Minor Theatres.
Strand, 1835. St. James’s, 1836.
Pluckwell (a Magistrate) . . Mr. Doyne. Mr. Hollingsworthe
Wrangle (a Junior Barrister) Mr. Forrester. Mr. Forrester.
Grab (an Attorney) .- Mr. Williams. Mr. Strickland.
pineal Man with the } Mr. Mitchell. Mr, Mitchell.
Carpet Bag) ‘
John (Waiter at the yee Mr. Dubochett. Mr. Bishop.
Inn) . ° é
Mr. Stokes (Landlord) . . Mr. Debar. Mr. Gray.
Tom a Mr. Kerridge. Mr. Sidney.
Fred { Waiters. « * * § Master Horton. Mr. Moore.
Boots ‘ . - ‘ . Mr. Oxberry. Mr. Gardner.
Coachman F ; . . Mr. Morrelli. Mr. Williamson.
“> * b / <
ter) ; ‘
Chambermaid ; A . Miss Willmott. Miss Stuart.
Barmaid : s - . Miss Ward. Miss Jefferson
@Wostume.
PLUCKWELL.— Brown coat and waistcoat—black
breeches.
WRANGLE.—Black suit.
GRAB. — Black coat, waistcoat, and breeches—high
black boots.
GRIMES.—Shabby black suit.
JOHN. — Blue coat — light waistcoat—pantaloons—
shoes.
MR. STOKES.—Brown suit.
TOM and FRED.—Plain walking dresses.
BOOTS.—Drab jacket—kerseymere breeches—worsted
atockings—shoes.
COACHMAN.—Great coat—large hat—boots.
HARRIET.—White muslin—straw hat.
CHAMBERMAID.—Coloured gown, white apron, &c.
BARMAID.—Coloured gown, smart cap, &c.
STAGE DIRECTIONS.
The Conductors of this Work print no Plays but those which they
have seen acted. The Stage Directions are given from personal ob-
servations, during the most recent performances.
R. means Right; L. Left; C. Centre; R.C. Right of Centre;
L. C. Left of Centre; D.¥F. Door in the Fiat, or Scene running across
the back of the Stage; C.D.F. Centre Door in the Flat; R.D.F.
Right Door in the Flat; L.D.¥F. Left Door in the Flat; R.D. Right
Door: L.D. Left Door; S.E. Second Entrance ; U.E. Upper En-
trance; C.D. Centre Door.
*,* The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience.
THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—An Attorney’s Office—a carpet-bag and a
blue bag hanging against the wall—a table, R.
Gras and GriMEs discovered—Grab seated at the table,
with deeds, papers, pens, &c.— Grimes seated on a stool
at a desk, L. U. E., writing.
Grab. Well, Mr. Grimes, what are you now upon?
Grimes. Upon the stool, sir.
Grab. Nonsense! Have you drawn that abstract ?
Grimes. Yes, sir, I’ve done the deed.
Grab. Did you serve the subpoena in Pluckwell, at the
suit of Fleece ?
Grimes. Yes, sir.
Grab. Did you serve him at home?
Grimes. No, sir, I did it in a regular lawyer-like man-
ner; I served him out.
Grab. That will do. Nowcomehere; I want to talk to
you. [They come forward.) This case of Fleece v. Pluck-
well is one of great importance to the parties interested.
Grimes. You mean the lawyers, I suppose, sir ?
Grab. Hearme. My client, Mr. Fleece, proceeds against
Pluckwell for the recovery of certain estates, on the ground
that there are no deeds in existence to entitle Pluckwell to
them :—now, I have these very deeds, but I must keep
them back, or the action will not be good.
Grimes. Yes, sir, but if you keep them back, it won't
be a good action: ’twill be a bad action, won’t it, sir, to
keep a man out of his own property ?
Grab. Don’t dictate to me, sir! Holding back the deeds
is the only thing that will make the action good in law;
and that’s my business.
Grimes. Oh, it’s nothing to me, sir; I’m only the clerk.
Grab. Quite right, Mr. Grimes; and I shall want you
to make oath, though I shall not need your presence as a
witness. [Giving a paper.] You will find in this paper in-
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10 THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. YACT L
structions for an affidavit to which you will have to swear ;
you must swear that, to the best of your knowledge, those
deeds are not in existence; you must stick to that, or the
action won’t lie.
Grimes. Then, if I don’t lie, the action won’t lie either ?
But how am I to satisfy my conscience ?
Grab. Why, Ishall add five shillings a week to your salary.
Grimes. Thank you, sir; that will about do it.
Grab. And, remember, you need not know these deeds
are in existence ; for what proof have you? I only said so.
Grimes. Oh! that’s no proof, sir: if you only said so,
that’s no evidence at all.
Grab. Then, again, you have only seen the outside of the
papers ; you are not to suppose, though you see them in
my Office, that the deeds are good.
Grimes. Certainly not, sir; good deeds in your office
are not at all common.
Grab. Exactly so. But now, Mr. Grimes, that your
conscience is eased in this particular, let me know if I
really can depend upon you.
Grimes. Why, if you can’t, sir, there’s no honour among
thieves ; that’s all I can say.
Grab. 1 believe you are grateful, Mr. Grimes, and will
acknowledge you have been obliged by me.
Grimes. True, sir, I have been obliged by you—[ Aside. |
to do many very dirty actions !
Grab. I have patronized you warmly; I evinced as
much interest in your welfare, as if you had been a rich
client, instead of a poor dependant; you were an outcast,
and I took you in.
Grimes. You did, sir—you took me in; andif I’d been
a rich client, as you say, you wouldn’t have acted other-
wise.
Grab. Well, Grimes, I think you know me, and you
know also what a professional man must be. In the law,
one who is a man of business must sometimes sacrifice
considerations both of feeling and honour.
Grimes. Yes; and you are always in business, you
know, sir.
Grab. I confess it, Grimes; but a man in our profession
must put his heart in it: when I started in business, that
was my only capital.
Grimes. You did not risk much, then, sir.
Grab. Well, Grimes, never mind that; can I] place
reliance in your fidelity ?
SCENE J.| THE MAN WITH THE CAKPET BAG. IL]
Grimes. Certainly, sir, as long as you are not in arrear
with my salary.
Grab. Very well. NowIam going five or six miles from
London to the trial of the cause ‘‘ Fleece v. Pluckwell,’’
which comes off on the home-circuit this day.
Grimes. Yes, sir.
Grab. Weil, I shall want your assistance; for if Pluck-
well should gain the cause, 1 lose my costs.
Grimes. Very well, sir.
Grab. Not at all very well. But the finding these deeds
would be the only means of Fleece being beaten.
Grimes. Why not destroy them at once ?
Grab. Not yet: I always think it prudent to have two
strings tomy bow; and while I possess these deeds, I have
my client Fleece completely in my power.
Grimes. You wish them to be locked up, sir, till we
get back ?
Grab. No, I cannot trust them out of my reach. Ssuppose
anything should happen in my absence, and my chambers
were to be either robbed or searched, the deeds would of
course come to light.
Grimes. There are very few lawyers would like all their
deeds brought to light, sir.
Grab. Exactly, and these in particular ; you must there-
fore take charge of them yourself, and bring them down
with you to the trial.
Grimes. But can’t I take charge of them intown? Why
should I go out of town with you?
Grab. Why, the fact is, though I have had the fullest
confidence in you, when I have you under my eye, duty to
myself will not allow me to trust you out of my sight with
‘those papers.
Grimes. [Aside.| The suspicious old villain! [Aloud.]
‘I’m sure, sir, the length of time I’ve been under you ought
‘to have made you confide in me by this time.
Grad. It is your length of service, under me, that is my
‘only reason for distrusting you.
Grimes. Well, sir, you know best what I’ve learned
under you; but how am I to take charge of the very
deeds I’m to swear I know nothing about? Suppose I
should be searched on the road ?
Grab. The thing is impossible; you must travel as if
you did not know me, and that will avoid suspicion.
Grimes. Yes, sir, it will look more respectable my not
knowing you ; but howshallI take them? Ina blue bag?
2 THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. [ACT 1.
Grab. No; a blue bag is lawyer-like ; and, consequently,
suspicious. We must have something that looks more as if
it belonged to a gentleman.
Grimes. And less as if it belonged to you? I understand
you, sir.
Grab. Take down that carpet bag; that will be the
very thing.
Grimes. [Taking down the carpet bag, and holding it to
Grab.| That’s a good thought, sir; a carpet bag is very
unsuspicious, and particularly unlawyer-like.
Grab. How so? What is there so unlawyer-like about
a carpet bag?
Grimes. Why, sir, it puts a great deal in a very small
compass.
Grab. Yes; it will be the very thing. [Putting in deeds.]
Now, mind you are very cautious; don’t let the deeds fall
out on any account.
Grimes. No, I won’t, sir; the papers sha’n’t fall out;
we’ll leave the falling out to the clients. |
Grab. Now we’ll lock them up securely, that nobody
may touch them.
Grimes. Yes, sir; put them in Chancery.
Grab. And I will take the key of the padlock, so that
even if you were to wish to produce them against me, you
wouldn’t have the power.
Grimes. Lord, sir! you need not be so particular about
the lock—I’m not going to bolt!
Grab. No, | know that, my dear fellow; but you might
be robbed—you might go down in bad company.
Grimes. Well, but I’m not going with you.
Grab. No; and as I am not to be known by you, I may
as well get on at once to the place from which the coach
starts. ‘The name of the house is the Hog and Hatband.
You had better follow me there presently, but do not show
yourself inside the house. [Crossing toL.] And, mark me:
don’t, on any pretext, lose your hold of the carpet bag: if
any one asks you to allow him to take your luggage, say,
decidedly, ‘‘ No!’’ Wherever you are, hold the carpet bag
in your hand.
Grimes. Very well, sir; I'll keep hold of it as firmly as
a bailiff holds a man that’s arrested.
Grab. Well, I think we understand each other now,
Grimes; (Significantly, aud giving money.}| therefore, I
shall leave you to study vuur affidavit—that is, the draft.
Grimes. Andaprecious draftitis! Must 1 swallow all this?
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SCENE (1.] THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. 13
Grab, Come, come, no flinching. I’ve given you a pill
with it; you have only to say certain deeds do not exist ;
and that they do, you have only my word. Why should
you believe me?
Grimes. Very true, sir; why should I?
Graé. Exactly! You must banish such ridiculous qualms,
When I entered business, I used to be tormented with se-
veral scruples of conscience; but before I’d been in it a
year, I hadn’t two grains. Follow me in a few minutes to
the Hog and Hatband.
Grimes. Very well, sir.
Grab, And, above all, never, for one moment, lose your
hold of the carpet bag. [Ewxit, 1.
Grimes. My master is a thorough scoundrel; practice,
they say, makes perfect, and his practice has made him a
perfect rascal. Well, a man who is honest gets no busi-
ness, and so he has no business to be honest ; that’s my
argument. I consider myself a part of this office, and I
think it’s my duty to do as I’m directed; I’m only an in-
strument in Mr. Grab’s hands, like a pen or a piece of
paper. If he had a pen that wouldn’t write, he’d cut it;
and if he had a clerk that wouldn’t do as he was told, he’d
cut him also. I don’t see that I’m to blame; I don’t
much like,this swearing, though; but it an’t like an oath—
it’s only ‘Gh affidavit. Besides, as it’s law, they’ll turn it
and twist it into so many shapes and phrases, that they’ll
almost conceal the lie in the technicalities. There’s never
anything directly to the purpose in a law form; and so, I
dare say, I shall be able to set my hand and seal very con-
scientiously. Well, I shall follow Mr. Grab to the Hog
and Hatband. I must remember his instructions. First,
I’m never to let go the carpet bag; secondly, I’m not to
know my master, but pretend to fancy that he’s some re-
spectable person, going the same road with me. Fancy Grab
a respectable person! what a tremendous stretch of ima-
gination! Why, that will be the most difficult job he ever
set me to accomplish, to fancy him a gentleman |!
[Exit with the carpet bag, u.
SCENE II.—The Coffee Room at the Hog and Hatband—
two tables and two chairs.
Enter WRANGLE, L.
Wra. It cannot be long, now, before the coach starts.
] am rather impatient, for I have two suits to urge on my
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i4 THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. [aAcT 1.
arrival at the assize town. First, I] have to defend old
Pluckwell, at the suit of Fleece; secondly, I have to press
my suit with my client’s daughter; for which purpose, I
also go to court, though of a more agreeable kind than
any under the jurisdiction of his majesty’s judges. If I
gain my cause for Pluckwell, I gain a fortune with his
daughter; but I am rather fearful of the result, as success
depends on the production of deeds that are not forthcom-
ing ; however, I must hope for the best. [Calling.] Waiter !
Enter WAITER, L.
Wai. What did you please to want, sir?
Wra. The morning paper.
Wai. Do you please to take anything with it, sir?
Wra. With it! What do you mean? Certainly not.
Wai. Then the paper’s engaged, if you please, sir.
Wra. Oh, I see! I will take something with it: you
may bring me a glass of brandy and water with it, as the
paper is generally rather dry.
Wai. Vil bring them directly, sir. Brandy and water
you said—didn’t you, sir?
Wra. Yes, yes, that will do; at all events, it will make
me warm within.
Wai. Then, sir, you'll have it cold without. [Fzit, x.
Wra. It’s very hard that a poor devil of a barrister, like
me, can’t come in and digest a newspaper without being
forced to call for something that he has no call for; though
I ought not to object to paying something for a newspaper
occasionally, for I don’t know how I should get on, if I
didn’t now and then pick up a pound or two by writing
newspaper paragraphs.
Re-enter Waiter with brandy and water, and a news-
paper, L.
Wai. Paper, sir, and brandy and water.
Wra. The brandy and water looks weakly.
Wai. Does it, sir? But the paper is daily.
Wra. 1 don’t think your master has put much spirit in
this.
Wai. | heard my master say, sir, there’s an immense
deal of spirit in the leading article. [Ezit, 1.
Wra. Well, that’s cool, upon my honour! What is there
sn the paper? Plenty of lies, of course ; for, indeed, when
the public take in a newspaper, for a newspaper to take in
the public is but gratitude. I often do my share. The
SCENE Ii.] THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. 15
other day I committed a murder for a morning paper,
and laid the mar out, at full length, in a ten-shilling para-
graph. He was ascertained not to be dead, and | got five
shillings for the contradiction, which 1 embellished with due
denunciations of the villany of injuring a family’s feelings,
by a premature announcement ef so melancholy a catas-
trophe. Here, too, I see, is one of my little paragraphs:
this, however, is quite harmless, being so perfectly a fa-
brication that it cannot possibly do injury to any one. It
might be a fact, and that’s a sufficient recommendation for
its introduction in a newspaper. Let’s see how it reads.
[Reading.| *‘ INGENIOUS SwinpD.LiInG.—Innkeepere are
cautioned against a man with a Carpet Bag, who travels
about with no other luggage than that alluded to. He fills
his carpet bag with cabbage leaves, or other rubbish, which
he generally empties under his bed, and substitutes what-
ever valuables may come in his way—utterly regardless who
may be the owner of the property. The man with the
carpet bag has already visited several hotels and inns in the
vicinity of London, the landlords of which have deem minus
several valuables, and plus only a parcel of cabbage leaves.’
{Laughing.| Ha! hail that reads well, and can do no
mischief; it has put a few shillings inte my pocket, and
will put the innkeepers on the look-out for a swindler who
never will arrive.
Enter Gras, L., followed by the WAiTER.
Wai. What will you please to take, sir?
Grab. I’ve just taken something.
Wai. Have you, sir?
Grab. Yes, I took my place by the coach, just as I
entered.
Wai. [Aside.] A stingy fellow! Well, the coach may
go without him, before I’d let him knowit’s ready. (Hai, t.
Grab. 1 teld Grimes net to make his appearance at the
cofiee-house; I hope he’ll get down safe with the carpet
bag. [Looking round—aside.} Hollo! there’s some one
sitting! I didn’t see him.
Wra. Good morning, sir!
Grad. (r.) Good morning, sir!
Wra. {v.) A fine day, sir!
Grab. Yes, sir, but dusty.
Wra. Yes, it is dusty; but we must expect dust at this
time of the year.
Grab. Yes, sir, we must look for it now.
B2
,
16 THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. [ACT I.
Wra. No, my dear sir, we need not look for the dust,
unless we want to have it in our eyes. [Aside.|] This is but
a dull fellow for conversation; I'll try and draw him out.
[Aloud.| Have you seen the paper, sir?
Grab. No, sir.
Wra. Here is this morning’s } there’s nothing at all in it.
Grab. Thank you, sir; then I dare say it will be very
amusing.
Wra. There was nothing done in the houses last night ;
nothing in the Lords, and nothing in the Commons.
Grab, That’s nothing out of the common way, sir, at all
events.
Wra. Are you for the assizes ?
Grab. Yes, sir, I’m in the profession; but if they make
the changes they talk about, lawyers won’t be worth a straw.
Wra. But their clients will, sir; there’ll be the great
difference.
Grab. I presume, then, sir, if you hold those opinions,
that you’re no lawyer ?
Wra. Oh, yes; I am a barrister, and I believe they’re
much the same.
Grab. Not always. But the changes I allude to will bring
us into a very bad case.
Wra. \ rather think, sir, they will keep us out of a
great many bad cases.
Grab. You're severe, sir, upon your own profession.
Wra. Well, I don’t owe my profession much; for I’ve
seldom been upon my legs since I’ve been upon my own
hands.
Grab. It’s a bad look-out for a young man, I must
admit; but you must hope to rise, 7
Wra. Yes, sir, but I am never called upon to rise: there
I sit, without a common motion of course, all day, while
ny seniors are always upon the move, as if they had dis-
overed the grand secret of perpetual motion.
Grab. Every Lord Chancellor, you will remember, has
been a junior barrister.
Wra. Yes, sir; but every junior barrister cannot become
; Lord Chancellor.
Grab. Not exactly; but many may hope for the honour.
Wra. Not in these days: chancellors were never very
-ady to make way for their successors, and now they stick
o, that one would think there was an adhesive plaister
pon the woolsack.
[A coack-horn heard without, R.—they start up.
SCENE I111.] THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. 17
Re-enter WAITER, R.
Grab. Is that the coach?
Wai. What have you taken, sir?
Grab. Nothing. Was that the coach I heard outside ?
Wai. I can’t tell what you’ve heard; we've something
better to attend to than noises outside.
Grab. (Aside.] Insolent brute! It must be the coach.
I hope Grimes will be in time, and have got the carpet bag
all safe. [Lait in a hurry, r.
Wra. Here; what have I to pay, eh?
Wai. A shilling, sir, if you please; and the coaca waits.
Wra. [Giving a shilling.] There, there!
Wai. Remember the waiter, sir.
Wra. There, there’s twopence. [Eavit, v.
Wai. I thank you, sir. Can I take any luggage for you,
sir? Is there anything I can do, sir? That’s enough
civility for two-pence, I think! [Walks leisurely off, u.
SCENE III.—A Room in Pluckwell’s House.
PLUCKWELL, L., and HARRIET, R., discovered at break.
JSast—Pluckwell reading a law-book.
Har. Now, my dear papa, do give over reading that
nasty law-book; I’m sure it must be very dry, though
you’ve been poring over it for the last half-hour.
Plu. Harriet, my dear, the matter is of great import-
ance to our future prospects. If Fleece shou!d succeed—if
we should lose our cause
Har. Then we may find cause to lament; but Iam sure
we are safe. Mr. Wrangle, you know, is on our side, and
if eloquence can save us, we shall be triumphant.
Plu, Yes, my dear, I will allow that Mr. Wrangle is a
very clever young man; but unless the title deeds can be
produced, we are utterly undone.
Har. But 1 have full confidence in my dear Wrangle:
if I were a judge, I’m sure he could persuade me to any
thing.
Plu. That is very well, my dear; but, consider, the case
is different: a judge is not a young woman.
Har. But I've heard that some Judges are old ones; and
so I’m not so very wrong in my calculation, after all.
Plu. Yes, my dear, but the decision is one of great im-
portance; it requires a great exercise of Sagacity, and a
strict adherence to justice and impartiality.
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18 THE MAN WITH THE CARPBT BAG. [ACT EL
Har. Oh, then, I’ve hopes, if it depends upon justice.
I thought it depended upon law.
Plu. Very true, my dear; but law and justice generally
go together.
Har. Do they? Then, I suppose, if they go together,
they don’t always stay together, that’s all.
Plu. My dear, have more veneration for the legal code
of your country; remember, you are a magistrate’s daugh-
ter, and these sneers come with but an ill grace from you.
I tell you, Harriet, that law and justice are completely
wedded to each other.
Har. Wedded to each other! Then, at least, you'll
allow that, like many other married couples, they don’t
always agree.
Piu. Ah, my dear, your sex should not interfere with
these things; females now are getting as wise as the men.
Why, you young women will some day be wanting to
have representatives in parliament.
Har. And why should not young women send members
in, when old women are so thoroughly represented both in
the Lords and Commons?
Plu. Hold your tongue, my dear, I insist! I cannot sit
by, as a magistrate of the county, and hear my own
daughter speak in this strain.
Har. Well then, papa, let’s drop the debate before we’ ve
come to a division. JI’ll get rid of it by moving the pre-
vious question: will you have another cup of tea?
Plu. (Readiny the book.) I must indeed get you, my
dear, to turn over a new leaf.
Har. Give me the book, and I will turn over a new leaf.
I thought you would get tired of plodding over that one
for so many hours.
Plu. Really, your levity on the very morning of the trial
that is to decide our fate, astonishes me. Fancy the loss of
our estates and our grounds: would you not repine if we
had no longer our houses ?—Would you not lament if we had
no longer our grounds?
Har. Wy should we lament if we have no grounds ?—~
But do not let us meet misfortune half-way: if it is even
on its road, let us rather hope some accident may happen
to it, and prevent its coming to the end of its journey.
Plu. And indeed it will; for arrive it must, unless some
unforeseen accident brings to light those deeds which are
now discovered to be missed.
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SCENE III.] THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. 19
Har. Why put the worst side of the picture before us?
Let us hope the deeds have been missed to be discovered.
Piu. Weil, well, it’s no use, I see, talking seriously to
you; you'll see our misfortune when it’s too late.
Har. Isn’t that better than seeing it when it’s too early ?
But I’m-sure Wrangle will triumph in a good cause.
Plu, But the cause can't be good without the papers.
Har. Oh! I can’t see the virtue there is in a parcel of
old deeds; and I never saw one yet that didn’t begin with
i falsehood.
Plu. A falsehood, my dear! What do you mean?—
Pray speak with respect of our legal documents.
Har. Why, now, don’t all deeds begin with, ‘‘ To all to
whom these presents may come ??’
Plu. Yes, my dear; that is the solemn form of our ve-
nerable law documents—‘‘ To all to whom these presents
may come.”’
Har, Yes; and though paid for at the most extravagant
rate, they’re called presents: isn’t that false ?
Plu. No, no, my dear, it don’t mean exactly that—it
don’t mean, you know, presents—in the sense
Har. There, there—that will do. It don’t mean whatit
says; that is the only apology you can make for it ;—but
never mind; let us hope, for once, that good may come
out of evil.
Plu. [Rising.] Well, I must go to meet my friend
Wrangle at the inn, and make arrangements with him about
attending the court; our trial stands very high upon the ~
list, and will come off early.
Har. Oh, how I should like to hear it! MayI go with
you?
Plu. You can, if you please, my dear; but you will have
to wait a few minutes in the carriage, while I call at the
inn for Wrangle.
Har. Oh, don’t mind that; for I’m sure Wrangle’s
speech will be a treat. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Plu. Very well, my dear. Now we must prepare; the
carriage waits. If anything should occur to defeat us—let
me see: [ Qpening the book.) chapter 22, section 9, 30th
of George Ist. (Exit, reading, R.
Har. My poor papa seems very nervous; but, for my
part, if it were not for him, I should scarcely care which
way it wasdecided. If in our favour, he gives me to Wran-
gle, out of gratitude; if against us, Wrangle must take me
from necessity. If we lose our cause, I win a husband;
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) THE MAN WITH: THE CARPET BAG. 26
Stokes. We know him, sir; he’s the man with the carpet
bag.
Grisee. Well, if Iam a man with the carpet bag, what
is there im that?
Boots. Oh, you may well say, [Pointing to the bag.]—
what is there in that!
Grab. {Aside.|. This is terrible; they evidently suspect
what is in the carpet bag, and | am lost!
Grimes. [To Grab and Wrangle.| lL appeal to you, gen-
tlemen, whether this is a proper way to treat a traveller?
Wra. I should say, certainly not.
Grab. Aye; certainly not.
Omnes. Oh—aye—aye—aye!
Wra. But I would recommend, that as you are unfor-
tunately suspected of having a dishonest object in carrying
that carpet’ bag, you should allow it to be opened, and so
satisfy every one of your innocence.
Stokes, Tom, Boots, & Cham... Yes, yes, yes!
Grab. No, | can’t agree to that.
Boots. What have you to do with it?
Grab. I merely interfere as a lawyer, and a friend to the
unfortunate.
Boots. Oh, come, none of that—you can’t be both!
Wra. Well, sir, what would you advise? Why not let
him open the bag ?
Grimes. [To Grab.} Well, may I, sir—I mean, do you
think 1 had better, sir ?
Grab. As a lawyer, I should say no.
Boots. Then, as an honest man, 1 should say yes; and
there’s just the difference.
Re-enter FRED, t.
Fred. [To Wrangle.| The gentleman whom you have
expected has arrived.
Enter PLuckweELt, tL.
Wra. Ah, my dear-sir! I am delighted to see you!
Stokes. Oh! now we shall soon understand it, for here’s
Mr. Pluckwell, the magistrate ; he’ll settle it.
Grab. [Aside.] Pluckwell! the party to the suit! I’m
undone !
Wra. My dear sir, before going to the, trial of your
own cause, we would like your magisterial advice ona
little point, of dispute.
Plu, What is it? I’m sorry to see a disturbance in this
respectable inn; it stands the highest in the town.
c
gu.
26 THE MAN WITH THE CARPBT BAG. [ACT I.
Wra. [Aside.| And charges the highest, also!
Stokes. The fact is, sir, here is a man———
Grimes. The fact is, sir, here is a scoundrel !
Piu. Never mind descriptions now; you need not be so
particular.
Boots. Indeed, the man who describes that chap with
the carpet bag, must not be so particular.
Wra. It seems, sir, that that person is suspected of
being the party alluded to in that paragraph. [Giving the
newspaper to Pluckwell, whe reads.] We wish to know
how to deal with him.
Grimes. Deal with me, indeed! If I am a scoundrel,
why don’t you cut with me?
Boots. Oh, yes, you’re not going to shuffle out of it that
way; we've turned up a knave.
Piu. Silence! I perceive the suspicion in the case of
the carpet bag, and I will go into it.
Boots. What! the carpet bag ?
Stokes. Silence, Boots!
Plu. It is rather out of form, but as I do not wish to
detain a man who may be innocent, we will inquire at once
into the question.
Wra. 1 think, sir, that is the best way of proceeding.
Grab. I think not. I can’t see what right we have to
inquire into this man’s private affairs; I should say, dis-
charge him at once.
Omnes. No, no, no! search the bag!
Plu. [Sitting at the table.) No; I will take the respon-
sibility of inquiring into this affair; but I will see all fair.
You, Mr. Wrangle, shall state the case for the prosecution,
and as that gentleman has shown some little anxiety for the
accused, he may conduct the defence. Now, Mr. Wrangle.
Wra. | Aside.] Poor fellow! it’s all my paragragh; but
he is very obstinate in refusing to open the bag.
Plu. Prisoner! prisoner! have you anything to say, why
the carpet bag should not be opened? or have you any
witnesses to prove your respectability ?
Grimes. Why, sir—lI'll call the coachman who brought
me down. {Aside.] I gave him sixpence, which he didn't
seem to expect, and I think he’ll say a good word for me,
Plu. Very well; let the coachman be sent for.
[Exit Fred, 1.
Grimes, It’s very hard that I should be driven up in a
corner, in this way.
Wra. Well, here’s the coachman; let’s see if he can
drive you out.
a
ec
SCENE IV.] THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. 27
Enter COACHMAN, L.
Plu. Now, prisoner, have you any questions to ask that
individual ?
Grimes. Yes, sir, if you please. Mr. Coachman, I want
you to speak to my character.
Coach. I'd rather be excused; for I makes a point of
never speaking to them as an’t respectable.
Grimes. What do you mean by that? Didn’t I give
you sixpence, you vagabond?
Wra. Come, prisoner, you must not intimidate the wit-
ness, or ask for his evidence in your favour, on the plea of
a bribe. Now, coachman, what do you know of the ac-
cused ?
Coach. 1 knows nothing of him, no more than he was
took up in London; and now I finds him took up here,
before his worship.
Wra. Well, friend, but what do you know of the carpet
bag ?
Grimes. Yes, now—did you see anything suspicious in it?
Coach. Oh, no! you took care neither I nor anybody
else should see anything suspicious in it ; for you never let
go of it. :
Wra. Indeed! that’s a suspicious circumstance. Did
you ever take it from him ?
Coach. Oh, yes; but he snatched it out of my handand
wouldn’t let me touch it; he wouldn’t even let me put it
safe in the boot.
Grimes. [Aside.| Oh, that unlucky boot! there I did
put my foot it. [Aloud.] Coachman, you have driven me
to despair !
Coach. No, I have driven you to the assizes.
Wra. That will do for you, coachman. Gentlemen, this
is a case of the most extraordinary kind; and, as the evi-
dence is circumstantial, great care should be taken in re-
ceiving it. But, gentlemen, the manner in which the coach.
man gave his testimony is so fair, that it is impossible to
doubt his word. Then, too, look at the suspicious manner
in which the prisoner brought to mind the sixpenny douceur
which he had given on his journey. Gentlemen,. is it not
an aggravation of the prisoner’s delinquency, that here, in
the very face of law, with justice emblemed in the magis-
trate—with honesty typified in the whole bearing of Boots,
the chief promoter of the prosecution, and stern integrity
lowering in the features of the unbought coachman,—is it
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30 THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. [aAcY ft,
Grab. A magistrate is the last person who should open
the bag; but you, sir, who are a disinterested party, may, I
should think, inspect its contents, on a promise of secresy.
(Zo Grimes, giving him the key.] Do you consent to this ?
Grimes. Consent to that? Oh, yes, to anything; to get
out of this mess!
Grab. [To Wrangle.| You hear—he consents.
Grimes, [Aside.|. What asituation to bein! It’s worse
than that where I was clerk to a barrister without briefs,
and relied on the half-crown fees for a salary !
Wra. You may rely on my honour. [Crossing to Grimes
and taking the bag.| 1 am a barrister; my name is Wrangle.
Grab. Wrangle! Give me the bag, sir! [Crossing to n.}
I won’t allow you to search it! [Ad/ prevent Grab.| Tama
respectable attorney, and the party accused is my clerk ; ’Il
vouch for his respectability.
Boots. And a precious voucher you are! Why, you're
as bad as t’other one.
Plu. The affair begins to wear a serious complexion, as re-
gards both parties. Linsist on Mr. Wrangle searching the bag.
Grab. | tell you, sir, it only contains instruments.
Boots. Oh, yes—housebreaking instruments.
Grab. No, sir; legal instruments.
Boots. Well, an’t it all the same?
Wra. If your story be true, there can be no harm in
searching. [He opens the bag, and the papers drop out.)
Well, the man’s story seems true enough: there isnothing
in the bag but a few loose papers.
Boots. Look inside, sir; I’m sure there's mischief; see
if there an’t no skeleton keys.
Grab. Come, deliver them up to the owners.
Wra. Iwill. What’s this? ‘ Fleece v. Pluckwell.”’—
[Handing them to Pluckwell.] The very papers that were
wanting to decide our action.
Piu. They are, indeed, the same.
Grab. (Crossing to Grimes.] Oh, you rascal! an’t you
a pretty fellow? I'll stick you on one of the office files
when I get you home, and execute an endorsement on you
with the large ruler !
Piu. You were right, Boots; the papers do contain a
key, and a very important one.
+ -— <=
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Enter Frep, t., hushering in HARRIET, who crosses to
Pluckwell.
Har. Lord, papa! how long you stay! I’m quite im-
TS ee Lee = <=
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SCENE 1Y.] THE MAN WITH THE CARPET BAG. 3)
patient of waiting in the carriage outside ; the trial will be
coming on, and we shan’t have arrived in the court.
Wra. The trial is over: a little event, which I will ex-
plain some other time, has put us in possession of the pa-
pers we nave so long desired, and the estates are secured
to your family.
Har. Oh, my dear Wrangle! I knew you would be the
means of settling the trial in our favour. By what stretch
of ingenuity did you manage it?
Wra. It was brought about by that gentleman with the
carpet bag.
Har. {To Grimes.] Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! let me
throw myself at your feet. [ Kneels.
Grimes. Oh, ma’am, I don’t want anything thrown at
me; master’s been throwing his eyeballs at me in a mest
terrible manner.
Grab. Oh, Vl pay you off, Mr. Grimes ; you have lost
me my character, and, what is far worse, you have lost me
my bill of costs!
Wra. As to your character, I think your loss may be
very easily repaired.
Plu. It is in my power for this offence to commit you
both.
Grimes. Oh, no, don’t, sir; I think we’ve committed
ourselves.
Wra. Yes, it’s of no use to punish them, for their vil-
lany has not got its end; and that it will get to its end just
yet, is not very probable. [70 Grab and Grimes.] Are you
satisfied with the decision we have come to?
Grimes. (t.) Oh! it’s nothing to me; ask my master.
Grab. (n.) No, I’m not satisfied; but I have still power
to appeal. Here is a jury already sitting. [To the
Audience.| Permit me to make a few observations. My
man here, Grimes
Grimes. Oh! don’t bring me into it—I have nothing
to do with it!
Wra. [To Grab.}] Allow me, sir; perhaps I can serve
you. [Advancing, c.] | am sure no one here wishes to
judge harshly. Ladies and gentlemen, will you allow me
to move for another hearing of
THe MAN WITH THE CARPET BaG?
THE FNDe»
THE
MILLER AND HIS MEN,
Q@] faeclo-Drama,
IN TWO: ADTs
BY
ISAACK POCOCK,
AUTHOR OF
‘ The Robber’s Wife,” ‘‘ John of Paris,” “ Hit or Miss,”
‘* Magpie and the Maid,” de.
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THE MUSIC BY
Sin HENRY BLS HOP.
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THOMAS HAILES LACY,
89, STRAND, i
(Opposite Southampton Street, Covent Garden Market,)
LONDON.
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As perjormed at the Theatre Royal Haymarke', (under the management of Mr. Buckstone),
on Monday, April 22nd, 1861.
ORI RP RL PPI lB I LON
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THE MILLER AND HIS MEN.
The new Scenery and Effects by
MR. FREDERICK FENTON,
The Dresses by Mr. Barnerr and Miss Cuerry. The Properties by Mr. Foster. The Machinery by Mr. Oniver Wass.
The original Music by the late
SIR HENRY BISHOP.
The Music conducted by Mr. D. Spinane, who has also adapted an additional Chorus and Bohemian Dance at the
end of the First Act.
a a
———
Mr. Howe.
| re ee ee ee _— = -
| GRINDOFY (the Miller) ... i is ‘3 ws € iN a
LOTHAIR (a@ young Peasant) ae i noe Re ee ut Mr. W. Farren.
COUNT FRIBERG a RS uae Poe i ae ia we )=6 Mr. E. Vivuiers.
Mr. ComprTon.
KARL (his Servant) ra ste a sige iis ase gee
KELMAR (an old Cottager) ase said ve its si .. Mr. Rogers.
GOLOTZ } Li te of the B Mr. WorRELL.
RIBER f¢ (Lieutenants of the Band) ey Re “i * Mr. Cuartes Lecrerce. }
*ZINGARA CHIEF = ses ee su oe anh hy Mr. CourTNeEY.
.. Mr. Artuur LECLERCQ.
*HIS SON .#... ee re re ie eu’ ee es
The full and efficient Chorus by Millers—Mr. Weathersby, Mr. James, and Messrs. Miller, Woollidge, Evelyn, Grieves,
Cheese, Whitehouse, Fitzgihton, Banks, Ball, Coleman, Cowlrick, Sherwood, Hyne, Gould, and Hopgood.
KREUTZ S rc 7 ... Master ALEXANDER.
CLAUDINE (Daughter of Kelmar) ... his Ae ose eee <2 Miss Frorence [laypon.
LAUBETTE © .:. vie nk sa hue ace a oad wee §©=Miss CoLEMAN.
RAVINA (a Captive Victim of Grindoff ) is ie oe eee eve Mrs. Poynrer.
*ZARA (the Zingara Chief’s Daughter) ose ose oe ove eee ... Miss Louiss LEecLerce. ba
® These Characters are introduced by Mr. Buckstone, and may advantagcously be dispensed with on ordinary occasions.
ey ce
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| ACT ONE.
DISTANT VIEW OF A MILL ON THE ELBE, BOHEMIA,
WITH COTTAGE OF KELMAR.
Rounp —'‘ When the Wind Blows.”
BORDERS OF THE FOREST.
INTERIOR OF KELMARS COTTAGE.
SEsTETTE—"Stay, Pr’ythee, Stay.”
aoe ES. EO ae l'.
INTERIOR OF ROBBERS CAVE BENEATH THE MILL.
Cuorus—“ Fill, Boys, and Drink about,’ and ‘‘Now to the Forest we'll repair.”
EPAXCE OF ZINGARIE,
By Lovisp Lecrerce, Artur LEciLERCQ, and the Corps de Ballet.
ACT TWO.
INTERIOR OF KELMAR’S COTTAGE.
THE FOREST. A CAVE, WITH POWDER MAGAZINE, —~— “THE FLASK” INN.
THE MILL.
THE EXPLOSION AND DESTRUCTION OF THE ROBBER BAND!
‘NAW SIH GNY UaATIIA
iy : MILLER AND HIS MEN,
| As originally performed at the Theatre Royal, Covent
I. Garden. on October 21st, 1813.
OPPO re te ee eee
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||
GRINDOFF (the Oe ie eye eet he Mr. Farey.
COUNT FREDERICK FRIBERG
KARL (his Servant) ........0000.. Pat ox chcnivwaienns Bir. Liston.
LOTHAIR (a young 2 a ee ee Mr. Axssorr.
an KELMAR (an old Cottager)
mt KRUITZ (his Son)
sicubtidwcee Mr. Vinina.
isikeldes ice scanetiave Sir, CHAPMAN.
Minhnt ep Clad ahanGWiravielveuccecn ‘fast. GLADSTANES,
TT RIBER Mr. Jerrries.
DN, GOLOTZ PBOGIN) ossieustcecciel csccchesincs ~ Mr. Kiva.
Af ! ZINGRA U Mr. SLADER.
Z|: CLAUDINE ) ,, ' NONE Miss Boor
iF LAURETTE . (Kelmar $ Daughter 8) teeeee Miss CAREW.
HT RAVINA
PYF an sy etivats suueaseteseraiens sssceeseeeee Mrs. EGERTON.
Lhe Miller's Men, Banditti, Officers of Count Friberg, &e.
PBAAL AAA AAABRAAAAAAA AAAAA
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| Scenery,
'
i ACT I.
Ay
Scene 1.—River’sbank. Sunset. Four rows of set
ground-pieces, k. to L.; set rock, with working mill, 6th groove, .¢.
Small working figures to appear on rock, with bags of flour; small
boat to come from cavern beneath mill, and off x., then cross to
large boat to come on, L., twice. Landing bank in centre, front of
ground-piece.. Set cottage. x., (door practical) and lattice window.
Scene 2.—Rocky glen, Ist groove, whalebone cut, 1. c., to open
and close, backed by dark piece.
Scene 3.~-Interior of cottage, 3rd groove. Set fireplace, r. 3 x.
Door in flat, x.c , practical, backed with dark wood. Window, t.c.
owaters;
re.
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3
practical. Set staircase, practical, nu. 3 x.
Mq | Scene 4.—Rocky glen, (as before) 1st groove.
a Scene 5.—Cave, 4th and 5th grooves, opening in upper part of
i i\ flat, R. c., with steps and platforms to descend, masked in by rocks ;
bil ei
platforms, and steps behind opening, x.c., backed by close eave.
Set rock, R.3«., with board on it painted ‘ Powder Magazine.”
Rock, ut. 4 £., with a lighted lamp from roof, Trap door, R.c.,
practical, and steps beneath, practical.
—
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MILLER AND HIS MEN. 5
ACT II.
Scene 1.—Same as Scene 3. 3rd groove.
Scene 2.—Same as Scene 4. 4th groove.
Scene 3.—Same as Scene 5. 4th and 5th grooves.
Scene 4.—Cottage flats, Ist groove. Sign of “ Flask” over door,
Rr. door in flat, R. c., practical, and window, t. flat, backed with hut
interior.
Scene 5.—Rocky water landscape, 7th groove. Set waters,
groundpieces, set mill, 1.38. (to blow up into fragments) draw-
bridge and portcullis, practical, from stage to mill; door in mill,
practical.
Properties,
ye eae
Scene 1.—Six meal bags (full) brought from boat, n.; oars in boat.
Some flour for millers. Small handle basket, covered with white
cloth for Claudine. Pistols and daggers for Golotz and Riber.
Scene 2.—Portmanteau, name of “ Friberg” on it in brass nails,
for Karl. Lightning and Rain.
Scene 3.—Fire burning in fireplace, x.38. Poker and shovel at
fire. Table in centre, covered with white cloth; onit three plates,
three knives and forks, plate of bread and cheese, bottle of wine,
three glasses, two lichted candles in flat candlesticks. Three rustic
chairs round table. Stool at fireplace, x. Basket of apples ready,
L. 3 E., for Claudine. Poniard and sheath for Grindoff. Lightning,
door flat, and window.
Scene 4.—Dark handkerchief for Riber.
Scene 5,—Old table in c. ; on it three bottles of wine and twelve
tin cups. Two benches and six stools on; Miller’s frock, and
slouched hat on wing, 2nd groove, x. Ten muskets on ; daggers
and pistols for robbers. Sword, daggers, and pistols for Grindoff.
Dark lantern on, u. 3 £. Swor.s, pistols, and guns on flat, 1.
ACT. EE.
Scene 1.—Plain table on centre. Threerustic chairs on. Count’s
sword on table. Stool at fire, x.; very little fire burning, x. 3 £.,
in fireplace. Dark lantern lighted, and pistol, sure to fire, for
Riber. Dagger for Karl.
Scene 2.—Sime as Scene 5, Act I. Coil of small black line for
Lothair. Vial (labelled poison) for Ravina. Phosphorus bottle
and matches for Lothair. Miller’s hat on wing, L.
Scene 3.—Flask for Karl. Two pistols for Wolf, sure fire, x.
Bone of roast beef, for Karl..x. door in flat.
SCENE 4.—Slow match laid from stage inc. to mill. Lighted
torch for Ravina. Red fire and explosion, yu. 3. Wood crash,
L. 3 E. Six stuffed figures of robbers behind mill, 1. Guns,
swords, and belts for hussars. Disguise cloak, for Lothair.
Fighting swords for Lothair and Wolf.
ry ve? >
sett, CURBS &
6 MILLER AND HIS MEN.
Costumes.
Frisexc.— Hussar uniform, red tights, red jacket, blue pelisse,
tichly laced with gold, and brown fur shako.
Lornair.—Jfirst Dress: Light blue jacket, black tights, panta-
loons, half boots, and broad-brimmed hat. Second Dress: Same
style, in rags, and long hair, drapery. Third Dress: Green coat,
green apron. Jourth Dress: Large cloak.
Ketmar.—Brown jerkin, bound with fur, gray tights, russet
shoes, and gray wig.
Kreutrz.—Peasant boy ; same as Lothair.
Karu.—The same uniform as Friberg; worsted lace, as a private
hussar.
Grixvorr.—First Dress: Light drab tunic, to cover all. Second
Dress: red tunic, brown and black, open in the front, steel breast-
plate beneath, black tight pantaloons, conical hat, no rim, eagle
feather, black ankle boots.
Riser.— Brown jacket, hat, and feather, straight, same as
Grindoff.
Gotorz.—Black, same as Riber, hat, &e.
lst Ropser.—Same as Grindoff.
2xnp Rosser,—Ditto.
‘TWELVE Roppers.—Same Bohemian costume, various colours.
Six Mitier’s Men.—Short smock frocks, white tights, and
slouched hats.
Turee Mitier’s Men.—(Chorus)—change from miller’s men to
robbers.
Twztive Hussars.—Same as Karl.
CLaupINE.—Neat peasant’s dress.
Ravina.—Brown slashed shirt, trimmed with black, two brags
clasps to sashes, red petticoat showing through.
Lauretra.— Neat peasant’s dress.
MOM igs
s
,
. Jame Sete
There is no charge for performing this Drama.
THE MILLER AND HIS MEN.
SPO POFAF FP RRA POO
ACT I.
Scene First.—The Banks of a River. On the right, in
the distance, a rocky eminence, on which is a windmill at
work—a cottage in front, R. 2 E.—ASunset.
Music.—The Miller’s Men are seen in perspective, de-
scending the eminence—they cross the river in boats, and
land near the cottage, with their sacks, singing the
following
Round.
When the wind blows,
When the mill goes,
Our hearts are all light and merry ;
When the wind drops,
When the mill stops,
We drink and sing, hey down derry.
Exeunt, two in the boat, R. U. E., the rest, R.
Enter Ketmar, from the cotiage, R. 2 E.
Keim. What! more sacks, more grist to the mill! early
and late the miller thrives : he that was my tenant is
now my landlord; this hovel, that once sheltered him, 1s
now the only dwelling of bankrupt broken-hearted
Kelmar—well, I strove my best against misfortune, and,
thanks be to heaven, have fallen respected, even by my
enemies.
Enter Cuaupine, with a basket, L. 2 ¥.
So, Claudine, you are returned. Where stayed you so long?
Craup. I was obliged to wait ere I could cross the
ferry—there were other passengers.
ow
8 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [se. 1
Ketm. (x. c.) Amongst whom [ suppose was one m
whose company time flew so fast—the sun had set before
you had observed it.
Ciaup. (L.c.) No, indeed, father: since you desired me
not to meet Lothair—and I told him what you had de-
sired—I have never seen him but in the cottage here,
when you were present.
Krrtm. You are a good girl—a dutiful child, and I
believe you—you never yet deceived me.
Ciaup. Nor ever will, dear father—but
Krtm. But what?
Ciaup. I—I find it very lonely passing the borders of
the forest without—without
Keim. Without Lothair.
Cuiaup. You know, ’tis dangerous, father.
Ket. Not half so dangerous as love—subdue it, child,
in time.
Craup. But the robbers ?
Keto. Robbers! what then ?-—they cannot injure thee
or thy father—alas! we have no more to lose—yet thou
hast one treasure left, innocence !—guard well thy heart,
for should the fatal passion there take root, ’twill rob
thee of thy peace.
/LAUD. You told me, once, love’s impulse could not be
resisted.
Keim. When the object is worthless, it should not be
indulged.
Craup. Is Lothair worthless ?
Keim. No; but he is poor, almost as you are.
Ciaup. Do riches without love give happiness ?
Krim. Never.
Craup. Then I must be unhappy if I wed the miller
Grindoff.
Keim. Not so—not so ;—independence gives comfort,
but love without competence is endless misery. You can
never wed Lothair.
(‘naup. (stghing) I can never love the miller.
Kem. Then you shall never marry him—thouzh to see
you Grindoff’s wife be the last wish of your old father’s
heart. Go in, child; go in, Claudine. (CLaupine kisses
is hand, and exit into cottage, R. 2.) ’Tis plain her
sc. I.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 9
heart is rivetted to Lothair, and honest Grindoff yet
must sue in vain.
Enter Lotuatr, hastily, t. 2 E.
Lotn. Ah! Kelmar, and alone !—where is Claudine?
Keim. At home, in her father’s house—where should
she be ?
Lorn. Then she has escaped—she is safe, and I am
happy—I did not ores any her in vain.
Kei. Accompany |! —aecompany | !—has she then told
me aialsehood? Were you with her, Lothair?
Lorn. No—ye—yes. (aside) I must not alarm him,
Kev. (x.) What mean these contradictions ?
Lorn. She knew not I was near her—you have denied
our meeting, but you cannot prevent my loving her—I
have watched her daily through the village ond along the
borders of the forest.
Keim. I thank you; bdut she needs no guard; her
poverty will protect her from a thief.
Lorn. (u.) Will her beanty protect her from a libertine ?
Kevm. Her virtue will.
Loru. I doubt it:—what can her resistance avail
against the powerful arm of villany ?
Kem. Is there such a wretch ?
Lotu. There is.
Keim. Lothair, Lothair! I fear you glance at the
miller Grindoff. This is not well; this is not just.
Lotu. Kelmar, you wrong me; ’tis true, he is my
enemy, for he bars my road to happiness. Yet I respect
his character; the riches that industry has gained him
he employs in assisting the unfortunate—he has pro-
tected you and your child, and i honour him.
Keim. If not to Grindo#, to whom did you allude?
Lotu. Listen :—as 1 crossed the hollow way in the
forest, i heard a rustling in the copse. Claudine had
reached the bank above. As I was following, voices,
subdued and whispering, struck my ear. lLler name was
distinctly pronounced: ‘ She comes,’’ said one; *‘ Now!
now we may secure her,”’ cried the second; and instantly
two men advanced; a sudden exclamation burst from my
lips, and arrested their intent; they turned to seek me,
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10 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT I.
and with dreadful imprecations vowed death to the in-
truder. Stretched beneath a bush of holly, I lay con-
cealed; they passed within my reach ; I scarely breathed,
while I observed them to be ruffians, uncouth and savage—
they were banditti.
Keim. Banditti! Are they not yet content? All that I
had—all that the hand of Providence had spared, they
have deprived me of; and would they take my child ?
Lorn. ’Tis plain they would. Now, Kelmar, hear the
last proposal of him you have rejected. Without Claudine
my life is but a blank—useless to others and wretched to
myself; it shall be risked to avenge the wrongs you have
suffered. I'll ‘seek these robbers! if I should fall, your
daughter will more readily obey your wish, and become
the wife of Grindoff. If I should succeed, promise her to
me. The reward I shall receive will secure our future
comfort, and thus your fears and your objections both are
satisfied.
Key. (affected) Lothair, thou art a good lad, a noble
Jad, and worthy my daughter's love; she had been freely
thine, but that by sad experience I know how keen the
pangs of penury are to a parent’s heart. My sorrows
may descend to her when I am gone, but I have nothing
to bequeath her else.
Lorn. Then you consent?
Keim. I do, I do; but pray be careful. I fear ’tisa
rash attempt: you must have help. :
Lorn. Then, indeed, I fail as others have before me.
No, Kelmar, I must go alone, pennyless, unarmed, and
secretly. None but yourself must know my purpose, or
my person. )
Keim. Be it as you will; but pray be careful ; come,
thou shalt see her. (the mill stops)
Lorn. V'll follow; it may be my last farewell.
Kertm. Come in—I see the mill has stopped. Grindoff
will be here anon; he always visits me at nightfall, when
labour ceases. Come.
Hatt KetMar into the cotlage R. 2 E.
Loru. Yes, at the peril of my life, I'll seek them.
With the juice of herbs my face shall be discoloured, and,
in the garb of misery, I’ll throw myself within their power
Q. I.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 11
—the rest I leave to Providence. (Music) But the miller
somes.
Evit to the cottage, R. 2".—the Miller appears in
perspective coming from the crag in the rock—the
boat disappears on the opposite side. !
Enter the two Robbers, Riser and Gororz, hastily, R. 2 E.
—they rush up to the cottage, L.2£., and peep in at the
window. "
Riser. (retiring from the window) We are too late—
she has reached the cottage.
Gou. Curse on the interruption that. detained us; we
shall be rated for this failure.
Riser. (R.) Hush! not so loud. (goes again cautiously
to the window of the cottage) Ha! Lothair.
Gon. (L.) Lothair!'’twas he, then, that marred our
purpose; he shall smart for’t.
Riner. Back! back! he comes. On his return he dies;
he cannot pass us both.
Music—They retire behind a treé, L. U. E.—-@ boat
vassed in the distance from the mouth of the cavern
in the rock beneath the mill, L. Cc. to R. U. E., then
R. to L., then draws up to the bank.
Enter Grixporr, TuE Mitier, in the boat, who jumps
ashore, L.— Re-enter Lorualr, at the same moment, from
the cottage, R. 2 E.
Grin. (1., disconcerted) Lothair!
Lorn. (x.) Ay, my visit here displeases you, no doubt.
Grin. Nay, we are rivals, but not enemies, I trust. ,
We love the same girl; we strive the best we can to gain
her; if you are fortunate, Ill wish you joy with all my |
heart; if I should have the luck on’t, you'll do the same -
by me, [ hope. \
Lorn. You have little fear; Iam poor, you are rich.
Ile needn't look far that would see the end on't.
Grix. But you are young and likely. Lam honest and
rough; the chances are as much yours as mine.
Lora. Well, time will show. I bear you no enmity.
Farewell! (crosses to L.)
NPRM eng ERT
12 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT I.
Grin. (R., aside) He must not pass the forest. (to Lo-
THAIR) Whither go you?
Lorn. (u.) To the village; I must haste, or ’twill be
date ere I reach the ferry. (it begins to grow dark)
River. (who with Gouotz is watching them from L. U. E.)
He will escape us yet.
GRIN. (L. c.) Stay, my boat shall put you across the
river. Besides, the evening looks stormy—come, it will
save your journey half a league.
Riper. (aside, L. u. E.) It will save his life.
Loru. Well, I accept your offer, and I thank you.
Grin. Your hand.
Lot. Farewell!
(he goes into the boat, and pushes off, t.)
Grin. So, Iam rid of him; if he had met Claudine!—
but she is safe—now, then, for Kelmar.
Exit into the cottage, L. 2 B.
Re-enter Riser and GOLotz, Lb. U. E.
Riser. Curse on this chance! we have lost him!
Gout. But a time may come.
Rizer. A time shall come, and shortly, too.
Exeunt, . 2 B.
Scene Seconp.—The Forest—distant thunder—stage dark.
Enter Karu, dragging after him a portmanteau, t.
Karu. Here’s a pretty mess! here’s a precious spot of
work!—Pleasant upon my soul—lost in a labyrinth,
without love or liquor—the sun gone down, a storm got
up, and no getting out of this vile forest, turn which way
you will. i
Count. (calling without, u.) Halloo! Karl! Karl!
Karu. Ah, you may call and bawl, master of mine;
you'll not disturb anything here but a wild boar or two,
and a wolf, perhaps.
Enter Count FrRepericK Friserc, 1.
Jount. Karl, where are you?
Karu. (z.) Where am I! that’s what I want to know
—this cursed wood has a thousand turnings, and not one
that turns right.
LS a Fe Rr
SC. IIT.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 13
Count. (t.) Careless coxcomb! said you not you could
remember the track?
Karu. So I should, sir, if I could find the path—but
trees will grow, and since [ was here last, the place has
got so bushy and briery, that—that [ have lost my way.
Count. You have lost your senses.
Karu, No, sir, I wish I had; unfortunately, my senses
are all in the highest state of perfection.
Count. Why not use them to more effect ?
Kart. I wish I’d the opportunity; my poor stomacl
cau testify that [ taste
Count. What ?
Karu. Nothing; it’s as empty as my head: but I see
danger, smell a tempest, hear the ery of wild beasts, and
feel
~ Count. How?
Karu. Particularly unpleasant. (thunder and rain) Oh,
we are in for it: do you hear, sir?
Count. We must be near the river; could we but
reach the ferry, ’tis but a short league to the Chateau
Friberg. (crosses, R.)
Karu. (r.) Ah, sir, I wish we were there, and I seated
in the old arm-chair in the servant’s hall, talking of—
holloa!
Count. (L.) What now ?
Kant. I felt a spot of rain on my nose as big as a bullet.
(thunder and rain) There, there, it’s coming on again—
seek some shelter, sir; some hollow tree, whilst I, for my
sins, endeavour once more to find the way, and endure
another curry-combing ainong these cursed brambles.
Come sir. (the storm increases) Lor’, how it rumbles—
this way, sir—this way. Exeunt, B.
SCENE ‘l'H1np.—A Room in the Cottage—a door, x. flat—
a window, L. filat—a fire, 2. 2 E.—tables, RB. and L.—
chairs, fe.
GRINDOFF, L., and KELMAR, k., discovered sitting at the i
. table, R.—thunder and rain. 3
of
Kerm. Tis a rough night, miller: the thunder roars,
and, by the murmuring of the flood, the mountain torrents
B
14 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT i.
have descended. Poor Lothair! he’ll scarcely have crossed
the ferry.
Grin. Lothair by this is safe at home, old friend;
before the storm commenced I passed him in my boat
across the river. (aside) He seems less anxious for his ;
daughter than for this bold stripling.
Keutm. Worthy man! you'll be rewarded for all such
deeds hereafter. Thank heaven, Claudine is safe! Hark!
(thunder heard)
Grin. (aside) She is safe by this time, or I am much
mistaken.
Krum. She will be here anon.
Grin. (aside) I doubt that. (to Ketmar) Come, here’s
to her health, old Kelmar—, would I could once call you
father !
Keim. You may do soon; but even your protection
would now, I fear, be insufficient to
Grix. What mean you? Insufficient!
Krum. The robbers—this evening in the forest-——
Grin. (rising) Ha!
* Keim. (rising) Did not Lothair, then, tell you ?
~ Grin. Lothair ?
Keim. Yes; but all’s well; be not alarmed—see, she
is here.
Guin. Here!
Enter CLAUDINE, R.—GRINDOFF endeavours to suppress
his surprise.
Grin. Claudine! Curse on them both!
Kem. (c.) Both! how knew you there were two?
GRIN. (L.) “Sdeath!—you—you said robbers, did you
not? ‘They never have appeared singly; therefore, I
thought you meant two.
Keim. Youare right. But for Lothair they had deprived
me of my child.
Grin. How !—Did Lothair? Humph! he’s a courageous
outh.
3 Curaup. That he is; but he’s gentle, too. What has
happened ? :
Keim. Nothing, child, nothing. (aside to Grinporr)
SC. IIT.] MILLER AND HIS MEN.’ 1 ts)
Do not speak on’t, ’twill terrify her. Come, Claudine,
now for supper. What have you brought us? ;
Ciaup. Thanks to the miller’s bounty, plenty.
Keim. The storm increases !
Kart. (calling without, x. door flat) Holloat holloa!
Keim. And hark! I hear a voice—listen!
Karu. (calling again without, x. door flat) Holloa!
Craup. The ery of some bewildered traveller.
(the cry repeated, anda violent knock at the door, 8. fiat)
Keim. Open the door.
Grin. Not so; it may be dangerous.
Keim. Danger comes in silence andin secret; my door
was never shut against the wretched while I knew pros-
perity, nor shall it be closed now to my fellows in
misfortune. (to CLaupine) Open the door, I say.
the knock is repeated, and CLAUDINE opens the door
P ; Pp
Enter Kart, r. door flat, with a portmanteau.
Kart. (c.) Why, in the name of dark nights and
tempests, didn’t you open the door at first? Have you
no charity ?
Keim. (nx. c.) In our hearts plenty, in our gift but little ;
yet all we have is yours.
Karu. Then I'll share all you have with my master;
thank you, old gentleman; you won't fare the worse for
sheltering honest Karl and Count Frederick Friberg.
Grin. (L.) Friberg!
Karu. Ay, I'll soon fetch him; he’s waiting now,
looking as melancholy as a mourning coach in a snow-
storm, at the foot of a tree, wet as a drowned rat; so stir
up the fire, bless you! clapon the kettle, give us the best
eatables and drinkables you have, a clean table-cloth, a
couple of warm beds, and don’t stand upon ceremony ;
we'll accept every civility and comfort you can bestow
upon us without scruple.
(throws down the portmanteau, C., and exit, R. door fiat)
Guin. (L.) Friberg, did he say?
Cuavp. (R.) ’Tis the young count, so long expected.
Kewo. (kz. c.) Can it be possible? without attendants,
and at such a time, too?
. a — ‘a; o “yet ome
16 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT I.
. Grin. (looking at the portmanteau, on which ts the name
in brass natls) It must be the same!—Kelmar, good
night. (going up towards the door)
Keim. Nay, not yet—the storm rages.
Gri. I fear it may increase; besides, your visitors
may not like my company; good night.
inter CouNT FREDERICK Fripere, r. door flat, jollowed
by Karit—he stops suddenly, and eyes the MILLER, as
| af recollecttng him—GRINDOFF appears to avotd his
scrutiny.
Count. (c.) Your kindness is well timed; we might have
perished; accept my thanks. (aside) I should know that
face.
Gris. (u.) To me your thanks are not due.
Count. That voice, too!
Gri. This house is Kelmar’s.
(Karu places the portmanteau on the table, L. U. E.)
Count. Kelmar’s!
Kem. (x. c) Ay, my dear master; my fortunes have
deserted me, but my attachment to your family still
remains. .
Count. Worthy old man. How happens this: the
richest tenant of my late father’s land—the honest, the
faithful Kelmar, in a hovel ?
Kei. It will chill your hearts to hear.
Karu. (at the fire, drying and warming himself) Then
don’t tell us, pray, for our bodies are cramped with cold
already.
Keim. ’Tis a terrible tale.
Kart (advancing, t. c.) Then, for the love of a good
appetite and adry skin, don’t tell it, for I’ve been terrified
enough in the forest to-night to last me my life.
Count. Be silent, Karl. (retires to fire with KEtMAR)
Grin. (L.) In—in the forest ?
Karu. (ut. c.) Ay.
Grin. What should alarm you there ?
Kart. What should alarm me there? come, that’s a
good one. Why, first, I lost my way; trying to find
that, I lost the horses; then I tumbled into a quagmire,
and nearly lost my life.
Grin. Psha! this is of no consequence.
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8C. III.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 17
Kart. Isn’t it? I have endured more hardships since
morning than a knight-errant. My head's broken, my
body’s bruised, and my joints are dislocated. I hav’'nt
three square inches about me but what are scarified with
briers and brambles; and, above all, I have not tasted a
morsel of food since sunrise. Egad! instead of my
making a meal of anything, I’ve been in constant ex-
pectation of the wolves making a meal of me.
Grin. Is this all?
Karu. All!—No, it’s not all; pretty well, too, I think.
When I recovered the path, I met two polite gentlemen
with long knives in their hands,
Grin. Hey!
Karu. And because I refused a kind invitation of theirs,
they were affronted, and were just on the point of ending
all my troubles when up came my master.
Grin. Well!
Kart. Well! yes, it was well indeed, for after a
struggle they made off; one of them left his sting behind,
though ; look, here’s a poker to stir up a man’s courage
with! (showing a poniard)
Grin. A poniard!
Karu. Ay.
GRIN. (snatching at it) Give it me.
Karu. (retaining the dagger) For what? It’s lawful
spoil—didn’t I win it in battle? No! I'll keep it asa
trophy of my victory.
(during this time, Ketmar and Ciaupine have taken
and hung up the Count's cloak, handed him a chair,
and are conversing)
Grin. It will be safer in my possession: it may lead to
a discovery of him who wore it—and
Karu. It may—you are right—therefore I’ll deliver it
into the hands of Count Frederick: he’ll soon ferret the
rascals out; set a reward on their heads—five thousand
crowns, dead or alive! that’s the way to manceuvre ’em.
oking GRINDOFF in the ribs)
Grin. Indeed! humph! (turns up, 1.)
Kart. Humph! don’t half like that chap—never saw
Such a ferocious black muzzle in my life—that miller’s a
‘rogue in grain,
bicwng
sas - ES ee. rm Sa , = are
Slow Movement.
We live free from fear,
In harmony here,
| } Combin’d, just like brother and brother ;
| And this be our toast,
H The free-booter’s boast,
{ | Success and good-will to each other!
ail Chorus. | Fill, boys, &e. »
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gC...) MILLER AND HIS MEN. 23
Enter Ravina, through the grated door, Ry as they
conclude.
Ravina. What, carousing yet—sotting yet!
Zincra. How now, Ravina; why so churlish?
Ravina. To sleep, T say—or wait upon yourselves. rll
stay no longer from my couch to please you. Is it not
enough that [ toil from daybreak, bnt you must disturb
me ever with your midnight revelry ?
ZINGRA. (R. C.) You were not wont to be so savage,
woman.
Ravina, Nor you s0 insolent. Look, you repent if
not!
Ist Rosser. (L. c.) Psha! heed hernomore. Jealousy
hath soured her.
ZinGRA. I forgive her railing.
Ravina. Forgive!
Zincra, Ay! our leader seeks another mistress! and ’tis
rather hard upon thee, | confess, after five year’s captivity,
hard service too, and now that you are accustomed to our
way of life—we pity thee.
Ravina. Pity me! I am indeed an object of com-
passion: five long years a captive, hopeless still of
liberty. Habit has almost made my heart cold as
these rude rocks that sereen me from the light of heaven.
Miserable lost Ravina! by dire necessity become an
agent in their wickedness, yet I pine for virtue and for
freedom.
Zincra. Leave us to our wine. Come, boys, fill all, fil
full, ‘‘to our captain’s bride.”
ROBBERS. To our captain’s bride!
(a single note on the bugle is heard from below, R. ¢.)
Zinara. Hark! ’tis from the lower cave. (bugle note
repeated) She comes! Ravina, look you receive her as
becomes the companion of our chief—remember!
Ravina. I shall remember. (crosses, u.) So, another
victim to hypocrisy and guilt. Poor wretch! she loves
perhaps, as I did, the miller Grindoff; but, as I do, may
live to execrate the outlaw and the robber!
(Music—the trap in the fioor is thrown open)
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24 MILLER AND HIS MEN. facet:
Enter Riser, through the floor, followed by GoLotz and
Lotuair—they all advance, RB.
Rossers. Hail to our new companion!
Ravina. (L.) A man!
(Loruair tears the bandage from his eyes as he
arrives in the cave—the Rovpers start back on
perceiving @ man)
Lorn. Thanks for your welcome!
Zixnara. Who have we here ?—Speak !
Riser. A recruit. Where is the captain?
Zincra. Where is the captain’s bride?
Riser. Of her hereafter. (a bugle ts heard above, L. U. E.)
Rossers. Wolf! Wolf!
Enter Grinvorr, in robber’s apparel—he descends the
opening, and advances, Cc.
ZINGRA.
ROBBERS.
Grin. (starts at seeing LoTuatr, 8.) A stranger!
Loru. (aside) Grindoff!
(the Rossers lay hands on their swords, §c.)
Grin. Ha! betrayed! Who has done this?
Riser. (advancing, u. c.) I brought him hither, to
Grin. Riber! humph! You have executed my orders
well, have you not? Where is Claudine?
Lorn. (r.) Claudine! (aside) Villain! hyprocrite!
Grin. Know you Claudine, likewise?
Riser. She escaped us in the forest. Some meddling
fool thwarted our intent, and
Grin. Silence, I know it all; a word with you pre-.
sently. Now, stranger—(crossing to Lotuatr) but I
mistake ; we should be old acquaintance—my name is so
familiar to you. What is your purpose here?
Lorn. Revenge !
Grin. On whom?
Lorn. On one whose cruelty and. oppression well
deserve it.
Grin. His name?
Loru. (aside) Would I dare mention it!
Grin. His name, I say?
my + =
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sc. v.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 25
Riser. He complains of Count Friberg.
Grin. Indeed! then your purpose will soon be accom-
plished: he arrived this night, and shelters at old Kelmar’s
cottage; he shall never pass the river; should he once
reach the Chateau Friberg, it would be fatal to our band.
Loru. Arrived! (aside) What have I done! My fatal
indiscretion has destroyed him. (to Grinporr) Let him
fall by my hand.
Grin. It may tremble—it trembles now. The firmest
of our band have failed. (looking at Riper) Henceforth
the enterprize shall be my own.
: Lorn. Let me accompany you.
Grin. Not to-night.
Lorn, To-night.
Grin. Ay, before the dawn appears, he dies! Riber!
(Lornarr clasps his hands in agony, and goes up—
Riper advances, 1.)
Ravina. (advanciny, x.) What, more blood! must Fri-
berg’s life be added to the list ?
GRIN. It must; our safety claims it.
Ravi. Short-sighted man! will not his death doubly
arouse the sluggish arm of justice? The whole country,
hitherto kept in awe by dissension and selfish fear, will
join; reflect in time; beware their retribution!
Grin. When I need a woman’s help and counsel, I'll
seek it of the compassionate Ravina. Begone! (eit
Ravina, k. door) Riber, I say!
hiper. I await your orders.
Grin. Look you execute them better than the last—
look to’t! The Count and his companion rest at Kelmar’s;
it must be done within an hour: arm, and attend me—
at the same time { will secure Claudine—and should
Kelmar’s vigilance interpose to mar us, he henceforth
shall be an inmate here.
Lotu. (r.) Oh, villain!
GRIN. (rushing towards Lotuatrr) How mean you?
Loru. Friberg—let me go with you.
Grix. You are too eager; I will not trust thy in-
experience: trust you! what surety have we of your faith?
Lotu. My oath.
Grin. Swear, then, never to desert the object, newer
C
>
‘
26 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT II.
to betray the cause for which you sought our band—
revenge on——
Loru. On him who has deeply, basely injured me, I
swear it.
Gr. ’Tis well—your name?
Lorn. Spiller!
Grr. (to Riser) Quick! arm and attend me. (RIBeR
retires,r.) Are those sacksin the mill disposed ofas L ordered?
Zinara. They are, captain.
Gary. Return with the flour to-morrow, and be careful
that all assume the calmness of industry and content.
With such appearance, suspicion itself is blind; ‘tis the
safecuard of our band. Fill me a horn, and then to
business. (a Rosser hands hima horn of wine ; he drinks)
The Miller and his Men!
Ronpers. (drinking) The Miller and his Men!
(Grinpor and Rospers laugh heartily— GRINDOFF
puts on his miller’s frock, hat, §c.—RiBeR, armed
with pistols in his belt, advances with a dark lantern,
and exeunt with Grinporr through the rock, u. ¥-)
Chorus. —BAnDITTI.
Now to the forest we repair,
Awhile like spirits wander there 5
In darkness we secure our prey,
And vanish at the dawn of day.
[A dance of Zingari Girls was introduced here. It was performed
with much spirit by Miss Louise Leclercq and the Corps de Ballet. ]
END OF ACT I.
re Ode te:
Scene First.—The Interior of Kelmar’s Cottage, as before.
Count Freperick Frere discovered asleep in a chair,
reclining on a table near L. 2 £., and at the opposite side,
near the fire, Karu is likewise seen asleep, R.—the
Count’s sword lies on the table, u.—the fire is nearly
extinguished—stage dark—Music as the curtain rises.
Enter Cuaupine, with a lamp, down the stairs, U2 E.
Gxuaun, All still, all silent! The Count and his com-
a
SC. I.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 27
panions are undisturbed! What can it mean? My father
wanders from his bed, restless as myself. Alas! the
infirmities of age and sorrow afflict him sorely. Night
after night I thow myself upon a sleepless couch, ready
to fly to his assistance, and—hush—hush! (CLAUDINE
extinguishes the light, and conceals herself, L, 2 E.)
Enter KeLMAR, R.
Krum. They sleep—sleep soundly—ere they wake, |
may return from my inquiry. If Grindoff’s story was
correct, I still may trust him—still may the Count oon-
fide in him; but his behaviour last night, unusual and
mysterious, hangs like a fearful dream upon my mind—
his anxiety to leave the cottage, his agitation at the
appearance of Count Friberg—but above all, his assertion
that the ferry-barge was lost, disturbs me. My doubts
shall soon be ended. At this lone hour | may pass the
borders unperceived, and the gray dawn that now glim-
mers in the east will direct my path.
Looks about him fearful of disturbing the sleepers,
and exit, R. door in flat.
Ciaup. (advancing, c.) My father appears unusually
agitated. Ah, it may be! sometimes he wanders on the
river’s brink, watching the bright orb of day bursting
from the dark trees, and breathes a prayer, a blessing for
his child; yet ’tis early, very early—yet it may be—Oh,
father, my dear—dear father! Exit, x. door in flat.
Kart. Yaw! (snoring) Damn the rats! Yaw, what a
noise they keep up! Hey, where am I? Oh, in this
infernal hovel; the night-mare has rode me into a jelly;
then such horrible dreams, yaw! (a@ light from the dark
lantern borne by Riper is seen passing the window, L. fiat)
And such a swarm of rats—damn the rats! (lays his hand
on his poniard) They'd better keep off, for I’m hungry
enough to eat one. Bew—eu. (shivering) I wish it were
morning. (Music)
Enter Ruwer, x. door in flat ; he suddenly retires, observing
a light occasioned by Kanu’s stirring the fire with his
dagger.
Kart. What’s that? (listens) Nothing but odd noises
28 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT IL.:
all night; wonder how my master can sleep for such a—
yaw—aw! Damn the rats! (lies down)
Music—Enter Rirer cautiously, x. door in flat, hold-
ing forward the lantern—GrinvorF follows. Riper,
on seeing the Count, draws a poniard—he raises
his arm, GRINDOFF catches it, and prevents the blow.
Appropriate music.
ee nn +e
oe
Nieto bY
Grin. Not yet; first secure my prize, Claudine; these
are safe.
Karu. How the varmint swarm!
Grin. Hush! he dreams.
Riser. It shall be his last.
KARL. Rats, rats!
Riser. What says he?
Karu. Rats!—they all come from the mill.
Riper. Do they so?
Karu. Ay, set traps for ’em, poison ’em.
(River, again attempting to advance, 1s detained by
GRINDOFE )
Grin. Again so rash—remember!
Karu.—I shall never forget that fellow in the forest.
Riser. Ha! do you mark?
Grin. Fear them not; be stilltill I return; he is sound;
none sleep so hard as those that babble in their dreams.
Stir not, I charge you; yet, should Kelmar—ay—should
you hear a noise without, instantly despatch.
Exit GRinDorr, up the stairs, L. 2 E.
Riser. Enough! (Karu wakes again—he observes Riper,
grasps his dagger, and, watching the motion of the Rosser,
acts accordingly) This delay is madness, but I must obey.
(looking at the priming of his pistol, then towards the
table—K aru drops to his position) Ley, asword! (ad-
' wancing to the table, L., and removing the sword) Now,
all is safe—Hark! (a noise without, as of something
falling) ’Tis time! if this should fail, my poniard will
secure him.
a
Os pers = eet
- <- =
= a © r = =
ee Se
a
ee a NS =
i
Music-—Riser advances hastily, and, in the act of
bringing his pistol to the level against the Count,
is stabbed by Karu, who has arisen and closely
followed his every movement ; at the same moment,
Sc. I.| MILLER AND HIS MEN. 29
Enter Grrixporr, Lt. 2 .,—the Count, rushing from the
chair at the noise of the pistol, seizes him by the collar—
the group stand amazed.—Tableau.
Count. Speak! what means this?
Karu. (advancing) They’ve caught a tartar, sir, that’s
all. Hey, the miller!
Grin. Ay!
Count. How came you here?
Grin. (c.) To—to do you service.
Count. At such an hour!
Grin. ’Tis never too late to do good.
Count. Good!
Grin. Yes; you have been in danger.
Karu. Have we? Thank you for your news.
Grin. You have been watched by the Banditti.
JOUNT. So it appears.
Kari. But how did you know it?
Grin. (confused) There is my proof. (Pointing to the
body of Riper)
Kart. But how the plague got you into the house ?—
Through a rat-hole?
Count. Explain.
Grin. Few words will do that:—on my return to the
mill, [ found you might repose there better than in this
house; at all events, 1 knew you would be safer in my care,
Count. Safer! Proceed! what mean you?
Karu. (aside) Safer!
Grin. Kelmar——
Count. Hah!
(;RIN. Had: you no suspicion of kim ?—no mistrust of
his wish to—to detain you ?
Count. I confess, I
Grin. (to Kari) The poniard you obtained in the
forest, that you refused to give me
Karu. This?
Grin. Is Kelmar’s.
Count. Wretch!
Karz. I thought so; I found the sheath here.
Grin. I knew it instantly; my suspicions were aroused
—now they are confirmed: Kelmar is in league with these
er te Se
- mia on
30 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT II.
marauders; I found the door open,—you still slept. I
searched the house for him; he is no where to be found, .
—he and his daughter have absconded. Now, sir, are
you satisfied ?
Count. I am. (goes up stage)
Kart. Iam not; I wish we were safe at home. I’m
no coward by day-light, but I hate adventures of this
kind in the dark. Lord, how a man may be deceived! I
took you for a great rogue; but I now find you are a good
Christian enough, though you are a very ill-looking man.
Grin. Indeed; we can’t all be as handsome as you are,
you know.
Karu. (pertly) No; nor as witty as you are, you know.
Grin. Come, sir; follow me. (going up to door, R. C.)
You can’t mistake; see, ’tis day-break: at the cottage
close to the narrow bridge that passes the ravine you will
find repose.
Count. We'llfollowyou. Exit GRrnvorr,R. door in flat.
Kart. I don’t half like that fellow yet. (gets the port-
manteau from u. table) Now, the sooner we are off the
better, sir. As for this fellow, the rats may take care of
him. (CiAupINE shrieks—heard without, 8. door in fiat)
Count. (drawing his sword) Ha! a woman’s voice!
Karl, follow me!
Kari. What, more adventures! (drawing his sword)
I’m ready. I say, (to the body of Riser) take care of the
portmanteau, will you? Ezit x. door in flat, closed in.
Scene Seconp.—The Forest (1st grooves)—Stage partly
dark.
Music.—Enter Grinvorr, with CLAUDINE in his arms.
Count. (without rR.) Karl! Karl! follow, this way!
Grin. (resting, c.) Ha, so closely pursued!—Nay,
then
Going hastily, L., he pushes aside the leaves of the
secret pass, and they disappear, L.
Enter Count Freprrick Frere, hastily, ®.
Count. Gone! vanished! Can it be possible? Sure,
tis witchcraft. I was close upon him—Karl! The cries
=
AP tT SURES es
fants
oo
SC. III. MILLER AND HIS MEN, 31
of her he dragged with him, too, have ceased, and not
the faintest echo of his retiring footsteps can be heard
—Karl!
Enter Kart, R.
Kart. Oh, Lord! Pho! that hill’s a breather! Why,
where is he? Didn’t you overtake him ?
Count. No! in this spot he disappeared, and sunk, as
it should seem, ghost like, into the very earth—Follow!
Karu. Follow !—Follow a will-o’-the-wisp!
Count. Quick—aid me to search!
Karu, Search out a ghost! Mercy on us! I'll follow
you through the world, fight for you the best cock-giant
robber of ’em all, but, if you’re for hunting goblins, I’m
off. Hey! where the devil’s the woman, though? If she
was a spirit, she made more noise than any lady alive.
Count. (L.) Perchance, the villain, so closely pursued,
has destroyed his victim.
Karu. (R.) No doubt on’t; he’s killed her, to a cer-
tainty; nothing but death can stop a woman’s tongue.
Count. (having searched in vain) From the miller we
may gain assistance :, Grindoff, no doubt, is acquainted
with every turn and outlet of the forest; quick, attend
me to the mill. Exeunt, t.
Karu. Rat me if I'll run after the girl; why should I?
girls never run after me. I know the tricks on’em;
they are all deceptions and full of mischief, like a barrel
of gunpowder; they are like—they are like a lawsuit,
and a lawsuit’s like a devil’s kettle, in which everything
that’s disagreeable is all boiled up together. None on’em
ever took delight in me, except it was to vex and jilt me.
Ever since Wilhelmina slighted my passion, I have for-
sworn the sex, and all alone by myself have struggled
through life, like a fly in treacle. Exit Kart, R.
Scene Turrp.—The Cavern.
Music.—Rospers discovered asleep in different parts, (R.
and L.)—Loruarir on guard, with a carbine, stands
beneath the magazine—stage partly light.
Lorn. (c.) Ere this it must be daylight—yet Grindoff
Sak be me be
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o2 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT II.
returns not—perchanee their foul intent has failed—the
fatal blow designed for I'riberg may have fallen upon
himself. How tedious drags the time, when fear, suspense,
and doubt thus weigh upon the heart. Oh, Kelmar, be-
loved Claudine, you little know my peril. (looks at the
various groups of Banvirti, and carefully rests his carbine
at the foot of the rugged steps, L. C., leading to the maguzine
—he advances, c.) While yet this drunken stupor makes
their sleep most death-like, let me secure a terrible, but
just revenge. If their infernal purpose be accomplished,
this is their reward. (draws a coil of fuse from his bosom)
These ca wverns, that spread beneath the mill, have various
outlets, and in the fissures of the rock the train will lie
unnoticed. Could I but reach the magazine.
Music—Lotuatr retires cauitously up, c.—he places
his foot over the body of a Kosver, who is seen
asleep on the steps leading to the magazine—by
accident he touches the carbine, which slips down—
the Rovper, being disturbed, alters his position,
while Loruair stands over him, and again reposes
—Lornair advances up the steps—as he arrives
at the magazine, Wour’s signal, the bugle, 7s heard
Srom above—ithe Rospers instantly start up, and
Lotuatr, at the same moment, springs from the
steps, and, seizing his carbine, stands in his previous
attrtude.
Enter Wor (Grinporr), descending the steps of the
opening, L., with CLAUDINE senseless in his arms.
Rossers. The signal !
Got. Wolf, we rejoice with you.
Lotu. (advancing, t.) Have you been successful ?
Wotr. (setting down Ciaupine) So far, at least, [ have.
Lorn. (aside) Claudine—merciful powers! (to Wor)
But Kelmar
Worr. Shall not long escape me—Kelmar once secure,
his favourite, my redoubted rival, young Lothair, may
next require attention—bear her in, Golotz. (Gonorz
bears CLAUDINE off, R. 1 u.) Where is Ravina?
Enter Ravina, &. 2 BE.
Oh, you are come!
SU. I1.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 33
Ravina. Tam; what is your will?
Wor. That you attend Claudine; treat her as you
would treat me.
Ravina. I will, be sure on’t.
Wotr. Look you, fail not. I cannot wait her recovery.
—danger surrounds us.
Roxspers. (advancing) Danger!
Worr. Ay, every one must be vigilant, every heart.
resolved—Riber has been stabbed.
Lorn. Then Friberg
Worr. Has escaped,
Lotu. Thank heaven!
Wo tr. How ?
Loru. Friberg is still reserved for me.
Woxr. Be it so—your firmness shall be proved.
Ravina. So—one act of villany is spared you; pursue
your fate no farther—desist, be warned in time.
Wo tr. Fool! could woman’s weakness urge me to
retreat, my duty to our band would now make such re-
pentance treachery.
Rossers. Noble captain !
Worr. Mack you, my comrades: Kelmar has fled;
left his house—no doubt for the Chateau Friberg. The
suspicions of the Count are upon Azm. All mistrust of
me is banished from his mind, and I have lured him
and his companion to the cottage of our lost comrade,
Riber.
Loru. How came Claudine to fall into your power?
Wotr. I encountered her alone, as I left Kelmar’s
cottage. She had been to seek her father; I seized the
opportunity, and conveyed her to the secret pass in the
forest; her eries caused me to be pursued, and one instant
later I had fallen into their hands—by this time they
have recovered the path-way to the mill. Spiller shall
supply Riber’s place—be prepared to meet them at the
Flask, and prove yourself
Lorn. The man I am; I swear it.
Wor. Enough—I am content!
Ravina. (x.) Content! such guilt as thine can never feel
content. Neverwill thy corroded heart have rest—years of
security have made you rash, incautious—-wanton in thy
34 MILLER AND HIS MEN. FACT I.
cruelty—and you will never rest until your mistaken
policy destroys your band.
Wor. No more of this—her discontent is dangerous.
—Spiller! when you are prepared to leave the cavern,
make fast the door; Ravina shall remain here confined
until our work above is finished. (aside to him)
Lorn. I understand
Worr. Golotz and the rest—who are wont to cheer
our revels with your music, be in waiting at the Flask,
as travellers, wandering Savoyards, till the Count and
his followers are safe within our toils; the delusion may
spare us trouble. I know them resolute and fierce ; and,
should they once suspect, though our numbers overpower
them, the purchase may cost us dear. Away—time
presses—Spiller—remember
Lorn. Fear me not—you soon shall know me.
Exit Wotr and Roxssers up the steps, L. in flat—Lo
THAIR immediately runs up the steps to the maga-
zine, and places the fuse within, closes the door
and directs it towards the trap by which he first
entered the cave, R. U. E.
Ravina. Now, then, hold firm, my heart and hand; one
act of vengeance, one dreadful triumph, and I meet
henceforth the hatred, the contempt of Wolf, without a
sigh.
(in great agitation—she advances to the table, R. U. E.,
and taking a vial from her bosom, pours the con-
tents into a cup, and goes cautiously across to where
CLAUDINE has been conducted.
Ravina. As she revives—-ere yet her bewildered senses
proclaim her situation, she will drink—and
(Loruarr, who has watched the conduct of Ravina,
seizes her arm, takes away the cup, and throws tt
off; L.)
Lorn. Hold, mistaken woman! is this your pity for
the unfortunate—of your own sex, too?—Are you the
advocate of justice and of merey—who dare condemn the
eruelty of Wolf, yet with your own hand would destroy
an innocent fellow-creature, broken-hearted, helpless, and
forlorn?—Oh, shame! shame!
SC. III.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 35
Ravina.(r.c.) And who is he that daresto schoolme thus?
Lotu. Whoam I?
Ravina. Ay! that talk of justice and of mercy, yet pant
to shed the blood of Friberg!
Loru. (aside) Now, dared I trust her—I must, there
is no resource, for they’ll be left together. (to Ravina)
Ravina—say, what motive urged you to attempt an act
that I must believe is hateful to your nature ?
Ravina. Have I not cause—aimple cause ?
Lotu. I may remove it.
Ravina. Can you remove the pangs of jealousy ?
Lorn. I can—Claudine will never be the bride of Wolf.
Ravina. Who can prevent it ?
Lorn. Her husband.
Ravina. Is it possible?
Lorn. Be convinced. Claudine, Claudine! (Music)
Craup. (without, x.) Ha! that voice!
«» Loru. (x. c.) Claudine!
Craup. (entering, x.)’Tis he! ’tis he ! then I am safe!
Ah! who are these, and in what dreadful place am I?
Lorn. Beloved Claudine, can this disguise conceal me?
Cuaup. (x.) Lothair! I was not deceived.
(falls into his arms)
Ravina. (x.) Lothair!
Lorn. (c.) Ay, her affianced husband. Ravina, our
lives are in your power; preserve them and save your-
self; one act of glorious repentance, and the blessings of
the surrounding country are yours. Observe!
(Music—Loruarr points to the magazine—shows the
train to Ravina, and explains the intentton—then
gives a phosphorous bottle, which he shows the pur-
pose of —she comprehends him—CLAuDINe's action,
expresses astonishment and terror—LoTHAIR opens
the trap up the stage, RB.)
Ravina. Enough, I understand.
Lorn. (advancing) Be careful, be cautious, I implore
you ;—convey the train where I may distinctly see you
from without the mill; and, above all, let no anxiety of
mind, no fear of failure, urge you to fire the train till I
give the signal. Remember, Claudine might be the
victim of such fatal indiscretion.
—e
36 "MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT II.
Ravina. But, Wolf.
Re-enter Wor, who hearing his name, halts at the back of
the cavern.
Lota. Wolf, with his guilty companions, shall fall
despised and execrated. (seeing Wotr) Ah! (aside to
CraupIneE) Remove the train.
Wor. Villain! (c., levels a pistol at LoTuair, R.— RAVINA
utters an exclamation of horror—C.LauDINeE retreats, and
removes the train to the foot of the steps)
Loru. (retreating intoR.corner ) Wold!—youare deceived.
Worr. Do you acknowledge it ?— But’tis the last time.
(seizing Loruatr by the collar)
Lotu. One moment.
Wotr. What further deception?
Lotru. Ihave used none—hear the facts.
Wotr. What are they?
Lory. Hatred to thee—jealousy of the fair Clauding}
urged this woman to attempt her life. (points to CLaupInE)
Woxr. Indeed!—for what purpose was that pass dis-
closed? (pointing to the trap, BR.)
Loru. I dared not leave them together.
Wor. Vain subterfuge—your threat of destruction on
me and my companions
Lory. Was a mere trick, a forgery, a fabrication to
appease her disappointed spirit—induce her to quit the
cave, and leave Claudine in safety.
Woxr. (going up to, and closely observing Ravina)
Plausible hypocrite, Ravina has no weapon of destruction
—how then? (crossing back to LorHatr)
Lotn. (looking towards Ravina, who holds up the vial,
unseen by Grinporr) Ah! (aside) Weare saved. (crossing
and snatching the vial, which she had retained in her hand)
Behold, let conviction satisfy your utmost doubts.
Wotr. (looking on the label) Poison!—you then are
honest, Wolf unjust—I can doubt no longer. (sezzes
Ravina by thearm) Fiend! descend instantly, in darkness
and despair anticipate a dreadful punishment.
(Music— Ravina clasps her hands in entreaty, and
descends the trap, which ts closed violently by WOLF)
SC. IV.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 37
Wotr. Now, Spiller, follow meto the Flask. (Misade
Be sure, make fast yon upper door.
(he takes his broad miller’s hat, for which he hau
returned—exit up steps, L. in flat, Loruatr fol-
lowing, and looking back: significantly at CLaupINE,
who then advances cautiously, opens the trap, and
gives the train to Ravina—appropriate Music—
Ravina and CLAUDINE remain in attitude, the latter
watching Lotuair, with uplifted hands)
Scene Fourtu.—The Cottage of Riber—The sign of
“The Flask” at the door, t. in fiat.
Enter Count. Freperick Fripere and KARL, R.
Count. This must be the house!
Kart. (R.) Clear as day-light ; look, sir, “The Flask !”
Oh, and there stands the mill! (t.) I suppose old rou gh-and-
tough, master Grindoff, will be here presently. Well,
I’m glad we are in the right road at last; for such ins
and outs, and ups and downs, and circumbendibuses in
that forest, I never
Count. (L.) True; we may now obtain guides and
assistance to pursue that ruffian! |
Kart. (aside) Pursue again!—not to save all the she
sex !—flesh and blood can’t stand this.
Count. (abstracted) Yet, after so long an absence,
delay is doubly irksome—could I but see her my heart
doats on!
Karu. Ah! could I but see what my heart doats on.
Count. My sweet Laurette!
Karu. A dish of saur-kraut !
Count. (crosses to x.) Fool!
Kar. Fool! so I mustn’t enjoy a good dinner even
‘in imagination. 3
Count. Still complaining!
Karu. How can I help it, sir? I can’t live upon air,
as you do.
Count. You had plenty last night.
Karu. So [had last Christmas, sir; and what sort of
a supper was it, after all?—QOne apple, two pears, three
bunches of sour grapes, and a bowl of milk: one of your
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38 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT It.
forest meals—I can’t abide such a cruel cold diet—oh, for
x bumper of brandy! but, unfortunately, my digestion
keeps pace with my appetite—I’m always hungry. Oh,
for a bumper of brandy !
(Music heard within the ‘ Flask,” i. in flat.
Count. Hush!
Karu. What's that? Somebody tickling a guitar inte
fits; soft music always makes me doleful.
Count. Go into the house—stay ; remember, I would
be private.
Karu. Private—in a public-house. Oh, I understand,
incog. But the miller knows you, sir.
Count. That’s no reason all his people should.
Karu. I smoke—they’d be awed by our dignity and
importance—poor things, I pity ’em—they are not used
to polished society. Holloa! house! landlord! Mr. Flask.
Enter Loruatr, tL. door in flat, as landlord.
Karu. Good entertainment here for man and beast, I’m
told.
Lorn. You are right.
Karu. Well, here am I, and there’s my master!
Lorn. You are welcome. (aside) I dare not say
otherwise; Wolf is on the watch.
(GrinporF appears, watching at a window, L. in fiat)
Karu. Have you got anything ready? (smacking hes
lips)
Lors. Too much, I fear.
Karu. Not a bit, I'll warrant. I’m devilish sharp
set.
Lotsa. Well, you are just in time.
Karu. Pudding-time, I hope! have you got any
meat ? |
Lora. I must ask him. (aside and looking round
anxiously) Won’t your master
Karu. No! he lives upon love; but don’t be alarmed,
—J’ll make it worth your while; I’m six meals in arrear,
and can swallow enough for both of us.
Exit Karu, with Loruarr, to the “ Flask,’ 1. door in
flat—GrinvorF closes the window.
eos
SC. V.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 39
Count. Yes, I’m resolved—the necessity for passing
the river must by this time have urged the peasantry to °
re-establish the ferry—delay is needless. I’ll away in-
stantly to the Chateau Friberg, and with my own people
return to redress the wrongs of my oppressed and suffering
tenantry.
Enter Kart, ut. door in flat.
_ Count. Well, your news?
Karu. Glorious!—The landlord, Mr. Flask, is a man
after my own heart, a fellow of five meals a day.
Count. Psha! who are the musicians?
Karu. Ill-looking dogs, truly ;—Savoyards, I take it;
one plays on a thing like a frying-pan, the other turns
something that sounds like a young grindstone.
Count. What else ?
Karu. As fine an imitation of a shoulder of mutton as
ever I clapp’d my eyes on.
Enter Ketan, exhausted by haste and fatigue, R.
Count. Kelmar!
Keim. Ah, the Count and his companion !—Thank
heaven, I am arrived in time! my master will be saved,
though Claudine, my poor unhappy child, is lost. Fly,
I beseech you, fly from this spot! Do not question me;
this is no time for explanations; one moment longer, and
you are betrayed—your lives irrecoverably sacrificed.
Count. Would you again deceive us?
Keim. I have been myself deceived—fatally deceived!
let an old man’s prayers prevail with you! Leave, oh
leave this accursed place, and
Enter W our, in his miller’s dress, u.door in flat, he advances,c.
Keim. Ah, the miller! then has hope forsaken me—
Yet one ray, one effort more, and
Wotr. (c.) Thy treachery is known. (he seizes KELMAR
by the collar)
_ Kets. (r.) One successful effort more, and death ig
welcome.
Wotr. Villain!
40 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ACT It.
Kerx. Thou art the villain—see—behold!
(with a violent effort of strength, the old man suddenly
turns upon GRINDOFF, and tears open his vest, be-
neath which he appears armed—W LF, at the same
instant, dashes Krumar from him, who, impelled
to R., is caught by the Count—the Count draws his
sword— W oir, L., draws pistols in each hand from
his belt, and his hat falls off at the same instant—
tableau—appropriate Music)
Count. ’Tis he! the same! ’tis Wolf.
Worr. Spiller! Golotz! Rushes out, tL.
Karu. Is it Wolf? Damn his pistols! This shall
reach him. (draws his sword, and hastens after Wour, tL.
—the report of a pistol ts immediately heard, tL.
Exit Count FrizerG and KeLMaAr, t.—At the same
moment, GoLoTz and another Rosser, disguised
as minstrels, followed by Lotuatr, burst from the
house, L. door in flat.
Gotor. (L.) We are called; Wolf called us!—Ah, they
have discovered him!
Lorn. ’Tis too late to follow him, he has reached the
bridge.
Gotor. Then he is safe; but see, at the foot of the hill,
armed men, in the Friberg uniform, press forward to
the mill.
Lots. This way we must meet them, then; in, to the
subterranean pass! Hxeunt Gotorz and Rogser, to house.
Lorn. Now, Claudine, thy sufferings shall cease, and
thy father’s wrongs shall be revenged. Exit, to house.
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Scene Firru.—A near View of the Mill, c., standing on
an elevated projection—from the stage a narrow bridge,
to rise and fall, passes to the rock, R. C., on the ptatform
of which stands the mill.
Music—Enter Ravina, L. U. E., ascending the ravine with
the fuse, which she places carefully in the crannies of
the rock, lL.
Ravina. My toil is over; the train is safe. From this
spot I may receive the signal from Lothair, and, at one
blow, the hapless victims of captivity and insult are amply,
sc. v.] MILLER AND HIS MEN. 4}
dreadfully avenged. (Musio—a pistol is fired without,
L245.) Ali, Wolf! She retires, L. U. E.
Enter Wour, t., as pursued, and turning, fires his remain-
ing pistol off, L., then hurries across the bridge, which he
instantly draws up—Karu rushes on, L.
Wot. (with a shout of great exultation) Ha, ha! you
strive in vain!
Karu. Cowardly rascal! you'll be caught at last.
(shaking his sword at Woxr)
Worr. By whom?
Karu. Your only friend, Peelzebub: run as fast as
you will, he’ll trip up your heels at last.
Wotr. [ool-hardy slave, [ have sworn never’ to
descend from this spot alive, unless with liberty.
Kari. Oh, we'll accommodate you; you shall have
liberty to ascend from it; the wings of your own mill
shall be the gallows, and fly with every rascal of you into
the other world.
Woxr. Golotz!—Golotz, I say! (calling towards the
mite )
Enier Count Fripere, with KeLMAR and the ATTENDANTS
Sirom the Chateau Friberg, in uniform, and armed, Ls,
they cross to Rh.
Count. Wretch! your escape is now impossible. Sur:
render to the injured laws of your country.
Worr. Never! the brave band that now await my
commands within the mill double your number. Golotz!
Enter GoLorz from a small door in the mill, c.
Worr. Quick! let my bride appear.
Lait GoLorz, c. door in flat.
Enter Ravina, Lt. 2 £.—Wotr stars.
Ravina. She is here! What would you?
Wotr. Ravina !—Traitress !
Ravina. Traitress! What, then, art thou? But Icome
not here to parley; ere it be too late, make one atonement
for thy injuries—restore this old man’s child.
Krim. Does she stili Jive }
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42 MILLER AND HIS MEN. [ ACT II,
Wotr. She does; but not for thee, or for the youth
Lothair.
Ravina. Obdurate man! then dol know my course.
Re-enter Lotuatir, conducting CLAUDINE from the mill,
a cloak concealing him.
Craup. Oh, my dear father!
Keutm. (r.) My child—Claudine! Oh, spare, in pity
spare her!
Wotr. Now mark me, Count: unless you instantly
withdraw your followers, and let my troop pass free, by
my hand she dies!
Kerra. Oh, mercy!
Count. Hold yet a moment!
Worr. Withdraw your followers.
Count. Till thou art yielded up to justice, they never
shall depart.
Wotr. For that threat, be this your recompense!
Lorn. (throwing aside his cloak) And this my triumph.
(Music—Lotuatr places himself before CuAuptne,
andreceives W or’s attack—the RopBeris wounded,
staggers back, sounds his bugle, and the mill is
crowded with Banpirti—Lorsair throws back the
bridge, catches CLAUDINE in his arms, upon his
release from Woxr, and hurries upon the bridge)
Loru. (crossing the bridge with CLAUDINE in his arms)
Ravina, fire the train.
(Ravina instantly sets fire to the fuse, the flash of
which is seen to run down the side of the rock into
the gully under the bridge, and the explosion
immediately takes place—KeELMAR, rushing for-
ward, catches CLAUDINE in his arms)
Curtain.
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2
, PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS.
Ai @Mriginal Sarce,
IN ONE ACT,
BY
BAYLE BERNARD,
AUTHOR OF ‘‘ HIS LAST LEGS,” “‘ THE BOARDING
>
SCHOOL,” ‘‘ THE PRACTICAL MAN,” &c. &c.
HAILES LACY, WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND,
LONDON,
Firsi produced at the Royal Princess's Theatre,
September 28, 18950.
: PE POO OPTS Fe OOOO IN ON eee
}
eee eT IOINY IN « cv cece eb see 8 8 bere Mr. KEELEY.
OY0 1! Beg RRC ES Se ieee Mr. ALFRED WIGAN.
OOS © a io aval an Sie gE rk ee ee ee Mr. F. Cooke.
MRS: THISTLE DOW WN vaivic- 226-00 ers Mrs. KEELEY.
ELLEN. MEL MAN 2.59 watts tren 5% Miss MurRAY.
WA Vedas otlotaeawe sm, SS Miss Somers.
LL gS © 2 Eigetiies Serie eae Peep babes erated Miss CusuHnteg.
SCENE—A Cottage, near London.
Time—1850.
Costumes,
TuistLeEpowN.—Holland jacket, with pockets ; light trou-
sers ; green hat.
Tom.—Modern frock jacket ; fawn coloured. trousers ; light
waistcoat ; white hat, to crush.
)1¢Gs.—Brown coat, green apron, leather breeches, gaiters.
\.s. TatstLEpown.—Blue spotted muslin ; lilac silk polka ;
straw bonnet,
114e2N.—Pink striped silk dress ; white bonnet.
Miry.—Blue cotton gown ; cap, and pink ribbons.
Marp.—White cotton gown ; cap, and blue ribbons.
SS ed
Time of Representation—-5) Minutes.
A
PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS.
SCENE—Garden of a cottage near London.—House stands
R. H., verandah projecting 2rd and 3rd «.—Bedroom win-
dow above it— Wall of garden at back.— Gate at 2nd w. w.
H.—A hot-bed, with a forcing frame lying obliquely between
the back wall and the gate.—A path xn. uw. v. BE. leading be-
hind the house.—A round table at back near the hot-house,
with garden chairs, flower-stands, shrubs, &c., about the
ground.—DiG6s ts discovered, trimming the hot-bed.— The
frame hinged, and lying open. A ring is heard at gate.
Mary comes from house and opens it, receives a note, and
closes it again.
Mary. A note for my missus,—most done, Mr. Diggs ?
Dices. Yes, Mary, yes.
Mary. And how are all the geraniums and fuchsias to-
day ?
Dic. Oh, all in good order.
Mary. Well, I’m glad to hear that, missus prizes them so ;
and her plants, as you know, are all the cares she has got.
Dic. Fhen what a happy woman your missus must be!
Mary. Well, no doubt of that—hard to find such another.
It’s New Zealand with her—summer all the-year round ; and
no wonder either, considering her lot— such a home as she’s
got, and, what’s more, such a husband.
Dic. True, Mary, true. (He puts down the frame, and col-
tects his tools.)
Mary. Such a pattern of a man! Who’d ever think they’d
been married a year! They’re just like the couples you see at
Herne Bay. Andaman, too, in business—hard work’d all
the day—off at nine every morning, and not home till six—
you'd fancy he’d want some amusement or other. No, not a
bit; she and the garden’s millions for him. He comes
home with the clock—and once he’s got on his gown, I don’t
think he’d cross the gate to see all the Horse-guards!
Die. Well, I don’t think he would.
Mary. Just give him a watering-pot, a hoe, and a spade,
and he’s got all the acquaintance he cares to cut in with !
Dic. Wonderful, really ; and a plain proof to me that a
oe
~a
AN
eee
rat aE noi
‘
ie
i ’
t
it
,
4 PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS,
wife to a man is like soil to a plant. What do you think,
Mary, I’ve heard of your master ?
Mary. Well, I don’t know.
Die. Why, that steady, and quiet, and right as he is now,
he was once one of the wildest young blades about London!
Mary. My master!
Dic. Your master. Ill tell you how I know it. My cou-
sin’s a boat-builder down about Lambeth ; and he says that
a year ago your master belong’d to a club of young fellows
who were always on the river—kept a boat at his yard.
Mary. Why, never!
Die. It’s a fact; always rowing up to Putney, on some
wager or other, and never getting back till daybreak, or just
before shutter-time—coming into town like the cabbages—
fresh.
Mary. Goody me!
Dra. They were call’d “ the Arganotics,” and wore a
« fleece” for a badge—which was to show that they knew
how to punish all landlords.
Mary. And does my missus know this ?
Die. Why, of course she does, Mary ; it’s she that’s re-
form’d him, made him give up his club, and employ his skull
properly.
Mary. Well, only to think!
Dic. So, as I said before, there’s the good of transplant-
ing—a man wildis worth nothing—but clap him intottit soil,
or nail him up to a brick—and he’ll give you good fruit, as a
matter of course.
THISTLEDOWN is heard, R. H.U.E.
Tus. Diggs.
Mary. There he is—got his jacket on already, though he’s
been home but ten minutes ; and only to think he was one of
them boating chaps, always on the river,—pulling some one
about !
Tiv{STLEDOWN enters U. E. R. H. in his jacket and slippers,
with a watering-pot, watering flowers at back.
Tis. Well, Diggs, done the clipping ?
Dc. Yes, sir, ail finish’d.
Tais. And the gravel, you say—
Dic. Is coming to-morrow, sir.
Tis. And this time, I hope, with an allowance of sand—
one doesn’t wear slippers to walk upon flints. Well, you
may go.
Dig. Thank you, sir. Good day, sir—I shall be here, sir,
at eight. (He goes out through the gate.)
Tu1s. Missis gone to the grocer’s ?
Mary. Yes, sir—she said so; and here’s a note, sir, been
left for her—come from Mrs. Clarkson’s at No. 13, (Gives it.)
Tris. Clarkson’s, eh?
eee
a
ee
oe ae
— SS ee
ae
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4-2 =
earl
PLATONIC ATTACHMERTS. 5
Mary. Yes, sir; but how black it’s getting—I hope it
wou’t rain ?
Tuts. Very hard if it does, now I’ve done all my watering.
Mary. Had I better go after her, sir? though there’s a
bad job, we’ve broke our umbrella. Suppose you haven’t
found yours, sir ?
Tuts. Mine, M iry ?
Mary. Yes, sir, which you lost the other day—your beau-
tiful silk one, with that splendid bone hand.
Tus. No, Mary, no—I’m afraid it’s departed.
Mary. What a pity—such a nice one—(Aside) Just co-
vered my basket. (She goes into the house.)
Tuts. Pity, indeed—and more, what a shame, all things
considered— a clear proof to me that, in regard to umbrellas,
there’s no moral sense. How could I have lent it on a more
urgent occasion—such a day as it was—and so perfect a lady
—a girl so well dressed, and with such elegant manners. She
might have returned it in the course of a week. I gave my
office address, though I said, “‘ Never mind.” It’s not the
value so much, it’s the feeling it shows—and yet to want
feeling, with a face such as hers—a manner that seemed the
very soul of sincerity—an expression that, to a man of Pla-
tonical feelings, was a something angelic—and yet if even
angels require umbrellas, they ought to return ’em—ought to
be very thankful to meet proper friends. Suppose she’d en-
countered one of my old companions—one of our boating
boys—such a fellow, for instance, as Mr. Tom Rawlings—
she’d have been cooped up half the day in a pastryeook’s
shop! and there was nothing more probable—for they’re al-
ways about—and yet, just to think, what my own Inck has
been—that in the whole year of my marriage, not one of these
chaps has found out my abode. What a life they’d have led
me, or rather my wife; they’d have driven her mad—have
filled her poor head with all sorts of suspicions ; but no,
thank the stars, no such fate was in store—lI’ve shaken ’em
off, and so here, safely sheltered, I rake to some good. (He
turns dway Kr, w., and takes up rake, as Raw.inGs looks over
wall on its L. Hu.) 4
Raw. Not here, by Jupiter!
Turis. And indulge no excess but at the nose of my water-
ing pot. (Takes it up again.)
Raw. And this, by all the plagues, the last house in the
road—lI’ll swear she entered one of them—still, to be con-
vinced, I’ll have a look round.
He throws a leg over the wall—an umbrella without a handle
under his arm—looking off Lt. H. TuistTLEDOWN turns
from x. H., putling down his can.
Tuts. There—I think you’ve drank enough for a temper-
ance chairman, and so—Hallo! who’s that on my wall ?
§ PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS.
Raw. (turning) Oho—Mr. Smith!
Tuis. Pray what do you want, sir ?
Raw. Want, sir—why, in the first plac e, an easier seat.
Turs. Seat, sir! get down, sir—do you know that’s my
wall ?
Baw. Don’t see your name on it!
‘Tuis. You know you’ve no right there ?
Baw. As much as the sparrows—and there’s just been a
flock.
Tuis. If you don
’t get down, sir, yow ll force me to help
Raw. Thank you for that—perhaps you'll lend me your
}
Tuts. You shall have my hands first. (Turning up his
¢ PS, and appr aching him. Lom. leans. over lowarus him.)
Way, it isn’t!
Raw. Ft is though.
Turis. Tom Rawlings !
Raw. Gus Thistledown! Why, you don’fsay it’s you!
‘Puls. casiae) Now here’s a pretty thunderbolt
Raw. Why, you cunning old foux—have you turned up at
last !
Tis. (aside) Turned up indeed!
Raw. Well, of all the great jokes—to come hunting a bon-
net, and to pitch on your beaver! Ha! ha: ! ha!
He flings the other leg over the wall.
Tris. But this is all nonsense—I must stop him at once.
Raw. And so this is your nest, eh—it’s Aere you've been
hiding !
Tuis. Mr. Rawlings, it’s. necessary for me to observe, sir,
that —
Raw. And asnugger little cupboard I never beheld. Grow
all your own greens—and I suppose they don’t cost more
than a shilling a-piece.
He stands upon the wail.
hei Hallo, don’t do that—all the neighbours will stare
at you!
Raw. Very true—not the th ing—I must consider your
omfort.
He jumps down into the garden,
Tus. (aside), There’s a proof!
Raw. And now, how are you, old fellow? deuced glad to
gee you—though you have been so shi abby, eutting us all
without the slightest apclogy—and how’s your wife? glad to
know her.
Tus. (aside) Now, it’s no use delaying—I must be de-
eided. “Mr. Rawlings !
Raw. Come, come, Tom, if you please.
ae |
PLATONIC APFACHMENTS.
Tuts. I prefer Mr. !
Raw. And I prefer Tom!
—_— Tuls. (aside) Now, if I den’t stick to Mr., I sha’n’t turn
him out. To be plain, Mr. Rawlings—
Raw. Taum—Taum !
; Tuts. Well, then, Tom. My wife, when I married, made
me promise to give up all my bachelor friends.
Raw. She did so ?
Tuts, She did ; believing that their acquaintance wouldn’t
tend to her happiness.
Riw, Then all I can say is, she has very narrow ideas;
aud you’re bound, in self-respect, to remove such a prejudice.
Turis. Perhaps so; but I’m afraid that she’s too old to
learn.
Rav. Or rather—is it dangerous to tell her the truth—
thit where we thought of one woman, you followed fifty ?
Tis, Yes, sir, Platonically,
tAw, Oh, ah,—of course,
Turs. Platonically, sir; I admired the whole sex—but
hat was the result of my great sense of beauty—my estheti-
ol sense—which distinguished the Greeks—a taste merely
mental, as you are well aware—a mere case of fancy—not one
of the heart.
Riw. Oh, very fine!
Tus, But I say, sir, it was ; my heart was my Sarah’s—and
so long as ’twas true, I don’t see the harm, if my mind loved a
thousand—if I kept a whole harem inside—inside of my skull.
Raw. And do you go on with your harem ?
Turs, Oh, no; when I married, I res igned it, of course ;
in addition to which, my wife is just one of those sensitive
Deine
Law. Who'd pull your ears if she caught you at any such
nonsense. I[ thought she looked jealous the morning I passed
you.
Tuars. You passed us—
Raw. Yes ; coming down Newgate Street, ten days ago,
Tuts. (aside) Why, never !
Raw. And more, when I met you, the day after that, hold-
ing an umbrella over her, close to the Bank.
Tuts. (aside) Now, only to think that—
Raw. I said to myself, then, Mrs. Gus has the whip, and
if ever he shies, won’t he get it superbly.
Tus, (aside) Andif Sarah comes, he’ll blab ; and—I must
move him atonce. Mr. Rawlings, having frankly explained
my position—
Raw. Yes, yes—
THis. And the pledge I am under to an excellent wife—
Raw. You expect me to go; well, don’t be alarmed. I
shall now merely ask a few questions on business—
Tunis. Oh, very good,
8 PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS.
) Raw. Respecting a party who’s living about here.
THis, Very happy, I’m sure—
Raw. A person, I must tell you, I’ve long been pursuing
a sweet little creature, that—
THis. A woman ?
Raw, Of course.
THISTLEDOWN goes to the gate, and opens it.
Tus. Youll oblige me, Mr. Rawlings, by quitting ‘my
garden.
Raw. What’s the matter now ?
TuHts. Matter, indeed! this house, sir, is the abode of do-
mestic felicity, and I call upon you to respect such a shrine !
taw. And who says, I don’t ? how do you know but I’m
going to repeat your example—
Tuts. My example!
: taw. But that I also am tired of a vagabond life—want to
settle, and let my dregs go to the bottom.
Tuts. Oh, if that’s your design—
taw. You'll assist it, of course—so I concluded; and
now, then, sit down, and hear the whole story.
He throws his umbrella at the back of the melon bed, then
brings forward stools, and pulls THistLEDOWN beside him.
Tuts. (aside) Plague take his story—if Sarah should come !
Raw. Hear the whole history of my revolution.
Tuts. No, no, not the whole—just the leading particulars.
Raw. Well, then, to begin. My governor’s lawyer is a
neighbour of yours, a fellow named Clarkson—you know him,
of course.
Tuts, I think so—I think so.
Raw. Think so—you must—why, he’s only next door.
Tuts. Well, then, I do—will you go on ?
Raw. Well; he’s ill with the gout; so I’ve had to call on
him lately on money affairs—and each time I did, I met in
one of your lanes—a girl that I tumbled deep seas into love
with.
Tuts. Well, don’t stop in our lanes.
Raw. A girl, with that charming, plump, sociable look,
that exactly conveys my ideal of wife.
Tuts. (aside) Something like Sarah!
Raw. A look all of sunshine, affection, content—a figure,
whose roundness was not without grace—and a dress always
tasteful, whether in a quiet blue shawl, or a robin-tailed polka!
Tus. (aside) A robin-tailed polka—why, she’s got one!
Ab ii Raw. Well, I spoke to her, of course; mistook her, as
| usual, for Miss Smith, of Brighton ; and I’m bound to say,
she repulsed me—only a repulse, you know, Gus, is to be
Bit taken two ways—either as a wish you should go, or that the
fey attack be repeated.
i Tus. Repeated ?
eas a Selanne Mee
~~ a.
PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS, 9
Rav. Exactly—just as to cuff down a dog is to make him
jump higher ; and so, though it’s true all her words were
repellant, I still thought that her manner was rather inviting.
Tuts. The devil it was!
Raw. Yes; but yet, for all that, I couldn’t find out her
nime, or follow her as I might; her mysterious abode—she
always gave me the slip—as she again did to-day, when on
coming to Clarkson’s, we suddenly met, and—Eh! why, who’s
that ? ( Jumping up, he looks through the gate, pulling THis.
towards him.)
THIs. ( jumping up) Who—where ?
Raw. There—yonder—now, crossing the road.
Turs. Where ? I don’t see—
Raw, Yes, ’tis the robin-tailed polka! Ill catch her this
time, if it’s over glass bottles. (He runs off through the gate.)
THis. Here—hallo—stop, stop, sir—that lady’s my wife!
Why, ’'m not in my senses! my Sarah inviting this fellow’s
attentions, whilst I was away—hard at work at my labours ;
my heart only propped by the thought of its treasure—all its
joys centering there—seeing no form but hers. (Looking off.)
Can’t see either of em. I must be after ’em. Here, Mary,
my coat. (He rushes int) the house.)
Mrs. T. comes through the gate rapidly, and closing it, falls
against it, breathless.
Mrs. T. Alive! and that’s all—another foot would have
killed me ; that wretch would have been actually guilty of
murder! and respectable women can be treated in this way
—in a land they call civilized! Against the law to hunt cat-
tle—but you may hunt a woman! And to swear he’d have my
name, or he’d break down the gate—the monster! not caring
a pin which he damaged—so really if I hadn’t escaped by
hard running—(the gale pushes open, she shuts it again)—
Ah, there he is. Go along, sir, go along. Begone, I com-
mand you—if you don’t, Pll ery out; there are policemen
about—I can make my voice heard. Go along, sir, I say.
Oh, you wretch—oh, you villain! Oh—oh—oh—oh !
RAWLINGS pushes the gate open, and puts his head in, then
pulls it back, leaving his hat jammed. TutsTLEDOWN
comes from the house—his coat over his jacket.
Turs. Sarah!
Mas. T. Augustus !
Raw. (looking in) What’s this—his wife !
She advances, regaining her composure, and turns upon Tom,
who enters.
Mrs. T. Yes, sir, his wife ! And now, what have you to say ?
Tuts. Yes, sir, his wife ; and now, what do you say ?
- ;
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10 PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS.
Raw. Say—why, that I thought that the lady in Newgate
Street—
THISTLEDOWN crosses and slops him.
Tus. Hang Newgate Street, sir—what’s that to the ques-
tion? This is the lady you’ve been annoying so grossly—
following and persecuting for more than a week past.
Mrs. T. And how did you know that, pray ?
THis. How? why, because—
Raw. Because, madam, I told him five minutes ago—when
I rejoiced to renew an old comrade’s acquaintance; and
though I little knew then what a victim I’d been—
Mrs. T. A victim, indeed! You, sir!
Raw. Of course, madam—I, through not knowing your
name—just see what you’ve cost me—a very fine pair of boots,
owing to your infamous lanes—and a hat that you’ye made
only fit for the Opera.
Mrs. T. Why, the calculating, sordid, contemptible
wretch !
Raw. The condition you’ve put me in is really quite hor-
rible—horrible for a man of business, who has got an appoint-
ment with Mr. Clarkson, and one of his principal clients ; so
you'll allow me to retire, and make myself tidy. (Crossing
to enter the house, she stops him.)
Mrs. T. Oh, of course ; and you'll find down the road a
very excellent pump!
Raw. Pump!
Tus, With a flagstone beside it that will serve for a wash-
stand.
Raw. There’s a pump, too, in Newgate Street
Mr. Thistledown would like a splash there.
Tuis. Ahem! Well, as you’ve got an appointment, as
you’ve business to attend to, you may as well appear decent.
You can go to my room, sir—go to my room,
Raw. (aside) Thought that shot would tell. Lost my
wife, that’s a bore—but I suppose I shall get another—can’t
have been given these virtuous feelings for nothing. ‘That’s
your room, F suppose—only one thing to ask—what’s your
soap—hope it’s honey? (He goes into the house.)
Mrs. T. And so, Mr. Thistledown !
Tuis. And so, Mrs. Thistledown !
Mrs. T. I thought, sir, when I consented to hazard my
happiness by a union with you, you pledged me your word
that not one of your acquaintance should ever enter your
doors ?
Turis. Well, and he didn’t—he came over the wall!
Mrs. T. But you allowed him to stay, and I dare say en-
couraged him.
Tuis. On the point of encouraging, I think you might say
something.
Mrs. T. I, Mr. Thistledown !
perhaps
PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS. 1]
Tuts. You, madam—you—for though you did hide your
hame, your manner, it seems, was by no means forbidding.
Mrs. T. Not forbidding! A slander, sir—I did all but
scream. I didn’t run home, because I didn’t want the fellow
to kuow where I lived; but do you suppose I took no pre-
cautions—that I didn’t speak to the policeman, and to make
the man vigilant give him his dinner and tea here for almost
a week !
Tuts. Then of course—you did everything that lay in your
power, and if you did keep it secret—why—
Mrs. T. Why did I do that, sir? wasn’t that because I
didn’t wish to prevent your enjoyment ?
Tris. My enjoyment !
Mrs. T. Of course. I knew when all was told how you'd
long to thump the fellow, and how cruel ’twould be to give
you any false hopes ; so I said to the policeman, let’s be sure
of this man, and then my dear husband won’t trouble you
further ; and now, thank the stars, here’s the wretch in your
house.
Tunis. Why—why, true ; but you see, it’s just that that pro-
tects him—amongst the savagest nations, the roof is protection.
Mrs. T. Well, he won’t haye it always—you can follow
him out.
Tuts. Well, I admit that in justice, perhaps love, I ought.
Mrs. T. Ought, sir—you ought—when he’s insulted your
wife ?
THuirs. Yes, but when we punish, we ought toreform; and
would thumping cure him? that’s just the point—is physical
force the resource of our times ? No, no-—it’s gone by—no
beating him, love—I really couldn’t do it.
Mrs. T, Then what will you do ?
Tuts. Reason with him, dearest—appeal to his feelings ;
and after all, I don’t think he’s deficient in heart—it’s his
manner’s his vice—and I don’t dispute that—I certainly ad-
mit—that he is—rather—free.
Tom puts his head out of bedroom window, washing himsel/.
Raw. Isay, Gus, where do you keep your soft towels—
these are so horribly coarse, you might curry a horse with
] , »)
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Tuts. Well, put ’em down, who wants you to use them ?
Raw. If there was any convenience, I’d fancy a bath—
Mrs. T. A bath, sir—abath! there’s a parochial establish-
ment at the end of the lane!
Raw. But your washing apparatus is sadly deficient—pan
like a pie-dish (Ae holds it up). Wonder how you manage to
keep yourself decent. (He disappears. Mrs. T. slands in a
reverie.)
Trrs. And the neighbours all looking—~I must go to that
fellow, or—
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12 PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS.
Mrs, T, Augustus—
THis. Well, love—
Mus. T. What a thought has just struck me! I told you
who I met yesterday, crossing the Park—
Tuis. Some school friend of yours—
Mrs. T. Yes, Ellen Milman, who’s living at Weymouth—
Tuis. And who’s just come to town—to—
Mrs. T. To see her trustee—and what do you think she
told me—that some scamp of a fellow has been worrying her—
Tus. Her!
Mrs. T, In just my own manner—met her first in Moor-
fields, and would insist upon seeing her back to Queen Square.
Tuts. (aside) Good powers!
Mrs. T. And again, the next day—when it happening to
rain, would find her a ’bus, and even lend her his umbrella—
to return when she pleased—
Tus. (aside) Now, was ever poor devil so—
Mrs. T. The craft of that trick—believing, of course, she’d
return it in person, and so give him a chance of another en-
counter.
THis. Now really, my love, I—
Mrs. T. Now, isn’t it monstrous, that a poor girl can’t go
out, but some wolf on two legs must be laying a trap for her ?
THis. Now, Sarah, it’s really most painful to hear you.
Why, mightn’t this man have done it all from humanity ?
Mrs. T. Humanity, indeed!
Tuts. Why, you say it was raining—and she’s young and
delicate !
Mrs. T. Now, you know he’s a wretchs—and how can you
defend him ?
Tus. But I really must, Sarah. Take the facts of the
case. Here’s a delicate girl in the slop of the city—the rain
pouring torrents—the ’bus a mile off. Why, if a man at such
a moment had no right to advyance—to protect helpless
woman to the door of a coach—
Mrs. T. There was no need, I suppose, he should call her
an angel, and squeeze her sweet hand as he assisted her in.
THis. Why—ahem!
Mus. T. Oh, the treacherous snake—how I wish I were a
magistrate for only one day, to give all such misleaders their
proper employment !
Tuts. (aside) No needin my case—I’m committed enough !
Mrs. T. So Istrongly advised Ellen to tell her trustee, or
at least his solicitor—and, talking of him, I forgot to tell
you, that—that, his lawyer’s Mr. Clarkson, at No. 13.
Tats, Clarkson—
Mrs. T. Our neighbour ; and Ellen didn’t know, but some
day or other she’d have to pay him a visit.
‘t His. Well, talking of Clarkson, here’s a note from his
wife.
PIATONIC ATTACHMENTS, 13
Mrs. T. A note from his wife !
THis. Which was left an hour ago—and I was going to
observe that—(He gives it lo her, and as she turns away with
i£, Tom looks again from the window, brushing his head.)
Raw. I say, Gus, where’s your hair oil ?
Tuts. Oil, indeed—oil, sir ! Are you going to stick there
all day ?
Raw. I can’t call your girl—for she’s brushing my boots!
Mrs. T. Brushing ’em—well, it’s a wonder to me you
haven’t borrowed a pair!
Raw. TPve got it. You see, after Clarkson’s I’ve to call on
a lady—a client of his—that we’re buying stock for; and, as
that is the case—Ah, faugh—what horrible stuff—smells like
tallow and turpentine !—Never use it again—an utter dis-
grace to you. (He throws the bottle over the wall.)
Tuts. Hollo—what are you at, sir? leave my room in-
Sstantly !
Raw. Yes, I’ve quite done, let me make the place tidy—
towels all wet—but here’s a grand place to dry ’em—( He
spreads them on the verandah, then goes in.)
Tuts, Dry ’em—be hung, sir—that’s not a laundry! Stop,
sir, I say—will you have done, sir? Oh, it’s no use—I must
tackle this fellow—I must go in, at all hazards, and bundle
him out—(He is going in—Mas. T. turns eagerly.)
Mrs, T. Augustus —
Tuts. Directly—can’t stop till I’ve settled him—
Mrs. T, But you must stop—you must—this news is so
charming. This note comes from Ellen.
Turis. Ellen!
Mrs. T. Herself—she’s now at the Clarkson’s.
Tuis. What do you say ?
Mrs. T. Now—called there on business—was forced to
stay dinner—and she says, in the evening she’s coming round
here.
Tuts. Here! (He staggers against the verandah.)
Mas. T. What’s the matter ?
Tuts. The—the pleasure’s so sudden—and then, in addi-
tion—
Mrs. T. I know what has struck you—the same thought
as me—that this scamp who’s annoyed her is your dear friend
up-stairs !
Tuts. What, Rawlings ?
Mrs. T. Himself,—if he’d worry one woman, why not
another ?
Tuts. Well, certainly, it’s possible—
Mrs. T. But he sha’n’t teaze her here—he shall turn out.
And now, isn’t this charming—when I didn’t expect her for
a couple of weeks ? and she’s so anxious to see you—and I
know that your pleasure will be equal to hers.
Tus. Oh, of course, love, of course. I can’t say what I feel!
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Mrs. T. And she wants also to see our place, our flowers
and plants, and my pet of a melon!
Tats. Yes, love—the melon—
Mrs. T. Which 1 said was coming forward, though not
without forcing.
Tus. (aside) That will be my case.
Mrs. T. And she'll be here at seven—why, it must be that
now—and there’s nothing prepared! Here, Mary, tea! tea!
(She runs into the house.)
Turs. Arsenic for me—and of forty rat power! Now all
must be known—and all the reasoning in the world won’t
convince her I’m innocent! A suspicion in her is like a
matter in Chancery—it never comes out again! What’s to
be done ? I can’t meet the girl—if I do I am picketted—lI’ve
a spike at my soul for the rest of my days—and yet | can't
ne a pretext—or my flight is suspicious—my ab-
ence condemns me as much as my presence—and—
RAWLinGs comes from the house drawing on his gloves.
Raw. Ha! ha! And so, Gus, your Newgate Street beauty
is coming to see you?
Turs. Now don’t be a fiend!
2Aw. Whilst it seems J’m the wretch who’s annoyed her
so much ?—so you'll have a comfortable evening ; and as f
must be off—as indeed ’twould be wrong if I stopped an
lenger—why—
Crossing to the gate. Tus. seizes him.
-sert an old friend ?
Tu1s. What! You'll desert
Raw. Why, ain’t I turned out!
Turs. But don’t be revengeful—crush me in return with
a fine masnanimity !
Raw. Well—but I must go!
Tunis. Think of old times, Tom—of our old “ Argonau-
tics »—when we rowed in one boat, and pulled always toge-
ther !
Raw. But you see, Gus, I’m wanted.
THis. But can’t you remain—till this girl has arrived—
and invent some excuse—for my sudden departure ?
Raw. I can’t—’pon my word—-besides, *twould be a lie—
and you wouldn’t have me tell a lie ?
Tuts. Oh, wouldn’t I!
Raw. As I told you before—after Clarkson I’ve to: see &
lady—a client of his—that we’re buying stock for. [ve a
lett r to give her—which she must have to-night—and as it’s
as fir as Queen Square—
Tuts. Queen Square! What’s her name ?
Rav. Well, it’s something like—
Tuis. Milman?
Rav. Yes—Milman!
PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS. 15
Turs. Why, that’s the very gir]—that’s her we expect!
Raw. It is!
Turis, Yes—it is; so how singularly lucky—for now ycu
must stop to deliver your letter !
Raw. Well, really—how odd !
Tats. And I can be off—so you'll think of an excuse—and
T’ll go to the tavern at the end of the lane—and as you go
by—y ou can step in and tell me—so I won’t delay, Tom—lI
think that would be foolish—I’ll make matters sure by my
instant departure—and—( Going to the gale. Aviolenl ring
is heard. He looks through the “wicket, and closes it quickly.)
Tom!
Raw. What’s the matter ?
Tnss. By all that’s fatal, she’s here!
Raw. At the gate?
Tuts. At the gate! I’m rvined—caught—lost !
Raw. Oh, nonsense! hide somewhere —hide till she’s past.
Turis. But where, in a spot that’s as open as honesty ?
Raw. What’sthis ? (He goes to the forcing frame, )
‘Turs. Our melon bed!
Raw. Plenty of room, I see—get under here!
Turs. [ shall ernsh Sarah’s darling—
Raw. It’s her darling’s at stake !
Another ring is heard. Mrs, T, calls within.
Mrs. T. Mary! Mary! the gate!
Raw. Both are coming now-—and they’ll clip you between
them like two halves of a scissors !
Rawtines lifting up the frame by one end, TutstTLEDOWN
gels under it at the other, and Riwttnes lowering if,
sits down on it, as Mrs. T. comes from the house, and ELLEN
entering, they embrace.
Mrs. T. Ah, my dear Ellen! how kind this is of you!
Need I say how much pleasure this gives to us both!
Even. Be assured, my dear fr iend, not more than to me!
M :s. T. And so unexpected ! it’s really delightful! Well
—you find us all alone, and most happy to see you,
E:xirn. And so, this is your place—and what a sweet one,
indeed
Mrs, T. I thought you’d be pleased with it—but where’s
Augustus ? Augustus !
Turning, she sees RAWLINGS, who rises and hows,
Raw. Mr. Thistledown, madam, has been called away for
a moment.
Mas. T. Called away, sir!
Raw. By a sudden emergency, that was rather imperative.
Mrs. T. And pray, how do you remain, sir ?
Tuis. raises he frame, and puts a brick under it.
R41. Why, I remain, madam, for a great gratification—
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16 PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS.
that of enjoying the honour of an introduction to Miss Mil-
man.
Mrs. T. To Miss Milman, mdeed!
Raw, For whom I’ve a letter from a firm in the City—
which I believe she has heard of—Armstrong and Brothers.
EKi.teN. Armstrong and Brothers! Of course—they are
my brokers,
Raw. Then, as I’m in their employ—she will perceive that
they attach to. this. note some importance, as.1 was desired to
piace it in her own hands this evening.
kLLeN. They are very kind, really !
Raw. And I trust I may add, that any other aid of mine,
Miss Milman has merely to name, to command.
E_Len. Well, how very obliging! This is really most
fortunate! Do you know, Sarah, this note I was expecting
most anxiously—so, if yowH allow me, Pll readit whilst I
take off my bonnet.
Mrs. T. Certainly, love—eertainly !
ELLeNn, And perhaps you will remain, sir, till ’ve learnt
its contents ?
Raw. A duty, Miss Milman, which, need TI say, is a happi-
ness ! ELibNn goes into the house.
Mrs, T. (aside) Well—there’s something about this strange
plague of a man which deprives me of my senses!
She enters the house slowly, looking at Tom. Tuts. looks
from under the frame.
Raw. And so that’s the girl! and what a positive angel!
what a synopsis of everything precious in woman !
Turis. Well, Tom, are they gone ?
Raw. Young, graceful, gentle—with six thousand pounds !
Tats. For Pve had forcing enough—another five minutes,
and I think I should sprout.
Raw. With a mind, too, so practical, clear, and decisive !
Tuts. Why, Tom, do you hear me ?
Raw. Be quiet—lie down, sir! A girl who, it’s plain,
could—
Tuts. Be quiet, indeed!
Raw. Could make life an Eden—could fence—shut it in—
Tuts. Do you mean to let me out ?
taw. Could bestow on it joys that would need a new
frame !
Turis. Well, Pll get out of mine, if I break it in pieces!
He lifts the frame up to push itover. Mary comes from
house with tea-things, which she places on the table—and
he falls back again.
Miny. Tea, if you please, sir—which, as the evening’s
so warm, youre to haye in the garden.
PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS. 17
She arranges the table, then goes off. RAWLINGS paces
the ground.
Raw. Wives! talk of wives—why, there’s their perfection
—the woman of all others that I should desire! Whiat’a
home she’d secure! what a friend—what a boat—a wherry,
in which I’d back myself against the whole river !—a hun-
dred a side—up to Putney and back! I see the scene now!
(Dropping into a chair, he rows, shoving it back. Tuts. look-
ing at him as he approaches.) Banks and bridges all crowded
—flags and handkerchiefs waving—I in mid stream—lying
down to my work—steady and easy—she walks away now—
six feet to a stroke—till [ hear the shout raised—
Tuis. Hallo! you'll be over me!
ELLEN and Mrs. T. return from the house. Tom jumps up
and presents his chair.
E.uen. I have to inform you that this note was of the
utmost importance, for it names an hour to-morrow when
I’m to see Mr. Armstrong.
Raw. Exactly, Miss Milman—and if you'll allow me a
moment, I think I can furnish some further particulars.
ELLEN. Indeed! Well, then, Sarah, I’m sure you'll ex-
cuse me.
He leads her to the table, where they sit, she at the back,
he t. Hi.
Mrs. T. Well! I suppose I’m awake—but I can scarcely
believe it! Here’s a man who fora whole fortnight makes
my being a burthen—hunts me about all these lanes as if
I’d been a stray cat—and when I thought he was gone—and
some enjoyment was coming—a quiet hour’s talk with an old
and dear friend—here he stieks, and whips her off as he
would his own hat—and she to say it’s not he who’s been
following her about—whose umbrella she’s brought down to
Clarkson’s to-day—I don’t believe a word of it!
Mary comes with teapot from the house, places it om the
table, and goes off.
Mary. Now, ma’am, it’s all ready.
Mxs. T. And now, I suppose, he must stop, as he’s here
on her business—and to pour out for that fellow—it’s really
enough to give the teapot an apoplexy! Now, Ellen—
ready ?
E: cen. Yes, Sarah—thank you—but your friend, you
must know, is so very obliging!
Mrs. T. Oh, very—no doubt—wonderful the way in which
he’ll serve a woman!
She sits nr. u. of table. Tuts. lifts up the frame, and replaces
the brick.
E.LLen. But where’s Mr. Thistledown ?
Baw. Ah! where’s our friend Thistledown ?
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PLATONIC ATTFACHMNENTS,
as. T. Well—it’s really very odd—quite unaccountable
e hasn’t returned—Mary! Mary! do you know wlhere’s
your ,
Mary. (in the house) No, ma’am, I don’t.
Mrs. T, Can’t think where he’s got to!
THis. (aside) Lucky for me!
Mrs. T. What in the world he can be possibly doing!
Tris. (aside) Smothering at present !
Raw. Well, how very delightful! tea m a garden—of all
summer pleasures my greatest enjoyment! Miss Milman,
some cake—my dear Mrs. Thistledown, allow me to assist you!
Mrs. T. (snatching it) Oh, thank you!
Raw. Capital cake! eat any amount of it!
Mrs. T. (aside) So it appears !
Kaw. Muffins so light, too—and so famously buttered !
Do you know, my dear madam, I think there’s a great art in
buttering !
Mrs. T. And you seem to have studied it!
Tuts. (aside) Now, who is he flirting with—that girl, or
my wife ?
Raw. My dear Mrs. Thistledown, I’ll take some more tea!
Mrs, T. (aside) [I wish it was Camomile !
THis. (aside) Tom, I should like some
hot}
taw. (aside) There, then! (He throws the grounds over
the open frame. Tis. sneezes and disappears.)
Mrs. T. What’s that—the cat ?
Raw. The cat! well, it certainly sounded like some un-
happy animal !
Mrs. T. He’s been out in the rain again—that fellow will
never stop at home as he ought !
Raw. (aside) Do you hear that, you villain! Been to
the Opera, Miss Milman—the Horticultural, of course—the
ladies’ own féte—though they’re really very cruel—go tlrere
on purpose to eclipse the poor flowers—don’t you think so,
Miss Milman ?—isn’t it now really your candid opinion that
—( Leaning towards her, he towers his voice.)
Mrs. T. Why, the creature’s making love to her—actually
making love to her—before my own face! Oh, Pll soon
settle that—so—I—I beg pardon—
Raw. (turning, with a plate) Muflins, did yousay, madam ?
Mrs. I. No, sir—nor butter! Ellen—there’s the garden,
remember—you’ve to see my plants yet—and what’s more,
ny melon !
Raw. Your melon, did you say, madam ?
Mrs. T. Yes, sir—my melon—which I’ve got in the frame
here.
Pm dreadfully
Tom tries to knock away the brick with the rake,
Exien. And which, I think you informed. me, was not
very forward ?
PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS, 19
Mrs. T. Not yet—but I expect it will come up very soon !
Raw. (aside, rising) So do I—I must stop her !
M s.T. (rising) And so, if you like, you shall see my
little duck first ! (Goi img to cross—he encounters her. )
Ra v. I beg pardon, Mis. Thistledown—but—
Mrs, T. Well, sir—what now ?
Riw. Do you think it quite wise to uncover it to-night ?
Mrs. T. What’s that to you, sir, if I choose to do it ?
Raw. But what if the exposure just now be i injurious ?
Mxs. T. I beg you will stand away, sir, and let me do as I
like !
Raw. But I assure you, you’re wrong—you don’t know
what you’re doing !
Mus. T. Doing as I please, sir—within my own garden!
Stand aside, sir—I command you! Not see my own pro-
petty! (Going to the frame, and lifting it violentd 'y. She
sercams, throws il ack, and Tuts, raising his head, she
lowers hers t) meet tt.) What do I see !
Riw. Wht you e xpec ted—your melon come up!
CULLEN. Why, I can’t believe my senses! is that Mr. This-
tledown ?
Riw. Yes, miss—himself! and your wonder, of course,
s, at his present position !
Mrs. T. Which position he will now oblige us all by ex-
plaining!
Tris. And in the first place, perhaps, will be allowed to
get out of—( He rises and advances, shaking his legs.)
Mis. T. Well, sir—this mystery! I wish to be “ebor :
Tuts. So do I—after half an hour's baking !
Mas. T. I beg you will be explicit—will be eandid, Mr.
Thistledown! TI trust, for all ony sakes, there’s nothing
crooked about you !
Tuts, Well, I fancy there is!
Mrs. T. There is, sir! there is!
Turis, Yes—I think there’s a worm up the leg of my trou-
sers !
Phe gate bell vings. She looks off.
Mas. T. Come in!
A Servant appears at the gate, with TutstLEDOWN’s wm-
brella—the bone hands.
Serv. If you please, ma’am, is Miss Milman here ?
ELLEN. (¢ rossing to her) Yes—lI am she.
Se .v. Well, ma’am, Mr. Clarkson sends his compliments,
and wishes to see you again this ev ening > as soon as conve-
nient.
EtvLen. Indeed!
Serv. And as it looks very threatening, he has sent your
umbrella. (She plac esit against the wal il, handle do wnwards,
and goes.out again.)
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20 PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS.
ExLven. Well—how very provoking! I fear I must go—
but if possible, Sarah, I will see you to-morrow—so Ti step
in for my bonnet, which I left in your room.
Raw. And if Miss Milman will permit me, I shall be proud
to attend her.
ELLEN bows, and goes into the house.
Mrs. T. Indeed, Mr. Rawlings, you shall do no such
thing !
Raw. I shall not, madam!
Mrs. T. No, sir—my husband will aecompany that young
lady home !
Tuis. I, my love!
Mrs. T. You, sir—you alone shall escort her !
Tuts. Oh, with pleasure, if you wish it!
Mrs. T. By your side I shall feel that my young friend is
safe. So you will go in, Augustus, and make yourself tidy.
Tuts. (aside) And there see the girl—have a full expla-
nation—and make all secure! Capital! famous! she'll
worm out nothing, after all—though talking of worms—this
is very unpleasant! (He goes in, wriggling his leg.)
Mrs. T. And now, Mr. R: wwlings, let you and I come to a
clear understanding. I see your desicn, sir—you want a
fresh victim—but that lady’s my friend, sir—a dear and good
girl, sir—and your infamons scheme shall not be permitted !
Raw. Well—if my scheme’s infamous, you’ve tried it your-
self! JI wish to marry that lady, as I happen to love her.
Mrs. T. Love her, indeed! Why, it’s not an hour ago
that you swore you loved me!
Raw. Well—and what of that, madam ?
Mrs. T. What of that, sir!
Raw. The human mind, you’re aware, is a very wonderful
organ !
Mrs. T. You’re a thorough deceiver—and so now I'll te
plain with you—unless you depart, sir, and give me your
word never to molest her again, I'll tell her at once of your
eonduct to me, and so give her cause to take care of herself !
Raw. (aside) Confound the woman! that might be awk-
ward !
Mrs. T. So now take your choice, sir
known !
Raw. (aside) I see I must compromise. Well, then, Mrs.
Thistledown—since you wish me to go—
Mrs. T. You consent—very good ! ’tis your only atone-
ment—and so, there’s your umbrella—which you lent my
young friend—and whic +h, taken to Clarkson’s, has just bee
sent after her. -
Raw. (aside) Her husband’s! and so now comes explo-
sion the second !
She goes to the wall, and takes it, looking at him.
sither go, or be
PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS. 2%
Mrs. T. So take it, young parent? hereafter, when you
encounter one of our feeble sex reafter, when destined to
meet helpless woman—when ee, eye, sir, I say, meets a
form that—a form—( Evtending il, she observes—e ramines—
opens—holds it up—and at length exclaims) Ours!
E. Len comes from the house in her bonnet.
ELLEN. Now, Sarah—I’m ready—but I have a few words
to say—just a few before parting—so, if Mr. Rawlings will
excuse us—
Tom drawing the umbrella from her, she slares at its handle.
Mrs. T. (aside) Ours—our own! And can it then be—
that—that he—that Seaatacies is—he—QOh, my dear
Ellen! I’m very unwell!
ELLEN ledds her off x. u. Ist £., ag Turs. comes from the
house dressed.
Tuts. Ha! ha! hwrah, Tom! hurrah! wish me joy!
It’s all right—I’ve seen her—told her all—and the dear, noble
soul sees my position, and will never betray me! So I’m
safe—I’m secure—Mrs. T. will know nothing—and—( Dance-
ing about. Tom presents the umbrella—the handle towards
him)—What’s that ?
Raw. Your umbrella—which she brought down to Clark-
soms—which has follawed hey here—and here has found =
way into the hands of your wife—Gus—yow’re provided for!
(He gives him the umbrella, and goes to the back.)
Tuis. And so, like a bad deec i it has found me ort after
all! When I thought all secure—and the storm he!) blowa
ever—down comes the bolt—and I’m prostrate for ever!
(He drops his head on the handle.)
Raw ines ddvances—his own umbrella, (which he has picked
up at back,) under his arm.
Raw. And yet it’s hard, too—for he’s been punished
eyough—I ought to get him out of it—only how—that’s the
point! Is there no way—so alike— 80 eh !—Gus—I’ve a
thought! (He snatches Turse Lenown’s umbrella, and com-
pares the two.)
Tus. Don’t plague me—don’t plague a poor wretch under
sentence !
Raw. But there’s chance ofa reprieve! Will this handle
come off ?
THis. Come off!
Riw. Yes—will it unscrew? (Tries it.) By Jove, it
will! and now the point is—will it go on to mine—which
you see doesn’t boast one? ( Tries it.) Three cheers! it does
—so now all we’ve to do, is to get rid of your own, and—
ahem !—here she comes!
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29 PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS:
He throws Tutsti eEvown’s umbrella over the wall, and tucks
his own under his arm. Euiten and Mrs. T. return.
EiteN. And now, Mr. Thistledown, I’ve to bid you good
day—and to tell you I’ve arranged to repeat’ my visit next
week—
Mrs. T. And that Mr. Rawlings will be kind enough to
accompany you home.
Raw. You couldn’t honour him more! So good day, Mrs.
Thistledown—good day to you, Gus—see you again shortly !
Now, Miss Milman, I’m quite at your servic e—and—
Giving her his left arm, and going off with her, the umbrella
tucked under his right arm, Mus. THIstLepvown draus it
oul,
Mrs. T. I beg pardon, Mr. Rawlings—but I think this is
ours !
Raw. Yours, my dear madam !
Mrs. T. Ours, sir!
Raw. Well, I know so it struck you a moment ago—but—
Mrs. T. Mr. Thistledown—I presume you can speak to
that fact ?
itis. Well—it certainly resembles the one that I lost!
Mrs. T. Resembles! it’s the same, sir, (aside) which you
lent to Miss Milman the day that it rained—and she now has
brought back! All is known, sir—all is known!
Raw. Well, the point is soon setthed—for knowing that
umbrellas are uncertain possessions—and not being able to
aiford a new one a week—I adopted the resource of putting
my name upon mine,
Mrs. T. Your name, sir!
Raw. My name—in very elegant letters that I cut on the
spike—and if you'll be kind enough to examine that little
projection, I think you’ll read as follows :—‘ Thomas John
Rawlings, 170, Simmery Axe.”
Mrs. T. turns up the spike, and RawLinGs turns the um-
brella round, as she reads.
Mrs. T, Thomas—John—Rawlings—170—Simmery Axe.
Raw tines draws it away from her, and tucks it under his
arm again,
Raw. Quite correct, you perceive—and now, Miss Mil-
man, this little error’s cleared up, I think you and I may bid
our good friends adieu. (They go out thr ough the gate.)
Mrs. T. remains looking on the ground, ‘Tuts. turns away,
folding his arms.
Mrs. T. Well—were ever human senses so mocked in this
world! Wouldn’t I—wouldn’t any one have sworn ’twas the
same !
Tus. (aside) Now, then, for my turn!
PLATONIC ATTACHMENTS. 23
Mrs. T. Wasn’t it just the same colour—the sathe size—
the same hand—that curious bone hand !—could I think
there were two of ’em!
Tuts. (solemnly) And has it—come—to this !
Mrs. T. What does he say!
THis. For this—did I surrender old friends and enjoyments
—our Boat Club—our suppers—the Coal Hole—the river—
Mrs, T. Well—but Augustus—
Tuts. Those bright summer eyenings—when we rowed
where we pleased—drank what liquor we liked—and slept
wherever twas possible!
Mrs. T. Why, true—but Augustus—
Tuis. Were ye all given up—for one being—one home—
and am I now charge .d with treachery—is this my reward!
Mrs. T. Well, I know ’twas very wrong—and so I hope
you'll forgive me !
Tuis. What, forgive a jealousy that may come back to-
morrow !
Mrs. T. Gh, but it sha’n’t—overlook it this time, and I
promise you that my confidence shali be equal to yours !
Tuis. Tam but a man—well, Sarah—there! (#le opens
his arms—she runs inlo them.)
Mrs. T. Ah, my dear Augustus! and now it’s alll past !
Tom and ELLEN relurn through gate.
Raw. Gus, we’re sent back again—Clarkson and his wife
want you and Mrs. T. to come in and spend the evening.
Irs. T. To spend the evening!
iLLeN. Yes, Sarah—yes—Mrs. Clarkson is most anxious
to make your acquaintance—and she has strictly enjoined
me to take no denial.
Mrs. T. Well, shall we go, love ?
Tuts. Yes, if you like, darling!
Mrs. T. Here, Mary! my bonnet and shawl!
The ladies go to the back conversing. Mary, after a mo-
ment, comes out with shail and bonnet, which Mus. T.
puts on. Tom advances wilh THistinpown
Raw. Well, Gus, all right ?
Tits. Quite so, Tom—quite! We are like a broken leg
that’s been mended—stronger than ever !
Raw. So ’twas nota bad shift, yousee. (Tapping the hand.)
This. A bad un—’twas wonderful! I never saw. your
‘‘ address ” used to greater advantage ! (Pointing to spike.)
Raw. Weli—and now you'll take care to lend no more
umbrellas !
Tuts. Catch me at it, Thomas!
Mrs. T. (af back) Now, Augustus—I’m ready !
Tuts. Yes, darling, yes! . Vil just get my hat. Mary, my
hat!
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Tom joining the ladies, they take his arm and go out through
the gate, as Mary goes into house, and THISTLEDOWN ad-
vances.
—And say only one word—Gentlemen—gentlemen—perhaps
it may bewrong a man lending umbrellas—perhaps so—it
may be ;—but Ladics—if a gentleman does lend an umbrella,
the least you can do is to send it back privately —privately !
Mrs. T. looks in through the gate. Many comes from house
with his hat.
Mrs. T. Augustus! are you coming ?
ay Tuts. Coming, my darling! I say again—privately t-
(dle seizes his hat, and runs oud after her.)
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; | Printed by G, R. Cowie, Ivy-lane, Paternoster-row,
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THE
TWO BONNYCASTLES.
A Farce,
IN ONE ACT.
BY
JOHN MADDISON MORTON,
AUTHOR OF
“ Grimshaw, Bagshaw and Bradshaw,” “ Box and Cox,” ‘A Hopeless
Passion,” Slasher and Crasher,” ‘‘ Double-bedded Loom,” * John
Dobbs,” ‘‘ Betsy Baker,” “‘ My Precious Betsy,” “ Your Life's m
Danger,” “ Friend Waggles,” c&c., &c., Le.
a
THOMAS HAILES LACY, £
i
WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND,
LONDON. -
Ey
x
}
Fs iT oe
lirst performed at the Theatre Royal Haymarket,
on Tuesday, November 11, 1851.
es >---~
CHARACTERS.
Mr. SMUGGINS. ........6.....0006...: Mp. LAMBERT.
Mr. JOHN JAMES JOHNSON... Mr. Howe.
Mr. BONNYCASTLE = alias
Mr. JEREMIAH JORUM .... Mr. Bucxsronx.
Mrs. BONNYCASTLE .........
HELEN (Miece to Smuggins)......... Miss A. Vintne.
PATTY
ee Mrs. BuckINGHAM.
ote pte Lena Mee cube 7408 Mrs. CAULFIELD.
Scene—CANTERBURY.
ea” Time of Representation— Forty-five Minutes.
PO
COSTUMES.
MRS. BONN YCASTLE.—Scarlet dress, black cloak, and white bonnet.
HELEN.—Check silk dress,
PATT Y.-——Blue cotton gown.
SMUGGINS.—Blaek body voat, grey trowsers.
JOHNSON.—Black riding jacket, white paletot, white waistcoat. and red
plaid_trowsers:
BONNYCASTLE.—Grey jacket, black waistcoat, dark trowsers.
AS
fee eee
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES!
SCENE.— Office at Mr. Suucerss’. Antrance Doors, €., 8.2 E-
L248. andu.3., @ practicable balcony, R. 3 B.; @ large arm
chair, two tables and chairs, high desk and stool, t., papers, We.
Jying en tt; lighted candles.
Enter Hevex, followed by Parry, at door R, 2 E.
Hev. I say it’s downright tyranny, and an unwarrantable inter-
erence with the liberty of the subject. (walking about)
Par. (following her) So it is, miss! But recollect Magna Charter,
miss! Remember you’re a Briton, miss !—and never, never, never,
never be a slave, miss.
Hex. To be married against my will! One would think Uncle
Smuggins fancies himself in Turkey.
Par. And flatters himself he can do as the Turkeys do, but
we'll show him the contrary.
Het. Oh! Patty, Patty, what would you do if you were in such
8, situatien ?
Par. Give warning directly, miss—I mean I'd say to Mr. Smug-
gins: Uncle Smuggins, sooner than marry you’re head clerk, Mr.
Jeremiah Jorum, I'd rather—I’d rather marry somebody else.
Het. Se I’ve teld him scores ef times, but he’s deaf to all I say.
Par. Perhaps you don’t hollar—I’d make him hear I warrant.
Het. Something must be done, Patty, to break off this hatetul
match, er I shall do something desperate, I’m sure I shall.
Par. So I weuld, miss! I’d marry the butcher! I would say
the peliceman, only he’s been looking down our area rather more
than usual lately! But how is it, miss, that your Uncle, Mr. i
Smuggins, has taken such a violent fancy all of a sudden to Mr-
Jeremiah Jorum for a nephew-in-law ?
Hex. I’m sure I den’t know, except that the ediows creature
presented himself here about three weeks ago, saying that he was
recommended fer the vacant clerkship by a certain Miss Clotilda
Smirk, of Hatton Garden, London, who it appears is one of Uncle
Smuggins’ principal clients, and no sooner was he engaged to my
unele, than my uncle engaged him to me,
Par. And not without good reason depend on it,—it grieves me
much to speak disrespectfully of your uncle, Mr. Smuggins, but
ss he’s a very cleyer man, and an ornament to the legal profession,
he must put up with the consequences,—it’s my firm belief, miss,
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4 THE TWO BONNYCASTLES.
that he doesn’t feel disposed to part with your little fortune, and
therefore gives you in marriage to Mr. Jeremiah Jorum, in order
that he may keep possession of the money !
Hex. That’s what I said to him, yesterday. Uncle Smuggins,
said I, if it’s the money you want, keep it, and marry Mr. Jorum
yourself!
Par. Nothing could be fairer. But take my advice, miss, insist
on having every farthing of it, it may be useful in paying the tra-
velling expences, in case you take it into your head to run away
some of these fine mornings. (with intention)
Her. Run away!
Par. Yes, I’ve heard that there’s a certain young man——.
He.. Hush! have you seen him?
Pat. Lor, miss, I never look at the young men !
Her. Nor dol! I can’t deny that there is a gentleman who has
lately followed me about wherever I go, like my shadow, and very
handsome he is too—the most elegant figure—the softest black
eyes—not that I ever noticed him, in the slightest way whatever.
Par. So it seems! But if you havn’t, John the gardener has,—
and he says he’s sure the gentleman’s in love with you!
Hex. Tell John the gardener to mind his own business for the
future, and if he can find out the gentleman’s name—who he is—
what he is—in short everything about him, I'll give him a guinea.
(bell rings) But there’s my uncle’s bell.
Smuaeins (without at back) Patty, Patty.
Par. Sir.
Satuc. Where’s my wig? I can’t find my wig. It’s all right, I
see it—it’s on my head.
Par. Ha, ha! it’s lucky for master he hasn’t to take his head
off at night as well as his wig—he’d never know where to put his
hand on it in the morning! Well I must go, miss; once more,
show a proper spirit—remember you're a Briton—and never, never,
never be a slave. Exit zx. 2 x.
Hex. I will show a proper spirit, at any rate I’H never marry
Mr. Jeremiah Jorum, that I’m determined.
At Parry’s exit the window is slowly opened, and Jounson looks in
and listens.
JOHN. Hear, hear, hear!
Het. (seeing him and sereaming) Ha!
Joun. Hush! (jumps in at window, looks cautiously round him,
then suddenly and rayidly advances towards HELEN)
Het, Keep your distance, sir. (retreating; aside) It’s he. (aloud)
I repeat, sir, keep your distance, or I’ll scream .
Joun, Hear me first and scream afterwards; but first let me
apologise for introducing myself to you by the window instead of
the door,—the fact is, I had so often measured the height of that
baleony with my eye, that I couldn’t resist the desire of testing
the accuracy of my calculation,
Het. Indeed. Well, sir, since that was your only motive——.
(piqued )
+ - : ~~,
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ons eee
—
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES. 2,
Joux. My only motive! Oh, madam, how little you know me?
By-the-bye, that reminds me that you don’t know me at all.
Het. I beg your pardon, sir; I know you to be a bold and very
forward person.
Jonx. Quite the reverse, ma’am; a more timid, bashful creature
doesn’t exist. But time is precious—in a word, the first moment
I beheld you—now three days and a half ago—I felt an inward
conviction that we were born for one another. Perhaps the same
idea occurred to you, ma’am?
Het. (angrily) No such thing, sir.
Joun. I apologise! Such being the state of my feelings, madam,
it became absolutely necessary that you should know them; judge,
then, of my delight, when I saw that window standing invitingly
open. Love gave me courage—an apple-tree did the rest and
here I am!
Hex. But you can’t remain here, sir—indeed you can't.
Joux. Very well, ma’am. I believe you saw me come into this
room head first, through yonder window ?—if you'll be good enough
to keep your eye on me, you'll see me go out of it in the same
way. (cnsitiaita the action of jumping head first)
Hex. No! don’t be rash; you might do yourself a mischief.
Joux. I think it’s more than probable I should—but what of
that, since you are insensible to the flame that rages here (striking
his right breast)—I mean here? (striking his left side) I prefer a
dislocated neck to a broken heart; so, as I said before—here goes!
(about to start to window)
Het. (stopping him) Stop!
Joux. Stop?—if you insist upon it, certainly! And as there’s
nothing makes the time pass so agreeably as an interesting subject
of conversation—I’ll talk to you about myself! My sirname is
Johnson—my Christian names, John James; add them together,
and the result is John James Johnson. My age is a little more
than twenty-seven—my fortune a little less than nothing; I profess
the art of medicine, and hope in time to practise what I profess °
So much for my worldly advantages. My physical recommenda-
tions speak for themselves. So, now for my moral qualifications—
don’t be alarmed—they’re few in number, so I shan’t detain you
long. In the first place, then, I seldom lose my temper, except
when I get into a passion; I never owe a shilling, because nobody
will give me credit; and I’m decidedly of a domestic turn of mind,
as I don’t happen to have a friend in the world. And now, ma’am,
that you know the precise value of the article I offer for your
acceptance, will you have me? Say “ Yes,” and I gain a treasure
—say ‘“ No,” and you lose one!
Het. (smiling) Ha, ha, ha! But if I were to say “ yes’’—you
forget one rather important feature—how are we to live?
Joun. Live? Why, live together, of course !
Hex. You mean starve together! Besides, my uncle will never
receive you as my suitor.
Joux. Why, as he hasn’t the honour of my acquaintance, if I
were to send my card up to him, saying that the gentleman in the
’
2
.
°
U rHE TWO BONNYCASTLES.
hall wished to marry his niece, it’s more than probable he’d re.
quest a little time to consider the proposal; but, I presume, your
uncle, like the great majority of mankind, has got a nose—con-
sequently may be led by it—at least, I’ve heard so.
Her. From whom ?
Joun. From a friend of mine—one of his clients that I knew in
London—a certain Miss Clotilda Smirk.
Hit. Miss Smirk no longer: she has lately married,
Joun. I’m delighted to hear it; for, between you and me, I was
afraid she had taken a fancy to me. And who’s the victim—I
mean the happy man ?
Het, I thnk my unele said his name was Bonnycastle.
JoHN. Does your uncle know him?
Hen. No?
Joun. He has never seen him ?
Hirt. No; but he says he rather expects him down here
shortly, on business connected with Mrs. Bonnycastle’s property.
Joun. (suddenly) Egad! I have it—yes, capital !
Hert. What?
Joun. Nothing; but if anything should occur in the course of
half an hour to make you open your eyes with astonishment, don’t
open your lips to say so. Ask no questions; but rely on it, “if
you'll remember me,” “ we may be happy yet.”
Het. Happy! Could you be happy, if you had to marry a man
you can’t endure ?
Joun. What's that? Have I got a rival ?
Het. Yes—my uncle’s head clerk.
Joun. The head clerk dies!
Het. No, no!
Joun. Excuse me, I must kill him—indeed I must!
Bonnycastie. (without) Very well, Mr. Smuggins, if you are
not satisfied, you had better go on your own errands your own self.
firn. Here’s some one coming—make haste, fly !
Joun. I'll soon be back—and as I said before
Hix. Never mind what you said before—go !
JouN. Where? Ah! here. (goes behind window curtain, which
he draws so as to conceal himself)
Mater BONNYCASTLE, C., with a very large blue bag, very full of papers,
and @ quantity of papers sticking out of his pockets and under
each arm,
Bon. (turning and speaking off as he enters) I repeat you had
better go on your own errands your own self. (advances to front) |
appeal to any one, is it possible for any man to display anything
like agility in his movements with such a load as I have got
distributed about me in various parts of my person? What TI say
is this—if I’m to do the work of a London Parcels Delivery Com.
pany cart, let me have the privilege of that cart; give me a horse
to pull me about! (seeing Herren) Ah! Miss Helen. How d’ye
do, Miss Helen? You'll excuse my taking off my hat, because I
can’t get at it. (trying to get his hand to his hat)
*%
i y oee tee . ~
th, 4) le de. Se es
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES. v4
Het. You are loaded, indeed, Mr. Jorum! Such a very hot
day, too!
Bon. Hot! I’ve been in such a dreadful state of perspiration,
that I really thought I should have run all away. I did ask a
highly respectable individual in the street if he’d be kind enough
to take my pocket handkerchief out of my pocket and wipe my
forehead for me. He said he would; and, what’s more, he did—
only he forgot to put the handkerchief back again.
Hex. I presume those are papers of consequence ?
Bon. Of the utmost importance—or I should have dropped them
long ago. (lets them all fall on the stage)
Het, What are you about, Mr. Jorum? You are smothering
me with dust!
Bon. A thousand pardons! I'll open the window, (runs. to
window )
Hew. (anxiously) No—never mind!
Box. But I do mind! (throwing open curtains)
Hau. (looking ; then, aside) He’s gone!
Bon. (throwing window open) There! It'll soon blow off—and,
really, now I look at you, [ assure you you’re none so dusty !
Hix. (recovering herself) I was afraid you might catch cold—
that’s all.
Bon. You’re very kind; but pray don’t be alarmed on my ac-
count; I’ve got no end of flannel on, besides hare skins—no—t
rather think they’re rabbit skins, because they’re a. sort of tortoise-
shell colour. (goung to desk)
Het. Yes, sir, I know I am much too kind; especially as you
seem determined to make me the most unfortunate of women.
Bon. What ? (depositing papers, &c.. on desk)
Hen. Determined to make me the most unfortunate of women.
Bon. Goodness gracious! (coming hastily down) 1 make you an
unfortunate woman! I vow and protest——-
Het. Yes, sir! Have you not consented to marry me ?
Box. Now, my dear Miss Helen, just let’s change positions. In
other words, let me be I and you be you—no—let | beme and—
no—never mind—you know what. I mean. Well—your uncle,
Mr. Smuggins, says to me, last Monday week, as I was putting up
the shutters, ‘‘ Jeremiah Jorum,” says he, ** What do you think
of my niece?” “ Well,” says 1, going on putting up the shutters,
“J think she’s a stunner,” says I. ‘“ You do?” says he. “Ido,”
says I; and up went another shutter. ‘‘Then,” says he, “ you
think she’d make a good wife ?”” says he, giving me a considerable
slap on the shoulder. “‘ Well,” says J, giving him a prodigious
poke in the ribs, “I think she would.” “Then she’s your’s !”?
says he. I thought I should have dropped—as it was, | only
dropped the shutter.
Hex. You should have asked time to consider.
Bon. So I did. “Certainly,” says he; “lots of time—I’ll give
you a good hour and a half,” says he. “If you say Yes, Pll take
you into the house—if you say No, Vil kick you out of it,” and
away he went!
;
:
!
:
7
1
5 THE TWO BONNYCASTLES.
Her. And you said “ Yes,” of course.
Bon. Well, they say, ‘‘ Of two evils choose the least;’” and f
certainly did come to the conclusion that a good wife is preferable
to a good kicking !
Het. Now listen to me, sir! I don’t like you—I never can like
you—and if you insist on making me Mrs, Jeremiah Jorum, you—
you—you know what the consequences will be—that’s all!
Fait, rR. 2 E.
Bon. Yes, ecod! I do know what the consequences would be—
the consequences would be transportation !—because I happen to
have a wife already—a wife that I adore—a woman I hoped to live
with for the next fifty years, and ran away from at the end of
three weeks! I don’t wish to boast, but I feel convinced that
when the adventures of Benjamin Bonnycastle come to be known,
Sinbad the Sailor will sink into utter insignificance! That man
will have to hide his diminished head—in point of fact, he’ll
have to put it somewhere or other immediately! Now this is the
state of the case:—Three weeks ago, as Mrs. Bonnycastle was
rather poorly, she went down to Buxton to drink the waters; she
wanted me to go too, but I didn’t fancy the waters; I had drunk
them before, and they didn’t agree with me! Well, after I had
seen her off in the evening, I thought I’d take a stroll in 8t.
James’s Park and smoke my cigar, and look at the ducks and the
nursery-maids. I hadn’t been there long before it came on to rain
in torrents ; the ducks immediately dived under water, the nursery-
maids disappeared by the various gates, and I was left under the
nearest tree; but, as it was getting darker and darker, and rained
harder and harder, I made up my mind to run for it, and away I
started at the top of my speed; but I hadn’t got twenty yards
yards before I came into violent collision with an individual who
was making for the same gate. I hadn’t the most distant idea how
long it took me to recover the shock, but when I did the individual
was gone—that I didn’t care about—but my watch was gone, too!
and that I did care about. So, off I set again—luckily caught him
up, seized him by the collar with one hand—snatched my watch
out of his fob with the other—and then, as, of course, there was
no policeman near, I let him go—went home—lighted a candle—
went up to bed—and there—1 shall never forget it as long as
{ live!—there, the first thing I saw, lying on the dressing
table, was my own watch that I had left behind me! Yes—the
thing was clear—I had stopped one of Her Majesty’s subjects on
one of Her Majesty’s highways, and robbed him! I had booked
myself for Botany Bay! Whatwastobe done? At last a brilliant
idea struck me—I’d destroy the evidence of my guilt! I seized
the watch, dashed it on the floor, trampled on it, and flung it inte
the fire, and I was safe !—at least, I] thought I was, but I wasn’t ;
for such was the state of nervous excitement that I was in, that |
made a slight mistake and destroyed my own watch instead of the
other! There was now only one thing to be done, and the next
morning I did it. I sot off for the nearest police station to state
the whole circumstances of the case, when the first thing I saw
—
poses ia as
* Sit, lal oO.” Pe Phemuts!? = ait
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES. 9
there was a hand-bill just posted up, headed ‘‘ Highway Robbery—
€20 Reward,” with a full description of the property stolen, and
offering a reward of twenty pounds for the apprehension of the
offender! I rushed home again—packed up my carpet bag—left a
note for Mrs. Bonnycastle, without the most distant idea of what
I had written, and started off without the most remote notion
where I was going to. At last I recollected hearing her mention a
Mr. Smuggins, of Canterbury, as her man of business; so down i
came here, with the intention of putting him in possession of the
whole affair; but I got frightered, and, as he was im want of a
clerk, I preferred presenting myself with a letter of introduction
(which 1 wrote myself) from his client, the late Miss Clotilda
Smirk, of Hatton Garden; he engaged me at once; and the next
morning, under the assumed name of Jeremiah Jorum, 1 took
possession of the vacant stool in his office. ‘That's three wecks
ago, and I’ve been sitting upon thorns ever since! If think every
man and woman I see is a policeman in disguise! And now the
stupid old fool wants me to marry his nicce—just as if highway
robbery wasn’t enough, without doing a bit of bigamy! I declare
! often feel inclined to knock my head against the wali !—and,
what's more, I would—if it didn’t hurt.
Linter Jounson at c. v., with carpet bag, at box, and wnbrelia.
Jonny. (aside as he enters) Now then, attention! (advances and
slaps BonxycAsTLE on the shoulder, who gives @ violent jump, and
jinds himself face to face with Jouxson) How are you?
Bon. (staring wildly in Jounson’s face, attempts to speak, staggers,
and falls into his arms.)
Joun. Holloa! zounds, what’s the matter with you? It can’t
be the pleasure of seeing me again, considering I never saw you
before.
Box. (starting up) Of course not! ha, ha, hai As you very
properly observed, you never saw me before—in point of fact, you
wouldn’t hesitate to take several oaths before several magistrates
that you never saw me before! ‘The fact is, I thought at first you
were a very old and valued friend of mine; but, now I look at you
again, I see you’re not a bit like him—he was a handsome man, he
was !
Joun. Thank ye! Can I see Mr. Smuggins?
Boy. I really don’t know if Mr. Smuggins is fit to be seen !
Joun. Never mind, I can’ wait. By-the-bye, can you tell me
the time ?
Bon. Certainly! (taking out his watch)
Joun. I unfortunately lost my watch a short time ago.
Bon. (hastily eramming watch back into his trowsers’ pocket) And I
quite forgot to wind mine up last night; and I’ve remarked that
watches in general don’t go so well when they’re not wound up: Til
tell Mr. Smuggins you’re here—by-the-bye, what name shall I say ?
Joun. (aside) Now for it! (aloud) Mr. Bonnycastle !
Bon. (after @ short pause of astonishment) Will you be good
enough te say that again, sir ?
A 3
JS A ne arte
ee
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pane
~~
—
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bee
4
TWO BONNYCASTLES.
Joun. Bonnycastle! (aside) What the deuce ails the man, does
he suspect ?
30n. (aside) He distinctly said Bonnycastle! but after all what
of that? it may be a very common name. ‘There are several
Elephant and Castles, why shouldn’t there be lots of Bonnycastles ?
(aloud) Will you be good enough to tell me how you spell Bonny-
castle, sir?
Joun. Certainly! B
Bon. Of course I know it begins with a B! I couldn’t for a
moment imagine it began witha Q! B,O, N,N, Y, Bonny?
Joun. Yes! C, A, S
Bon. You’re sure it isn’t K, A, S?
JoHN, Pshaw !
Bon. (aside) Perhaps he’s some relation of mine—he can’t be
my brother—because I never had one; to be sure I once had a
cousin, but he went to America and died—lI’ve half a mind to ask
him if he ever went to America and died!
Joun. I see how it is—the name’s strange to you! Of course it
must be, since it’s only recently that Clotilda became my wife.
Bon. Clotilda ?
Joun. Yes, Miss Clotilda Smirk! of Hatton Garden, London.
Bon. (after a short pause, then quietly taking Jounson’s arm) Now,
my dear sir, let’s understand one another; there’s nothing like
seeing one’s way clearly—which I confess I don’t—you mean to
assert—but first do you know the nature of an oath? (solemnly)
Joun. I ought—l’ve used a great many of ’em in my time!
Box. And yet you are prepared to assert—that Miss Clotilda
Smirk
Joxun. Is now Mrs. Bonnycastle!
Bon. Exactly!
Jonny. And Il am Mr. Bonnycastle !
Bon. Precisely ! (suddenly) No—that is
Joux. Perhaps you are—?
Bon. Yes—that is—I mean (aside) if I was sure this fellow
wasn’t one of the detective police, I’d unmask him and expose him
in all his naked deformity !
Joun. Perhaps you knew my dear little Clotty before I married
her? I call her Clotty for short!
Bon. (aside) Clotty for short! Goodness gracious, can the incon-
siderate woman have married two Bonnycastles ?
JoHn. Egad! now I think of it, you may be that young fellow
that used to be so sweet upon Clotty? ha, ha, ha!
Bon. Oh! ha, ha! (foreimg a laugh) A young fellow used to be
sweet upon Clotty, eh?
Joun. Before she became Mrs. Bonnycastle! By-the-bye, they
say your old governor, Smuggins, was an admirer of her’s, too;
then there was the Chemist and Druggist on Holborn Hill, and the
Tallow Chandler in Farringdon Street, besides lots of others ; but
you see Bonnyeastle cut ’em all out after all, eh? ha, ha, ha!
; (slapping Boxnyoastix on the back aud going up)
Bon. (foreing a very loud laugh) Ha, ha, ha! (aside) Well this
m3 o>
ae ee
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES. 11]
is pleasant—take it altogether it’s about the most agreeable quarter
of an hour I ever spent in all my life!
Enter Smuaeurss, c.
Smuc. (to Boy.) Oh! here you are—l’ve found you at. last,
have 1? (seeing Jounson) Heyday! a stranger?
Joun. Mr. Bonnycastle, at your service! “(bowin 7)
Box. (laughing hysterically) Ha, ha, ha! that’s right! stick to it!
Smuc. Jeremiah! behave yourself, sir! hand Mr. Bonnycastle a
chair, sir!
Bon. Pooh!
Sauce. Do you hear what I say, sir? (BonnycastiE kicks a chair
towards Jounson; Smucarns and Jounson seat themselves) And now
my dear Mr. Bonnycastle
‘Bon. Well? (adv ancing )
Sauce. I wish you’d speak when you’re spoken to, sir! And so
you're the happy husband of my sweet friend, Miss Clotilda Smirk ?
(to Jounson)
Bon. Sweet friend! come I say Smuggins! (giving him a violent
dig in the side with his elbow)
Smuc. (aside to Bon.) Hush! it’s all right—of course he doesn’t
know what desperate love I used to make to her! ha, ha, ha!
eT g) Wives don’t tell their husbands everything, ‘eh ?—ha,
1a, ha! ;
Bon. (aside) The very first time I catch Smuggins alone, I shall
make it my immediate business to strangle him!
Smuc. (aside to Bon.) He’s really much better looking than I
expected, for when Mrs. Bonnycastle wrote to me to apprize me
of her marriage, she said her husband was a perfect fright.
Bon. (aside) Pleasant again !
Suuc. And where is the | ‘charming Mrs. Bonnycastle? (to Joun.)
Jonn. In London.
Bon: Buxton! (shouting)
Smug. Will you be quiet! (to Jonxson) And how is she?
JOHN. Quite well.
Bon. Poorly! (shouting again)
Smuc. Hold your tongue! how should you know anything about
ier’?
Joun. Of course, I presume, I ought to know better then you!
(to Smuaers) And so you really think her charming, eh ?
Samuc. (aside to Bon.) He asks me if I think her ch: ming! |
know she is, eh ?—ha, ha, ha! very odd if I didn’t, eh ? (chuckling
and nudging Bonny CASTLE)
Bon. (aside to Smucains confidentially) If you do that again,
Smuggins, l’ll hit you!
Suuc. By-the- bye, Mr. Bonnycastle, this is the young man she
recommended to me—of course I engaged him immediately. ( point-
ing to Bon. who turns away disgusted) )
Joun. Oh! my wife recommended him did she? rather an odd
thing to do without consulting me? but you know Clotty’s a queer
little body.
i» rryvvrr rt’ rT eam “es rry cwryiy “ce
LZ THE TWO BONNYCASTLES.
——
Bon. (aside) He says Clotty’s a queer little body! I never saw
| inything queer! ,
Jounx. However, I hope you’ve found him civil and sober, and
ul that sort of thing, and more intelligent than he looks! (Bon.
again turns away disgusted)
Sauc. Why the fact is I look over several little defects, because
4 between you and me he’s going to marry my niece, Helen! But
my where is she I wonder; here, Helen, Helen.
\ :
A ah inter Heven in a walking dress and bonnet, running from R. 2 &.
1 Hen. Yes, uncle. (seeing Jonnson, starts) Ah!
: Suua. Ah! what d’ye mean by ah!
| Hen. Noth-ing—only seeing a stranger
He Sauce. A stranger? No such thing my dear; this is Mr. Bonny-
| castle, the husband of my highly valued and respected client, the
i late Miss Clotilda Smirk. (takes her hand) Mr. Bonnycastle, my
if niece Helen !—my niece Helen, Mr. Bonnycastle !
bh Hr. Mr. Bonny—— (stopping on a sign from Jounson)
We Joux. Now young man! (pushing BonnycastTLe out of ius way,
i and going to Urien) A very charming person, indeed! (taking
| Heren’s hand, then hastily aside to her) lve done it—it’s all right!
wy hush !
t Hex. (aside) Was there ever such assurance !
Sauce. (toJounxson) Of course you'll sleep here? Patty! (calling
ft off) get a bed ready for Mr. Bonnyeastle. By-the-bye, you waut
your- supper? of course you do! Here Jeremiah, Jeremiah, | say !
‘to BoNNYCASTLE, who has gone and seated himself on the stool before
‘he desk, pulling the papers about, smashing the pens, de. dc.)
Box. Well?
Smuc. Come here, I want you!
Bon. (shouting again) I hear you! (banging the lid of the desk
down, and coming slowly down with the blue bag) Here | am, what
do you want? (in the same sulky tone and manner)
Suue. Why, as Patty’s busy, I want you to get supper for Mr.
Bonnycastle—that’s all.
Box. Oh, that’s all! you’re sure that’s all?—ha, ha, ha!
laughing wildly) perhaps yowd like me to clean Mr. Bonmycastle’s
boots, or brush Mr. Bonnycastle’s hair; you’re a delicious creature,
Smuggins, ‘pon my life you are!—ha, ha, ha! (laughing wildly
wgain and sivinging the blue bag frantically about, hitting Smuceins
OW the back, ec. )
Sauc. You'll oblige me, Jeremiah? I’m sure you will; you'll
find the tray ready laid in the next room, so bring it in at once and
have done with it! (prshing him towards R. 2 B.)
Box. Well, but
eae Now go along! (they push him out at x. 2 t.)
JOHN.
Joun. Now, Mr. Smuggins, what say you to a little stroll in the
mean time ?
1 -~« A P _ - ‘ ho .
2 then. <> aed FIR. vee oe >
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES. 15
Sauce. You must excuse me, my dear Mr. Konnyceastle, business
must be attended to; but Helen, I’m sure, will be delighted.
Hex. But my dear uncle (hesitating)
Smuc. ’Pshaw! don’t be absurd—I insist upon it—take Mr.
Sonnycastle’s arm this minute, and go along—go along I say!
Exeunt Jonnson and Hexen, c. arm-in-arm, followed by Smuaeins.
Enter Parry, B. 2 £.
Pat. (speaking towards door as she enters) J tell you once for ail
I can’t do it, Mr. Jorum, there’s the plate to clean—and the kitchen
to scrub—and Mr. Bonnycastle’s bed to make—~—and I don’t know
what else besides! (a double knock) Who can this be I wonder?
(runs out door c., then heard without) This way, this way, marm,
if you please! (He-enters, shewing in Mrs. BonnycasrLp, very
agitated) You wish to see Mr. Smuggins, I presume, ma’am ?
Mrs. B. Yes, I must see him immediately ! this moment!
Pat. Sorry for that, ma’am, ’cause I rather think master’s busy;
perhaps his head clerk, Mr. Jeremiah Jorum, will do as well ?
Mrs. B. Yes, yes, send him to me this instant !
Par. Very well, ma’am (calling towards door, R. 2 £.) Mr. Jorum,
yowre wanted !
Bon. (without) Coming directly !
Par. Take a seat, ma’am (placing a chair) You'll excuse me,
ma’am, but Saturday’s always such a busy day (calling again)
make haste, Mr. Jorum ! Runs off, c.
Mrs. B. What a dreadful state of agitation Iam in, to be sure,
and no wonder! I return home from Buxton yesterday, and find
that my husband—my Bonnycastle—has suddenly and mysteriously
disappeared ; gone nobody knows where, nobody knows why! He
was last seen alive on the very evening I left London, rushing
frantically down Holborn Hill, with a carpet bag under his arm,
and hasn’t been heard of since: a few lines on the dressing table,
out of which I could make neither head nor tail, only serve to make
matters worse. §o, late as it was, I started off for Canterbury this
evening to consult my old friend, Mr. Smuggins, who I’m sure will
leave no stone unturned to ascertain if I] am a wife or a widow!
Vill that head clerk of his never come? ah, yes, here he is!
Re-enter BONNYCASTLE, R. 2 B., carrying a small tray with luncheon,
he carries ut very carefully.
Bon. (as he enters) Woh! steady! bother the tray! do what I
will that pepper castor will keep tumbling down (looking up and
Finding himself face to face with Mrs. Boxnycastie) Clotilda! (drops
tray, &e., on the stage with a loud smash)
Mrs. B. Mr. Bonnycastle!
Bon. (suddenly and grasping her arm) Hush! I’m not Bonny-
castle! consider Bonnycastle as defunct—look upon Bonnycastle
as aman with an extinguisher put on him!
Mrs. B. Pshaw! explain your mysterious and suspicious conduct
this moment, Mr. Bonny
—)
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14
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES.
Box. Hush!
Mas. B. Why did you leave Hatton Garden, sir, as soon as your
wife’s back was turned, sir? ‘Tell me that Mr. Bonny
Bon. Hush !
Mrs. B. And what is the meaning of this gibberish I found on
the dressing table when I reached home y esterday, sir? (reading a
paper which she takes out of her reticule) ‘ Clotilda—don’t be
alarmed—sudden business—horrible event—St. James’s Park—
innocent as a lamb—highway robbery—-£20 reward—dressing
table—watch—Botany Bay—carpet bag—you understand’—But |
do not understand, Mr. Bonny
Box. Hush !
Mus. B. In short, why do I find you here ? under another roof—
under another name ? Speak, Mr. Bonny
Bon. Hush! all shall be explained—but not now. Ill unfold
my short but moving tale another time.
‘Mrs. B. I see, sir—yes, base man, there’s another female in the
case !
Bon. I vow and protest—no, I don’t—of course not—why
shouldn’t there be two females in the case as well as two males ?
Yes, two males, ma’am, and both of them Bonnycastles!
Mrs. B. Two Bonnycastles! ha, ha, ha! I’m sure one’s enough
in all conscience.
Bon. If that’s your opinion, ma’am, how is it that there’s an
individual under this very roof, at this very moment, who asserts
to my very face that he’s your husband—ealls you Clotty for short
—and says you're a queer little body ?
Mrs. B. The impudent impostor! A disappointed admirer of
mine, no doubt.
Bon. I shouldn’t wonder; he says you’ve had lots of ’em.
Mrs. B. “ Lots of ’em! 197 ’ve a very fair share of them, sir.
But I'll soon unmask this counterfeit husband!
30n. Do; but don’t unmask me at the same time; because, if
he should happen to turn out to be a policeman in plain clothes—
instead of two husbands, I’m horribly afraid you won’t have one!
Mrs. B. Will you explain ? (impatiently)
Box. Not now. As I said before, lll unfold my short but
moving tale another time. So remember that I am still Jeremiah
Jorum, Mr. Smuggins’ head clerk—that you recommended me to
him—and, above all
Smuc. (without) A lady waiting for me?
Bow. Oh lud! (runs out at R. 2 2B.)
Enter Suuaains, c., running.
Sauc. Where is she? My dear Miss Smirk—I mean Mrs.
Bonnycastle—I’m delighted to see you—in fact, such is my delight,
that I (out of breath)
Mrs. B. That you can’t find words to express it ?
Suc. The fact is, I am rather out of breath—for such was my
impatience to behold you again—that I actually ran every inch
of the way from the other end of the passage !
e ae ie
a Sey ay ee ee
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES. L5
~~
Mrs. B, And very foolish of you, too, sir; recollect you’re an
old man.
Smuc. (aside) That’s a pleasant observation to start with!
(aloud) Of course you know Mr. Bonnycastle’s here? How
agreeably surprised he’ll be!
Mrs. B. Do you think so ?
Suuc. I’m sure of it; for I’m confident he doesn’t expect you—
at least he didn’t say so.
Mrs. B. No! I certainly think I shall rather astonish him. But
where is he?
Sauua. He’s just gone out to take a stroll with my niece Helen,
Of course, being your husband, I saw no impropriety in it, though
I rather think Jeremiah didn’t half like it.
Mrs. B. Jeremiah ?
Sauce. Yes—Jeremiah Jorum—my clerk, that you recommended
to me.
Mrs. b. True—but why should he take any interest in Miss
Helen’s proceedings ?
Smuc. Why? For the best of all reasons—he’s going to marry
her !
Mrs. B. Marry her!
Suue. Yes. I very goon saw that poor fellow was over head and
ears in love with her—usual symptoms—glances, tender sighs, and
all that sort of thing—so I took compassion on him, and proposed
the match myself.
Mrs. B. And he? (anaiously)
Suuc. Hummed and ha’d a little at first—said he should be de-
lighted; but there was a slight obstacle existing at present, which
time would probably soon remove.
Mrs. B. (aside) That’s me! I’m the slight obstacle! Oh, the
perfidious wretch !
Smuc. However, he soon thought better of it—jumped at my
proposal—and all was settled !
Mus. B. (aside) The monster! But I’ll be revenged!
inter HELEN, c.
Suuc. Ah! here’s Helen. Come here, my dear, and-pay your
respects to Mrs. Bonnyeastle.
Het. Mrs. Bonnycastle! (aside) Oh lud! what’s to be done
now ?
Smuc. But where’s Bonnycastle? What have you done with
Bonnycastle ?
Het. (confused) I—that is—I’llrun and find him—(aside) and
put him on his guard.
Smue. (stopping her) No, no, I'll find him himself! Ah! (seeing
Jounson, who enters at c.) here he is.
Ifev. (aside) He’s lost! (trying to attract Jounson’s attention by
signs, &c.)
Mus. B. (seeing him; aside) Can it be? Yes! itis he! . John-
son—the identical John James Johnson that I once had some
thoughts of accepting—only he never proposed !
BONNYCASTLES.
2
Sumuc. Now, Bonnycastle, come along! Here’s a lady wants you.
Joun. (advancing) A lady? (without seeing Mrs. bonNyCAstLE)
Who? (seeing Mrs. B.; aside) Clotilda! the devil!
Suc. Hollo! Bonnycastle ? (looking at Jouxson, who suddenly
cocks his hat very much over his eyes) Why, what’s the matter with
you, Bonnycastle? Oh! I see—it’s the surprise—the sudden
rapture.
Jouxn. Yes—exactly—as you say, the sudden rapture! (aside)
I’ve half a mind to take to my legs!
Mrs. B. (aside) So this is the counterfeit husband, is it? Very
well! Now, then, to revenge myself on the perfidious Bonny-
castle! (aloud and in a tender tone to Jounson) Well, dear?
Hew. (aside) Dear !—she calls him dear!
Mrs. B. (in the same tone to Jounson) Isn’t this an agreeable
surprise ? or ought I to have given you notice of my arrival ?—
eh, dear ?
Joun. (aside) She’s laughing at me—that’s quite clear!
Mrs. B. You’re not angry with your “ Clotty ?” for where should
‘““Clotty” be, but with her husband? (putting her arm affectionately
in JOHNSON’S) .
Hex. (aside) Her husband? Then he’s been making a fool
of me! ;
Smuc. (to Jonunson) Come, come, Bonnycastle! kiss and be
friends. J insist upon it!
Joun. (aside) I’m desperate! (aloud) With all my heart!
(throwing his arms round Mrs. BonnyCaAsTLe)
Enter BoNNYCASTLE, RB, 2 E.
Bon. (seeing them embrace) Ha, ha, ha! (laughing wildly and
shouting) That’s right !—go it!—keep it up !—don’t mind me !-——
ha, ha, ha! (spinning rownd two or three tumes and dropping into
Smueams’ arms)
Smue. Hollo! What’s the matter? Zounds! rouse yourself!
Jeremiah! (trying in vain to make Bonnycast Le stand up)
Het. (aside) Now for my turn. (showing an indignant look at
Jounson and running to Bonnycastie) Yes, look up, Jeremiah, and
lean on me.
Smua. (in an agony at Bonnycastir’s weight) Yes, lean on her.
Joun No, no. (about to interfere)
Sauua. Zounds! don’t you interfere, Bonnycastle. (pushing him
back. )
Bon. (suddenly jumping) That’s right, Smuggins. (hitting him a
wolent slap on the back) Well said, Smuggins. (gwing him another)
Don’t you, interfere, Bonnycastle; embrace your Clotty ! throw
your arms round her queer little body! Smuggins embrace your
husband! Helen, embrace your nephew! (throwing his arms round
Smuearns, then Heten) Again! No, not you. (pushing Suuaers
molently away, then opens his arms and embraces Heten frantically)
Het. We'll be married to-morrow, Jeremiah! won’t we, dear.
Bon. Yes, my beloved one! I say it again, my beloved one,
ee o. . eeNe oeet Ds
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES. LZ
we will be married to-morrow—and the next day too
after that !
and the day
Linter Parry, c. v., with lighted candles.
Pav. (to Jounson) Your room’s quite ready, sir.
Suuc. (taking candle from Parry) Egad, then, as it’s getting
Late, eappore we all go to bed. By the bye, Patty, which room
is it :
Par. The little front attic, sir.
Sauce. Pooh, pooh—that won’t do at all! I have it—Jorum,
you'll turn out of your room to accommodate Mr. and Mrs. Bonny-
castle—I'’m sure you will.
Bon. (shouting) Pooh! No, no.
Joun. (hastily) Certainly not—the front attic ‘ll do very well tor
me. (snatching candlestick from Smuaains’ hand, and going towards Cc.)
Smuc. (pulling him back) Nonsense. (taking candlestick and giving
it to Bonnycastie) There, run along, that’s a good fellow—it’s
only for one night.
Mrs. Bb. It’s only for one night. Ha, ha, ha!
Joux. Don’t you hear it’s only for one night? Ha, ha, ha!
Smuc. Will you go along ?
JOHN.
Sam 2 Yes, go along. (pushing him up stage)
Het.
Bon. Well, but (turning round and round as he is pushed up,
in spite of his struggling he is forced off at c. followed by Parry)
Saug. There now, Helen, wish Mr. and Mrs. Bonnycastle good
night.
Joun. (hastily aside to Heten) I'll explain everything.
Hen. Silence, wretch! (gees out at door, u.2 BE.)
Mrs. B. (hurriedly aside to Jounson) Make some excuse for re-
maining here—get rid of Mr. Smuggins, and I’U return as soon as
the coast is clear!
Sauce. (returning with candle and giving tt to Jouxson) Now, -
Bonnycastle.
Joun. Nonsense! we must have a glass of brandy and water,
Smuggins, I shouldn’t get a wink of sleep without my brandy and
water.
Sauc. Eh! oh, very well, with all my heart.
Mrs. B. Good night, Mr. Smuggins.
Smuuc. Good night, my dear Mrs. Bonnycastle, permit me. (hand-
ing her gallantly to vp. u. 3 8., then kissing her hand, Mrs, Boxny-
CASTLE goes out after exchanging significant looks with Jonnsox, and
closes door after her)
Suuc. Now then I'll go and mix the grog—or egad, what say
vou to have punch, eh, Bonnycastle? I’m a famous hand at
punch—we'll have it in my little snuggery here, then we shan’t
disturb the ladies. I‘ll call you when it’s ready—shan’t be long.
(hurries out at door BR, 2 £.)
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15 THE TWO BONNYCASTLES.
Joun. (watching him out) Now then tolet Mrs. Bonnycastle know
that the coast is clear. (crossing on tiptoe to door u. 3 E.)
Bon. (suddenly appearing ut window, R. 3 BE.) Stop, or you're a
dead man! move another step towards that door and you’re another
dead man! (presenting a large pistol)
Joun, Zounds! what the deuce have you got there ?
Bon. An ingenious species of fire arms denominated a revolver—
so called from its keeping continually going round and incessantly
going off! (presenting pistol again)
Joun. Confound it! be quiet will you? I won’t move from this
spot—upon my soul I won’t.
Bon. I won’t trust you. There. (flinging a coil of rope into the
700M)
Joun. What's this ?
Bon. The clothes line! which you'll be good enough to tie several
times round your leg as tight as you can conveniently bear it!
Jouyx. Zounds, sir! By what right?
Bon. By the right of my revolver! (presenting pistol)
Joun. Very well. (tres one end of the rope round his leg) There—
now are you satisfied ? :
3on. [ll tell you directly. (giving him a violent jerk) Yes, that'll
do—and now, mind what you’re about—recollect I’m under the
window, with the clothes line in one hand and the revolver in the
other. (disappears)
Joun. (watching him disappear) Now then for Mrs. Bonnyeastle.
(moves quickly towards door and 1s suddenly pulled back again by the
rope)
Enter Murs. Bonnycast ez, cautiously, at door L. 3 E.
Mrs. B. (looking in and in a low voice) Is Mr. Smuggins gone ?
Joun. Yes, but first let me close the door. (goes and shuts
door, R.2 8.) Now, my dear madam. (hurriedly crossing towards
Mrs. Bonnycastuz, 2s pulled back again by the rope)
Mrs. B. (advancing) And now, Mr. Johnson, perhaps you'll
condescend to explain your extraordinary conduct, sir.
Joun. In as few words as possible! Passing through Canterbury
[ accidentally saw Mr. Smuggins’ charming niece, and hearing of
your recent marriage, and not dreaming of the possibility of your
arrival, I certainly did take the liberty of borrowing the respectable
name of Bonnycastle, as the means of introducing myself under
Smuggins’s roof. It was wrong—dreadfully wrong—but you
forgive me ?—say you forgive me (advancing towards her 1s
pulled back again) |
Mrs. B. Well, since you plead love as an excuse, I suppose I
musn’t be inexorable—go there’s my hand. (holding out her hand)
Joun. ee See
THE TWO BONNYCASTLES. 19
Mrs. B. But now—what’s to be done? Mr. Smuggins firmly
believes us man and wife !
Joun. And Helen, in a fit of indignation against me, has con-
sented to marry that odious ill-looking head clerk of his !
Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha! don’t abuse poor Mr, Jorum; depend. upon
it he’ll never marry Helen.
Joun. You make me the happiest of men! (kissing her hand
repeatedly and earnestly, immediately there’s a violent tug at the arm
chair)
Mrs. B. What's that? (starting)
Joun. Nothing! the wind I suppose! (leaning on the arm chair
and trying to keep it in its place in spite of the violent tugging)
Smuc. (without) Now Bonnycastle! it’s all ready—come along.
Mrs. B. Mr. Smuggins’ voice
Joun. Where shall I go? ah, here! (about to run in room, L.3 F.)
Mrs. B. (stopping him) No—no! but I must make him believe
yon are there! leave that to me! by that door—make haste !
(JOHNSON opens c. D. and runs out, Mrs. B. runs out, L. 3 £.)
Linter Smucarns carrying a tray on which is a bowl of punch and two
glasses.
Smuac, (as he enters) Here it is Bonnycastle—smoking hot! and
if you don’t say it’s remarkable pleasant tipple holloa! why
where the deuce is he? (placing the tray on table)
Mrs. B. (from within and as if addressing. somebody) Very well,
my dear, I’ll explain everything to Mr, Smuggins.
Enter Mrs. Bonnycastue, ut. 3 &.
Suuc. Heyday, anything the matter with Bonnycastle ?
Mrs. B. One of his sudden attacks of headache, poor fellow, so I
persuaded him to go to bed!
Smuc. Egad! then, my dear Mrs. Bonnyeastle, you must help
me drink the punch—you must indeed! just one glass—it’ll do you
a world of good—there ! (making Mrs. Bonnycastx sit down on t.
side of table) Where the deuce is the chair? oh, there it is! ( going
towards window for arm chair, which he brings down to x. side of
the table, while he helps Mrs. Bonnycastin to punch) There!
(giving glass to Mrs. Bonxycastin, and the moment he seats himself
the chair is again pulled away and he falls on the stage, pulling the
table cloth, candles, &e. de. down with him) Zounds! help! murder!
(Mrs. BonnycastLe runs into room, t. 3 £., BoxNxycasrnE jumps in
From window)
Box. Good gracious! I hope I havn’t gone and done him a
mischief, I know that last pull of mine was rather a powerful one.
Oh, here he is! (lifting Smucains wp) I didn’t mean to hurt you—
‘pon my life I didn’t! but if I have dislocated your leg say so, and
V'll apologise—I can’t say more! Holloa, it’s Smuggins! Then
where is he ?—where is he I say? (shaking Smuaarns violently)
Suuc. He? who? Bonnyeastle ?
Box, No—yes—of course—Bonnycastle !
20) THE TWO BONNYCASTLES.
Suva. Oh, poor fellow, he’s fast asleep by this time I hope !
Bon. Fast asleep ? where ? 7 8
Suuc. Where? why in bed of course! (pointing in the direction
of door, L. 3 E.)
Bon. Ah! (rushing to door, 1.32, and going on his knees looks
through the keyhole)
Suva. (following him and trying to pull him away) How dare
you, sir? for shame of yourself, Jeremiah !
Box. (shouting) ’m not Jeremiah !
Suz. Don’t make such a noise, or you'll wake poor Bonnycastle.
Box. He’s not poor Bonnycastle—lI’m poor Bonnycastle !
Suuc. Pooh! how ean that be, when you’re going to marry my
niece, Helen ?
Box. I’m not going to marry your niece Helen! That for your
niece Helen! (snapping his fingers close to Smucains’ nose) Marry
your niece Helen yourself! Open the door ! (shouting and banging
at door R. 2 2.) Open it this moment, or I’ll get Hobbs to pick the
lock! (the door opens, and Mxs. Bonnycastix enters with candle ;
BonnyoastLe rushes frantically into the room; at the same moment
Here enters from L. 1 u., and Jonson from C.)
Mrs. B.
HEL. What’s the matter?
JOHN.
Box. (from within) He’s not here! (rushing on) He’s not there !
but what of that ?—here’s his hat—no! it’s a bonnet! (skewing
bonnet) Oh! Clotilda, pardon my insane suspicions !—it was entirely
the fault of that stupid old Smuggins. Say you forgive me! (clasping
his hands together and crushing the bonnet ; then embraces Mrs. B.)
Smuc. Hollo! Here, Bonnycastle! Don’t you see? A fellow
kissing your wife under your very nose! (turning and seeing JouN-
sox, who, after a few hurried words of. explanation to HELEN, ts
embracing her) Hollo! what does it all mean?
Mrs. B. It means, my dear Mr. Smuggins, that there have been
a few slight mistakes, which, with your permission, I will explain.
in the first place, that gentleman (pointing to Jounson) is not my
husband—that’s one great mistake! This gentleman is my hus-
band. (taking BoxnycastLe’s hand)
Box. And that’s another great mistake !
Smua. (to Jounson) Then, since you’re not Mr. Ponnycastle,
perhaps you'll condescend to inform me who you are ?
Joun. Mr. John James Johnson, at your service.
Mrs. B. A friend of mine, Mr. Smuggins, and so ardent an
admirer of Miss Helen, that he couldn’t resist the temptation of
borrowing my husband’s name, in order to——
Suuc. Swindle me out of my niece, eh? Well, they say all's
fair in love; so give me your hand, Bonnycastle—I mean Thomp-
son—lI should say, Johnson! And if Helen has no objection
Het. I must have ample time to consider, uncle—so, there’s my
hand, sir! (giving her hand to Jounson) ‘
Sauc. This is all very well as far as it goes; but (to Bonny-
casrLE) if you are Bonnycastle, and this lady’s husband—and I
ra . ~ . ~*~
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xD
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THE TWO BONNYCASTLES.
suppose she knows something about it—how is it that you come
down here and perch yourself on that stool for three weeks as
Jeremiah Jorum ?
Mrs. B. Yes, Mr. Bonnyeastle; I require that explanation, as
well as Mr. Smuggins.
Box. Then you shall have it. Come here, ail of you. (they all
surround him) Of course we’re friends—bosom friends—and if I
unfold my short but moving tale, you won’t let it go any further?
—Il mean my tale. Then listen! It has been remarked by no
end of clever people, as well as myself, that man is the creature
of circumstances. That’s my case! What drove me and my carpet
bag from Hatton Garden—down Holborn Hill—up Snow Hill—
down Cheapside, and over London Bridge—to the South Eastern
Railway Terminus? What made me cease to be a Bonnycastle,
and become a Jorum—a wretched clerk of a wretched lawyer? A
trifle—a mere trifle—and here it is! (drawing watch out of his pocket)
Joun. Hollo! (recognising watch) How did you get that watch ?
Mrs. B. Yes? it isn’t your’s, Benjamin, dear.
Joun. No! it’s mine, Benjamin, dear!
Box. Your’s? Say it again!
Joux. Mine; I lost it three weeks ago.
Box. In St. James’s Park ?
Joun. Yes,
30N. Highway robbery ?
Joun. Yes.
Bon. Twenty pounds reward ?
Jounx. Yes, for the apprehension of the ruffian.
Bon. Ha, ha, ha! capital! it’s all right—hurrah !
Joun, Zounds! what do you mean?
Bon. I mean that I’m the ruffian—I give myself up—so hand
over the twenty pounds.
Omxrs. You? explain!
Bon. I can’t now! all I say—and I say it emphatically—is that
[am not a highway robber—I scorn the action—especially for such
a trumpery old copper-gilt concern as this. I’ve got a host of
friends here to prove that the charge is utterly groundless, not that
{ mind it—I! rather like it (to audience) I think it’s a thing to laugh
at—don’t you? In short, if you’ll back me up, [’ll let everybody
know that this little affair of the Two Bonnycastles is capital good
fun! may I ?—it’s all right—hurrah! (swings watch about)
HELEN. JOHNSON. Mr. B. Mrs. B. SMUGGINS.
R. Li
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Curtatn.
LL ee _——
PRINTED BY THOMAS SCOTT, WARWICK COUR Tr, HOLBORN.
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GOOD FOR NOTHING.
A Comic Drama,
IN ONE ACT.
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First Performed at the Theatre Royal Haymarket,
on Tuesday, February 4th, 1851.
Characters.
Tom D1isBBLEs (a Gardener) - Mr, BuCKSTONE.
Harry CoLuLierR (4 Railway Fireman) Mr. Howr.
CHARLEY (a Carpenter) . ; i Mr. PARSELLE.
Youne@ Mr, SIMPSON . : ; ; Mr. CLARK.
SERVANT ’ a : Mr. ELxis.
NAN ; ‘ , Mrs. FITZWILLIAM.
Costumes.
TOM DIBBLES.—Linen check jacket, green striped double-breasted
waistcoat, corderoy trousers, and old black hat, thick bluchers.
HARRY COLLIER.—Pilot coat, over a corded jacket, waist-
coat, and trousers, black hair and whiskers, fur cap, Wellington
boots.
CHARLEY.—Neat working carpenter’s jacket, apron and trowsers,
brown paper cap.
YOUNG MR. SIMPSON.—Ilsé dress; Fashionable coloured coat,
white hat, trousers, &c. A double dress, the facsimile of the
first, the coat split up the back, and covered with dirt.
NAN.—lst dress; Dark coloured cotton frock, pinafore, flaxen hair
quite rough and straight across the forehead, laced boots, white
stockings. 2nd dress ; The pinafore taken off, the hair nicely
combed and parted, little straw bonnet with cherry coloured
ribbands:
GOOD FOR NOTHING.
—
SCENE.—A Room in a Cottage at Windsor—A door in the
centre, opening into the street ; on R.H. of door a window ;
on u.H. of door a bench, on which is a jug of water,
a brown wash-hand basin, and a large lump of yellow
soap—Over the back of a wooden chair, hangs a rough
towel; a shoe-brush and a comb in the chair—Over the
bench at the back is a little broken looking-glass—A door,
L.H. 3 £.—A fire-place, L.H. 2 E., with fender, fire
irons, &¢c.—On the wall, u.u. 3 &., @ little book shelf, with
a few books on it—A cupboard, R.H. 2 E.—A common
table, with a drawer in it, near the centre of the Sfage ;
wooden chairs and a stool, and other articles of humble
furnature.
Youne Mr. Simpson opens the door in ¢., and looks wn.
Simp. As usual! nobody in the way! (advances, and
knocks on the table) Anybody at home? Of course not,—
the house left to take care of itself, as it always is, while that
precious daughter, as they call her, of my father's two
tenants, who rent this house, is playing in the streets.
These people must be got rid of—they’re by no means
respectable, and as for the furniture, nothing can be more
disreputable. What rubbish! the tables and chairs all
notched and cut—plates and dishes, too, all cracked. My
father willbe lucky if he finds enough on the premises to
cover the arrears of rent.
CHARLEY appears at the door, a carpenter’s basket with
tools, &c., on his shoulders.
Cuar. Tom or Harry at home?
Simp. At home? no! I came here with a message from
my father the landlord, and I can’t find any one to give it to.
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Cuar. (u.) Give it to me; one of them is sure to be in
presently, and as I mean to wait a bit, I can tell ’em for
you.
Simp. (r.) Then please to inform them that my father
sent me for the half-year’s rent over-due, and if it’s not
forthcoming in one hour from this time, they must take the
consequences.
Cuar. They'll pay, don’t be afraid.
Simp. Whether they do or not we want to get rid of
them, as we don’t intend for the future to let our house to
any but respectable people.
Cuar. They’re honest and hard-working
Simp. That’s not respectability!
Cuar. What is?
Simp. People that are punctual in their payments and are
never seen in an alehouse. Besides, there’s that girl they
have adopted—the neighbours all say she’s quite a nui-
sance—knocking at doors and running away, throwing
stones—I received such a thump on the head the other
day from one, that I didn’t know what I was about for
a week—breaking windows, and continually playing with
all the boys in the parish. Respectable people don't like
it. Good morning! it’s now twelve o’clock—I shall be
here again in an hour for the rent, and must have it. Give
my compliments to your sister!
Exit p.r.
Cuar. He’s quite right about Nan, and it’s really a great
pity she’s so neglected—I’m sure she has a good heart,
and with a little care might be made a very nice girl. But
Tom and Harry are always squabbling about her—one
wants her to be this, the other that—one won’t have her
corrected, the other says she ought to be; meantime, she
is left to run about as wild as a colt, is taught nothing,
while her manners and her language are neither those of
a girl or a boy. I think it’s time somebody ought to speak
seriously to them about her, and as I’m a friend of all
parties, hang me if I don’t! (crosses to x.)
Enter Harry, v.F., down 1.
Harry. Ah, Charley! you here? I’ve just run my two
GOOD FOR NOTHING. 5
expresses, and have come home to dinner. Where’s Nan?
Cuar. About the streets as usual.
Harry. Ah! I wish I could have my way—I’d make a
very different girl of her. But whatever I propose, Tom
objects to, and we get to words, and though he’s a little
fellow, he’s sometimes so violent that I give in for a quiet
life, yet, if I liked I could soon shut up /zs steam.
Guar. I know you both mean well, and adopted her
from the best motives.
Harry. (violently) But I tell you she’s getting very
troublesome, and has quite the upper hand of both of us.
Cuar. You needn't go into a passion with me.
Harry. I like to speak my mind right out at once, even
if I check my speed afterwards. Now Tom always begins
is cool as acucumber, saying he’s not going into a passion,
and all the while he keeps poking his fire, and heaping on
coals, till he makes such a blaze—and having no safety
valve, burst goes the boiler and over goes the train.
Cuar. Tom asked me to pick a bit with you to-day, and
after I’ve been on a little business I shall come back and
have a talk with you about the girl.
Harry. I wish you would, and get something settled—
she’s very fond of us I know, though now and then I think
she likes Tom best, and that makes me savage; but when
I think of her poor grandfather, I feel as if I could put up
with anything. You didn’t know him, poor fellow! he
was a waterman here, and Nan being without father or
mother, he was her only relation, one day at a regatta, we
were all in a boat together, and through some stupidity of
mine or Tom’s, I don’t know which, the boat upset and the
poor old man was drowned, and so we took Nan to bring
up and take care of between us.
Tom heard without, calling toN an.
Tom. (without) Come down that ladder directly—come
down, I say—come down !
Harry. There she is again, at some mischief or other.
Enter Tom, v.¥., a large cabbage in his hand—comes down c.
Tom. Now I don’t want to put myself or any body else
out of the way, and for the future I don’t mean to get
NES
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12 GOOD FOR NOTHING.
Cuar. [like you for that, Nan. I like to see every
body stand up for those who belong to them, or have been
kind to them-<-right or wrong.
Nan. So do J, and Lalways will too.
Onar. It's a great pity a girl of your spirit is not made
to be useful.
Nan. I am useful sometimes. I often fetch the beer,
and take a good drink on the way for my trouble; and
when I'm sent for a loaf you should only see how I pick it
ail round. Oh, I do love to pick a loaf !---it seems always
much nicer than having a good slice.
Cuar. It’s very wrong to do it I can tell you.
Nan. Is it? I don’t think so.
Cuar. No, because you're never properly corrected.
Nan. Oh, stuff! Ihate people always saying tome you
mustn’t do’this and you mustn't do that; I like texg@o just as
I please. I know the more I’m told noé to do a thing the
more I feel the want to do it, and I’m never easy till it’s
done either.
Cuar. Ah, Nan, I wish I had the charge of you!
Nan. Lord! do you, Charley?
Cuar. I think [ could improve you, and in time make
you fit to be some honest fellow’s wife. Now, there’s a
young woman that [ admire very much---she’s not hand-
some, but she takes a pride in herself as a girl ought.
Nan. (staring at Cuartry) What does she do?
Car. In the first place, she’s always tidy and fit to be
seen.
Nan. Oh! and you don’t think I am?
Cuar. Not exactly.
Nan. What more is she?
Cuar. She hasn’t a very fine head of hair, but by often
properly combing and brushing it, she manages to make it
look very nice.
Nan. I only take my fingers to mine.
Cuar. And though I’ve seen a much prettier mouth than
she has, yet she keeps her teeth so white, that it’s always
worth while to make her laugh, if only to get a look
at them.
Nan. I don’t know whether you’d find it worth while to
make me laugh, for I’ve never thought of my teeth, but I
-GOOD FOR NOTHING. 13
know they’re good ’uns, if it’s only by the crusts I can bite
and the nuts I crack, sometimes, hard as marbles,
Cuar. Then her hands are always clean !
Nan. Oh, dear! I’ve been throwing stones, mine can’t
be very clean, (hiding her hands under her pinafore)
Cuar. And she’s so clever with her needle, and wears
such pretty caps, and all of her own making!
Nan. Clever with her needle! I once learnt to gobble-
stitch.
Cuar. When I walk out with her ona Sunday she looks
so fresh and nice with her neat little shoe, and her white
cotton stockings, and her smart little straw bonnet with
cherry colored ribands, that I feel quite proud of her.
Nan. You wouldn’t like to walk out with me on a Sun-
day !
Cuar. Not as you are now.
Nan. And that’s pretty well as I always am---though
I’ve got a cap and a bonnet, but I never think of putting
‘em on; well, and this young lady-——
Cuar. Writes and reads, T once read a beautiful letter
she sent !
Nan. To you?
Cuar. Yes!
Nan. Then you like her very much!
Cuar. I’m very fond of her.
Nan. Are you? (thoughtfully)
Cuar. Indeed, I am; well, good bye for a few minutes,
[’'m coming again presently, good bye, won't you shake
hands?
Nan. No, I don’t like to now, because my hands are
not at all like that young lady’s,
Cuar. Very well, I shall see you again in a few minutes‘
good bye. Exit v.¥.
Nan. Good bye---a pretty cap, and white stockings,
neat little shoes, straw bonnet and ribbands, and clean
hands, and a walk out on a Sunday,I never thought of being
anything like that, but I never tried. He said he admires
her, is very fond ofher, I don't think anybody ‘will ever ad-
mire me, and I begin to fancy I don't admire myself much.
I feel so unhappy! ‘because Charley has always spoken very
kindly to me, has given me apples, and has often taken
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my part, when everybody’s been speaking against me
and so I don’t like to hear him say he admires “anybody ;
no, it makes my heart feel all at once like a lump o’ lead
Oh! and such spiteful thoughts seem coming over me
that I think if I knew who this young lady was I could
snatch her cap off her head, and eat it.
A knock at the door—Nan opens t—A Livery SEr-
VANT appears.
Servang. Are the people of the house at home?
Nan. No.
Servant. When will they be in?
Nan. Soon.
SERVANT. Here’s a letter for them. ‘Take care of it,
t’s particular.
He hands Naw a letter, and disappears—She closes
the door.
Nan. I wish I could read what's on this! I never felt
to care about reading before! J couldn’t write a beautiful
letter to anybody if ‘TI was to try ever so. [ hate letters!
(pulling open the table drawer) There! (throwing the letter
into the drawer) And there! (shutting the drawer up
wiolently), I wish I had twopence---I'd run away. (sis on
a stool i. of table, wn thought)
Enter Tom, v.F. from t.
Tom. Hallo, Nan! what’s the matter?
Nan. Nothing, I was only thinking.
Tom. That's ‘something new for you! Confound it! I
can't get the money to pay this rent anywhere. I’ve often
befriended people when T had the means, and I thought
I might get help in return when I w anted it; but nobody
seems to have nothing now---everybody’s Very short !—
Have just paid this and—Just paid that! and Very sorry!
.--and that’s all.
He sits in a chair, x.c,.---Nan rises and goes to him.
Nan. What are you thinking of ?
Tom. Nothing that you can understand.
Nan. Well, then, you ought to make me! I don’t like
GOOD FOR NOTHING. 15
always feeling that I’m no use to anybody and good for
nothing. Something vexes you, I know, and you ought to
tell me what it 7s ; and if I can’t make it out once I shall
soon, if you try---I ain’t a fool.
Tom. I will then. We can’t pay the rent! you know
what that is---and somebody’s coming here to take away
everything to pay it!
Nan. What, take away this table, and that stool, and——
Tom. Don’t you hear? everything! and then turn us
out, with no place to go to.
Nan. Turn us out? into the streets where I am always
playing ?
Tom. Yes.
Nan. Oh! I never thought there was anything like that
to come---I only knew here was a house, and there was
this, and here was that, and there they’d be as long as ever
we liked. And you’ve got no money?
Tom. No.
Nan. And that’s what people call trouble, isn’t it?
Tom. Yes, I should think it was!
Nan. Then why didn’t you bring me up to be of use?
why didn’t you put me in the way of doing something that
might bring in a little ?---if it had been ever so little it
would have helped, and then I should have felt proud and
happy---and now I feel like a weed in a garden, fit for
nothing but to be pulled up by the roots and thrown over
the wall.
Tom. Hollo! do you know who your're talking to? do
you know who I am? Now I don’t want to speak above
a whisper, or put myself at all out of the way, but I'll be
hanged if you ain’t talking to me as if you was bringing
me up, as if I was your adopted child, as if you was some-
body and I was nobody; and if it wasn’t for fear the
people next door might hear me, I'd speak out as I ought
to do, and say I won’t have it! (very loudly)
Enter Harry, D.¥F.---comes down t.
Harry. What’s the matter now? letting the steam off
again, always in a passion.
Tom. I was only quietly cutting down a young shrub
that was growing too fast.
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Harry. That's what you’re always doing, and you'll cut
away till there’s nothing left, that will be the end of it.
Tom. Henry!
Harry. Now don't call me Henry, I don't like it, for
; ae when you call me so, what line you want to work
; but I can tell you I’m now as much out of temper as
you are, and if we both run on the same rail, I shall clap on
the thimble---yes, and then there’ll be a smash!
Tom. Henry
Harry. I tell you I’m in trouble---we’re both in trouble,
and as we not only can't help one another, but can’t agree,
the best way will be to part.
Tom. Henry !
Harry. I won't be called Henry. (crosses to rx.)
Tom. It’s your name, Henry, and when I speak in that
fashion, it’s s only to shew you how renteel and mild I can
be if I like. Henry, be quiet, I want to talk to you like
a father. You have named parting---very well, as we
shall neither of us have a roof over our heads very stoon,
I think it’s the wisest thing to do; all that remains o be
settled is, what's to ecciut of Nan? There, haven’t I
spoken gently---haven't I kept my temper? (crosses to x.)
Harry, (x.) Nan, we are going ta part company, who
will you live with?
Tom. Or in other words, which do you love best?
Nan. (c. to Harry sitting on table) When you are
finishing what you say, I love yow best, and I love you
best (to Tom) when you're beginning to-speak; but at all
times I love you both dearly, and though I am but a poor
girl who has been taught nothing, yet I do think when
those who have always ees together, and who have loved
one another get into trouble, that’s the very time they
ought to stand by one another. Yes, and to begin then
to talk about parting, is cow ardly; yes, and you may be
angry with me for what I've said if you like, but I
couldn’t help it, it was all here (touching her head) and
now it’s all there, (pointing to Tom and Harry)
Tom. Henry! (sobbing, crosses to x.c.)
Harry. Thomas! (sobbing)
Tom. Let us go and take a quiet walk round the garden,
and talk the matter over. (crossing to R.H) It’s the best
GOOD FOR NOTHING. ET
way; we have been very good friends, havnt we Harry?
Harry. Yes! (affected) very!
Tom. Now don't fly out again; and we have liked one
another very much ; and J think what Nan has said is very
right, and it gives me a notion she knows more than you
and I put together. Now stop you here for a few minutes ;
now let’s see what can be done for the best. I shouldn't
like to part with you Harry.
Harry. I shouldnt like to part part with you. Such
friends and companions, Tom.
Tom. After so many years acquaintance.
Harry. Fighting one another’s battles.
Tom. Ah!
Harry. Ah!
Tom. Come along Harry.
They go off arm wm arm, and very affectionately,
R.H. 1 E.
Nan. Good fellows, both of ’em. Oh! how I wish I
could do something to help; something good for them.
Can't I set about and see what’s to be done, and do it?
Yes, there’s the money in the box; they have saved it
for me, and they won’t touch it because it’s mine. Mine---
well if it’s mine---haven’t I a right to do what I like with
it? No harm to take my own---should think not indeed.
(she goes to the cupboard on the x.u., takes out a money bow,
and shakes it) There's plenty here; and if they'll take this
for the rent they shall have it, and that will be one trouble
got over ;---well, that’s the way to get rid of ’em---one
down and the one come on; and if one keeps on doing so,
and don’t flinch, what bushels of trouble may be clear’d away
in time. Stop, I don’t like now to go out as Iam. If
Charley was to meet me he wouldn’t feel proud of
knowing me. Oh! there’s my new bonnet and cap!
(runs to the cupboard and brings out a band-box---she
opens rt) Here's the bonnet. Oh! and with a sherry
colored ribband on it---well that 7s prime, here’s the cap,
and here's an apron, and one of Tom’s pocket handker-
chiefs, all clean and nice. (she brings forward the looking-
glass, and places it against the band-box on the table, then
looks at herself in it) Well, I never could have looked in the
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18 GOOD FOR NOTHING.
glass before, not to take any notice. Idon’t look at all
like a young lady, I'll try and alter myself a little ; I can
but try. (she goes to the bench at the back, pours some
water into a bason, takes off pinafore, and with the large
prece of yellow soap washes her hands) No wonder Charley
wouldn’t like to walk out with me---my hands look very
well now. (dries them with the towel lying across the chair,
then wipes her face) There! now for my hair! (takes
up a shoe brush and comb) 1 don't think this is a right
brush; it’s what they clean the shoes with, but it rill: be
better than none. (brushes her hair at the glass) Now for
the comb! (parts her hair, and places itin bands) There!
that’s better---oh, much better! Now for the eap! (puts
at on) Oh, that’s better still! What am I to do with these
rags in my frock? Stop, here’s a pin, J can pin that up;
oh, and the apron will hide all---that’s capital! (ties on the
apron) nobody can see anything now. Now for Tom’s
handkerchief! (puts the handk erchief over her shoulders)
There! aed my bonnet. ( puts on the bonnet) Oh! F wish
Charley could see me now. Oh! how nice I do feel!
I haven't very white cotton stockings, and my shoes are
not very neat---I’ll alter them as soon as I can. Now for
my money-box. ( puts it wnder her arm) If I meet any
boys I shall only just nod to them, and [I mean to walk
quite in a different way to what I did; and if I do but
meet Charley, I think he'll say there are more young ladies
than one in the world.
She walks very primly round the Stage, and goes
off, v.¥.---Tom and Harry return, R.H. 1 £.
Tom. Now it’s all settled, you say you are sure to be
locked up?
Harry. If I can’t get five pounds by three o'clock!
Tom. And we are sure to be turned adrift here, so I say
let everything go, let °em clear everything off, and if you
are in prison I'll work day and night to get you free again,
and take care of Nan at the same time.
Harry. Anything you think best, Tom.
Tom. It’s the only way Harry, there, give me your hand
my boy, we're friends again, and will stick to one another
GOOD FOR NOTHING. 19
as long as we've breath in our bodies. (they shake hands
warmly)
Enter CHARLEY D.PF.
Cuar. (comes down c.) Ah! that’s right, when friends
are in trouble that’s what ought to be, now I tell you what
I’ve been thinking of, you had better come to my house to-
day, to be out of the way of all this bother, and bring Nan
with you; where is she?
Tom. (calling u.) Nan!
Harry. (calling) Nan! (goes up and comes down, R.©.)
not at home! out again as usual, in the streets or in the
river, it’s all one to her, I know she fellin the river the
other day, though she wouldn’t own it.
Cuar. Because you didn’t go the right way to get the
truth owt of her.
Tom. Nan! upon my soul if that girl isn’t enough to
drive anybody crazy, I never meant to work myself into a
rage again, but this running out into the streets at such a
time too---Nan! (calling out loudly)
NAN re-appears, D.F.
Nan. Here I am
She walks down the stage in the same way she went
off, and stands between Tom and Cuaruey.
Tom. Hollo! who are you?
Harry. Nan!
Cuar. Why, Nan! this 7s a change for the better.
Nan. I thought you’d say so, and there'll bea greater
change still presently, Charley ;—somebody else can wear
a cap and a bonnet with a cherry colored riband, ah!
Tom. Where have you been ?
Nan. To pay the rent!
Tom. ;
and - What?
Harry. §
Nan. Look at this piece of paper, you can’t read it (to
Tom) look at it Harry.
Harry. (taking the paper) A receipt in full.
20 GOOD FOR NOTHING.
Tom. Why, Nan? what is the meaning of all this?
stop, let me speak, because I know how. NowlI ask you
in the quietest, in the most gentle manner possible—where
the devil did you get the money?
Nan. (c.) Got it from my self, (showing the money-box)
look, it’s empty now, but there was more than enough, and
I’ve something left besides, ‘ied I’ve got it in my pocket,
and I mean to buy a nice white pair of stockings and neat
shoes with it. (looki ing at CHA RLEY)
Harry. What business had you to take the money we
saved !
Tom. Let mespeak, I don’t want to hurt your feelings,
Nan, or to frighten you, but in taking what was in that
box without asking, without at all s saying anything to either
of us, I can only tell you you've been and gone aud com-
mitted bigamy.
Harry. (x.c., loudly) Burglary !
Tom. (1.) It’s all the same.
Nan. And that’s something wrong isn't it ?—I didn't
mean todothat, thatI didn’t (sobl ying) you veoften saidit was
all for me, and so I thought it was mine, and I could do
as I liked, if I had spent it in anything, or given it away,
that would have been wrong | know, but to get you out
of trouble I thought was right.
Cuar. And it was right, Nan---your own good and
generous heart told you % was right---and the “heart, if
you have one, never tells you wrong, Nan; and if your
two fathers can’t see it was right, all I can say of them
is, that they’re a couple of fools.
Tom. Well, I think it was good of her, after all; not
like as if she had spent it on herself---it was for ws, you
know Harry, and---and I think I’ve got a fly in my eye!
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i Tom. (wiping Nan’s eyes) Don’t you cry, Nan, it’s all
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right, only I almost wish that we had got Harry out of has
trouble first.
Nan. I’ve got some left---here it is. (feeling in her
pocket and producing some silver) One, i. three, four
five shillings.
Tom. It’s five pounds Harry wants.
GOOD FOR NOTHING. 21
Nan. And that’s a great deal more, isn’t it? Stop, I'll
put all this away safely---it will help, and every little does
that, you know. I’ve broken the bank, so I’ll put the
money in the table-drawer, (opening the table-drawer) and
then we'll set our heads together and see what can be done
for the next trouble. Oh! here's a letter for one of you---
it was left here for the people of the house. (taking out the
letter she had placed in the drawer, which she gwes to Harry,
Tom. More trouble, I suppose.
Harry. My execution, perhaps. (opening the letter) Eh?
hollo! a five pound note!
Tom. A what?
Harry. A five pound note.
Tom. Lord! (takes 2t)
Harry. Stop, let me read. (reads) ‘‘ The enclosed is
for a young girl residing with you, whom the donors have
been unable to trace out till to-day---it is a trifling reward
for her presence of mind and courage. A servant will call
in the evening to take her to those who will befriend her
through life.”
Tom. Does that mean you, Nan?
Cuar. Of course it does---I’ve heard of it. Tell ’em
all about it.
Nan. I will! I didn’t like before, but I will now. But
do let me look at the money. (Tom gies her the note)
And is this five pounds? oh my! mine, really mine, and
and given tome? Oh!-ha, ha!—I am so happy!
Tom. What have you done?
Nan. I was playing on the towing path of the river last
Tuesday
Harry. The day you came home wet through, you
naughty girl.
Nan. Yes; and there was a young woman there had
put a child down on the bank to run about by itself, while
she talked to: oh! such atall soldier, Well, it was high
tide, and the little thing went to pluck some grass on the
brink of the river, when she fell in. The young woman
screamed and fainted away, and I screamed and jumped
in; and I was almost up to here (putting her hand under
her chin), but I held fast by a log with one hand, and
managed to get tight hold of the child by the other, and
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22 GOOD FOR NOTHING.
I scrambled out, and the child was safe, and I gave it to
the young woman, and some people saw me; but I was so
frightened that I took to my heels and ran away, and that’s
how I came home all wet, but I wouldn’t tell how it hap-
pened, for I thought I should be scolded, or never let go
out again ; and this is what I’ve got for it! and here—here,
dear Harry, take it and get out of your trouble as soon as
ever you can. (gives the note to Harry)
Harry. Oh, Nan!
Tom. Oh, Nan!
Cuar. Oh, Nan!
Nan. Oh, ’'m so happy! ha, ha! I’m good for some-
thmg at last, ain’t I?
Tom. Well, I don’t want to be violent—I don’t want to
speak only in the gentlest way in the world—but I will
say, after all, you’re a regular out-and-out good girl, and
I'm only sorry I ain’t your natural born father, and I’d
say a great deal more, only I—I (affected) I feel I can't.
Harry. (affected) No more can I, except she is a good
girl.
Cuar. (also affected) Didn’t I, always say she was?
Nan. (affected) I—I know you did, Charley !
Tom. Here we are, all snivelling again. Never mind it
will do us good—the ground’s all the better for rain now
and then, and brings what’s good out of it. Now Nan I
must give you a kiss. (/isses Nan)
Harry. And me! (kisses her)
Cuar. (crosses to her) And me.
Nan. No!—what would the young lady say that you
admire so?
Cuark. Say? that she admired you—and would kiss you
heartily herself; for she is also good and generous, and
though she’s my sister
Nan. Your sister? Oh Charley!
Cuar. Yes, and I’ve set her up in business, and she’s a
dress maker; and she shall teach you the business in the
day, and I'll teach you reading in the evening.
Nan. Will you? then there'll be one thing you needn't
teach me, and that will be how to love you dearly. |
Tom. Hollo, hollo! I don’t want to say much, but I
think you might ask leave, ‘specially if you are going to
GOOD FOR NOTHING. 23
love any body better than us, who have taken so much care
of you
Cuar. But suppose in proper time she should give me
the right to take care of her, and for life?
Tom. What, be your wife?
Cuar. Yes.
Tom. Then I can only say, and in the mildest manner
possible—That she'll make a good ’un !
Cuar. And [| think you will give me that right, Nan.
Nan. I’m afraid I shall have to be changed a great deal
more before that can happen, but [’ll do my best to deserve
every good that can come to me—I can’t say any more
than that, and though I feel at one time I was indeed, Good
for Nothing ; yet if you (to the Audience) will only go about
and tell people that at last I am good for something,
why
Tom. Let me speak. (to the Audience) I wish to talk to
you like a father. Come here, Nan. (leading her forward)
Good for something ? of course—everybody’s good for
something if taken care of. Many of our choicest
flowers were wild once; and when Nature does so much,
I maintain we ought to help nature whenever we can, and
do as much in return. We've found out Nature’s done
something for Nan, arid so we are going to do something
now tc help nature, ain’t we, Nan? of course. Therefore
I say, quietly and calmly, if you think with me, and will
help us by your approval of what we’ve done, and see there’s
a little truth in it, then neither that, nor Harry, nor Charley,
nor Nan here, nor me, nor any one present at this moment,
can by any possibility be
“GOOD FOR NOTHING!”
HARRY. NAN. Tom. CHARLEY.
CURTAIN.
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JOHN BALDWIN BUCKSTONE
KISS IN THE DARK.
A Farce.
IN ONE ACT.
mY
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Member of the Dramatic Authors’ Society.
THOMAS HAITILES LACY,
WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND,
LONDON.
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ADVERTISEMENT
“A Kiss 1x THE Dark” is original, which is perhaps ws best
recommendation, and only necessary to state at this moment, vm conse-
guence of the probable International Copyright Law.
- , ry? > 7 Shoe ear = a
First performed at the Theatre Royal, Haymarkei,
On Saturday, June 13th, 1840.
CHARACTERS.
iginal Cast. March, 1852,
Mr. SELIM PETTIBONE ... Mr. Bucxsrone ... Mr. Buckstons.
FRANK FATHOM ...........:. Mr. J. Wesster ... Mr. Howe.
Mrs. PETTIBONE, ....c.cceee- Mrs. Crrrorp ... Mrs. BocKxincuam.
ee go mie ce aap okick Miss Mariey ... .. Mrs. CaAvuLFiELp.
UNKNOWN FEMALE ...... Miss Partripae ... Miss A. Wounps.
eee
COSTUMES.
Pxurrizone—Green Newmarket coat, white vest, nankeen trowsers.
boots, hat and gloves.
Frank—Travelling cloak, dark surtout, white trowsers, boots.
Mes. Perrrsone—White muslin dress.
Mary—Cotton dress and cap.
Unxyown Femate—Silk dress, shawl, bonnet and veil
Time in representation, 40 minutes.
A KISS IN THE DARK!
—S-+€3}o 3
SCENE L—An Apartment in the Villa of Mr. Prtrinone at
Clapham. Entrance at back, leading to Garden. In the
flat L. uw. are the windows of a Conservatory. Doors x. and
L. able and chairs, sofa, table, x., with writing materials
and inkstand.
Mrs. Pertinone discovered at table, x., writing.
Mrs. P. I must complete the inventory of my present col-
lection of curiosities this evening, as I shall gain such an
addition to my museum on the arrival of my husband's
friend, Mr. Fathom, that I shall be unable to recollect all
the names and uses of my little wonders unless they are
carefully written down. (writes) ‘No. 22—A bit of the
blarney used at Cork. 23—The ashes of the first pipe
of tobacco smoked in England. 24, is (gate bell rings
without, L.) A ring at the gate bell! Can’t be he? Seven
o’clock is the precise moment for Mr. P.—perhaps it is
Mr, Fathom.
Enter Mary, L.
Mary. The gentleman, ma’am, that you've been expecting
from foreign parts—he has just drove up to the gate, and
is putting such a quantity of queer things into the hall.
Mrs. P. My presents, no doubt. I thought he’d be here
to-night—pray ask him in. (Lait Mary, u.) I shall now
be completely set up with all sorts of Indian articles,
tomahawks, and scalps, and war clubs, and everything
wonderful !
Enter Frank Faruom, t., in a travelling dress, cloak, cap, §c.
Frank. Oh, my dear madam—rejoiced to see you! (puts
cap, §¢. on sofa, L.)
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Mrs. P. How do you do? Lord, how brown you are! and
how travelling alters people !—you look so improved, so
expanded, I may say. (gets over to u.) Pray sit down.
(places his chair, x.) Pettibone will be so glad you are
come; he has been talking of you, and looking for the
arrival of packets every day. (seats herself, u.) And are
you quite well ?
Frank. Quite well, ma’am—rather fatigued—just arrived
from Bristol.
Mrs. P. And you've been travelling in America, and have
come home in the Great Western? What a deal you must
have seen! How Pettibone will devour your narratives !
Frank. He must have a good digestion, then ; for the wonders
I have met with have been astounding. Oh! Mrs. P.,
think of log huts—waterfalls— mosquitoes—canvas-back
ducks—corderoy roads—niggers—canals—swamps—dol-
lars and mint juleps!
Mrs. P. Dear me!
Frank. I’ve matter enough to keep you and Pettibone wide
awake every night for the next six weeks.
Mrs. P. And my promised curiosities ?
Frank. They are in the hall: a beautiful buffalo skin—a pipe
of peace for you to smoke; when you've tift with Petti-
bone, and want to make it up, you must take a puff at it
—there’s a pair of snow shoes and a scalping knife—I’ll
show you how the Indians take off the scalp when Petti-
bone comes home.
Mrs. P. How charming!
Frank. You've a smart little place here, I see. You were
just married, and moving into it, when I left England. A
small conservatory, too, ch ?—garden before and behind—
snug distance from the road—and everything comfortable.
(rises, looks about, up stage, and comes down, t.)
Mrs. P. We are very comfortable indeéd; Pettibone never
stays out—comes home regularly from the City at seven
o’clock—then we tea, and talk, and play double-dummy—
sometimes he sings pretty love songs, and says he’s never
so happy as when his boots are off, his slippers on, and he
is taking his repose on the sofa,
Frank. What a sweet picture of domestic comfort! And
P. makes a good husband, does he ?
Mrs. P, Excellent.
A KISS IN THE DARK. oO
Frank. What a gay little man he was when I first met him
at the Lord Mayor’s ball! what a favourite, too, with the
ladies !
Mrs. P. Oh! he’s left all that off now—quite changed, bless
you—he continually tells me that, on his honour, he don’t
think there’s such another woman in the world as I am.
Hark ! (clock strikes seven)
Frank. At what ?
Mrs. P. The clock striking seven: he won’t be long now;
he’s never more than three or four minutes over. (gate bell
rings, L.) There! he’s punctual to a minute.
(Perrivone sings, u., ‘I love her how I love her’)
Frank. And singing, too, like a nightingale.
Enter PETTIBONE, L.
Par. Ah, my boy, how d’yedo? I thought you had arrived,
by the queer things I saw in the hall—so glad to. see you
—Betsy, give me a kiss. (crossing to c.) Don’t laugh at
me; I never go out and never come in without going
through this little ceremony; mind you always do the
same, when you geta wife, my boy; it keeps up the little
cuddlybilities of domestic bliss, eh ?—prevents the water
in the tea urn of matrimony ever getting quite cold—keeps
it always a little on the simmer, eh?
Frank. And often saves you from getting into hot water, eh?
Per. That’s good, by jingo! give me your hand. You
haven’t brought home a wife amongst your curiosities,
have you ?
Frank. Oh! no, no. (aszde) Because I left one behind me.
Per. Time enough for that, eh? And now, Bétsy—boot-
jack! (Mrs. P. crosses, u.) Ah! stop——I must show Frank
my dahlias before it’s quite dark, and take him round the
garden—suc +h a nice garden !—you should see me and
Betsy, at seven o ‘clock in the morning, I’m in my morn-
ing gown, and Betsy in something with a frill round it,
catching snails—Betsy catches snails beautifully, and
throws ’em over the wall into the next garden—then we
weed and rake—much better than our Mansion House ball
raking. What rum times they were, eh? Lord, I wonder
what’s become of Miss Dumpleby ?
Mrs. P. Selim, dear, no allusions to old flames—I don’t like it.
6 A KISS IN THE DARK.
Pet. {aside to Frank) You see what a happy fellow I an—
quite right, Betsy, dear—quite right—when we light up
the torch of Hymen, we should always extinguish our old
links, eh? Ha! ha! ha! to be sure.
Mrs. P. I'll just step into the hall and look at my presents ;
there are snow shoes and a scalping knife, dear. Mr.
l‘athom is going to shew me how the sealp is taken off—
you'll lend him your head to exemplify, won’t you, dear?
Per. Oh! I dare say.
Mrs. P. To please me won’t you, dear ?
Pet. Yes, dear. (exit Mrs. P., t.) My boy, that’s a dear ecrea-
ture—such a temper—no frowning—no shying plates—
oh, no, none of that here, and such high notions—devilish
high—TI sometimes think she ought to be a queen of some
place or other, instead of the wife of a little anxious stock
broker.
I’Rank. She’s a fine woman.
Pet. Now isn’t she ?
Frank. And you ought to be—no doubt you are—a happy
fellow ?
Pet. Yes.
FRaNnK. Completely happy ?
Pet. Why, no—um—as to the word completely, in its dic-
tionary sense, I don’t think I can altogether use it in my case.
FRANK. Indeed !
Prt. It’s all my own fault,—I can’t help tormenting myself.
FRANK. With what ?
Pet. The metaphysics of matrimony.
Frank. What do you mean by metaphysics?
Pet. I mean by metaphysics, what I can’t explain and you
can’t understand—human nature, and inconsistency, and all
that. Frank, you and I are old friends—look at me—am
I handsome ?
I’'RANK. Certainly not.
Per. Six feet high ?
Frank. Quite the reverse.
Per. Have I anything engaging in my manner ?
Frank. Not that I can perceive.
Per. Oh, you are right; I asked a plain question, and I’ve
got a very plain answer. Now, what coulda fine, handsome,
intellectual, queen-like woman as Mrs. P. is, see in me to
marry me? Eh? Now think of the metaphysies of ma-
Te ad
A KISS IN THE DARK. 7
trimony, and imagine what my thoughts must he when I
lay awake on my pillow at two. o’clock in the morning
sometimes.
Frank. You don’t mean to say you are jealous of her?
Per. No, though to be sure I am in the City all day, and
she is here alone all day.
Frank. Very true.
Per. Ah! now you begin to enter into my feelings, a thought
has struck me. You, my boy, were an old beau of my
wife’s, only I cut you out, how I should like—Lord! how
I should like——(Prrrinone ts speaking in an undertone—
Mrs. Perrrpone is re-entering L.—stops on seeing them, and
listens)
Frank. What?
Pur. To put my Betsy fo the test, and see how she would
behave to a man that would dare to make love to her, will
you try?
Frank. I!
Per. You! Make yourself agreeable to her—touch upon
your early feelings—pity her being alone all day—talk of \
your travels—sigh—ask her if she is really happy—eh ?
What do you think? I’m sure she’d knock you down;
but you wouldn’t mind that to serve me.
Frank. Rather a dangerous position to place me in!
Per. I'll give you every opportunity, upon my life I will;
do, it will make me so happy; you're a good looking fellow
you know—a fine dashing manner with you—try—do—do.
Frank. If it will serve to make your happiness complete.
Per. It would now—it would.
Frank, I'll do my best.
Per. There’s a good fellow (Mrs. P. withdraws, threatening
Pertisone) we shall have such a laugh when it’s over.
Frank. Perhaps not.
Per. Eh!
Frank. Perhaps she might encourage me.
Per. Oh no, no, she wouldn’t—oh don’t mention it; I should
explode—die of self-combustion; but she won’t, no, no—
you'll have such a box on the ears—a stinger; | know
you will. <
Mrs. P. (without) Be careful of them, Mary.
Per. There ske is—I’ll give you half an hour at once, while
supper is getting ready.
ee
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S A KISS IN THE DARK.
Enter Mrs. Perrigone 1.
Mrs. P. Well, my dear Mr. Fathom, I’m delighted with my
presents, with the war club especially; take care P. that
you never ofiend me; I could fell you to the ground with
the slightest tap; your kind thought of me, Mr. Fathom,
while you were far away has really affected me.
Per, Dear fellow, isn’t he, Betsy ?
Mrs. P. Indeed he is—it is such thought—such attention,
that has such influence over our sex.
Mrank. I hope, dear madam, that your wishes will often
occupy my thoughts, and command my attention.
Per. (aside to Frank) Ah that’s it—something in that way
—be delicate though.
FRANK. It makes me so | appy, placed as we were in early
life, to see you thus surrounded by every comfort ; yet
when I sometimes think of my disappointment, I—I, Ah!
well [I won’t talk about it. (aside to Perrisone) Is that
what you mean ? :
Per. Yes, yes, only put in a little more ardour—go it.
Mrs. P. (seghing) Ah, my dear sir, memory has its regrets
as, well as pleasures,
Per. (aside) What? eh !—what does she mean by that. ob-
servation and that sigh ? Surely she ain’t sorry she’s Mrs.
P.—oh, good heavens, if she was
Mrs. P. I hope you are going to make a long stay; P. has
had a room fitted up purposely for you. (Frank and Mrs.
DP. go up and change sides.)
Per. Only calls one P.; the first time she ever uttered that
letter without the word dear; she is certainly looking at
him very oddly, or it may be only my faney—it is—it
must—Betsy—Betsy—dear (crosses to c.) 'm going to the
nursery.
Frank. What a family man?
Pet. No, the nursery garden where the bulbs are—not the
nursery where the babbies are. I’ve ordered some——some
plants, I shan’t stay long.
Mrs. P. Oh, pray don’t hurry yourself, I have company now
you know—when I’m alone I’m always anxious for your
return; but when one has a friend here, and such an old
friend too as Mr, Fathom, the little half hours slip by in
a minute.
A KISS IN THE DARK. g
Per. Oh, her little half hours slip by in a minute, ah! ha!
ha! of course—of course (aside to Frank) you needn’t go
very far—just touch upon the topic, that’s all—she’ll re-
sent it I know— but—but
Frank. I’m to put her to the test at all events.
Per. Oh, certainly; but don’t be too savage, that’s all—you
understand.
Mrs. P. (aside) I’m to be put to the heat am [?—very well,
sir. Are you not going, my dear?
Per. Oh, she calls me dear at last; but sometimes loving
expressions are used the more to deceive—yes, Betsy, I’m
going—shall be absent about half an hour, not longer
(going) good bye (aside) I wish I could see, be an eye wet-
ness’ how she’d act—I will—I have it—good bye (gozng)
oh, my kiss (puts on his hat and hurries off t. after kissing
Mrs. P.
Frank. Good creature that, but very odd—though he seems
affectionate, and certainly is fond of you.
Mrs. P. Yes, I’ve very few complaints to make; he’s pretty
well, as husbands go.
Frank. (seated) Now for my task—well, Elizabeth, how fa-
miliar i¢ sounds to call you by that name, and what a
variety of recollections it brings to one’s mind.
Mrs. P. Ah! when I received your first letter. (Per. ap-
pears tn conservatory at back watching them. )
Krank. Didn’t I write it in a beautiful hand? and how I
trembled when I had fairly given sixpence to a boy to de-
liver it. (they are seated at some distance, but advance
oe to each other, PETTIBONE w atching.. )
Mrs And though I didn’t reply to it, there was a sincerity
in se tone that always pleased me.
Frank. (aside) Upon my word she seems really to speak
with regret; well, I must proceed at any rate—( they draw
their chairs nearer, Pur. agonised)—how was it I made so
little impression on you? how was it that Pettibone be-
came the happy man? You can tell me now.
Mrs. P. You flirted so.
Frank. Did 1?
Mrs. P. And seemed to be taken with every fresh face you met.
Frank. Consider what was my age—nineteen—~we are all
coxcombs at that age, and perhaps—perhaps (they draw
their chairs closer, Per. clasps his hands in despair) your ap-
10 A KISS IN THE DARK.
parent coldness made me affect to admire another merely
to provoke you, and let you see I was not breaking my
heart, and—and—(takes her hand) well I wish you every
happiness, (he kisses her hand—Prvr. smashes a pane of
glass and disappears—F Rank and Mrs. Pet. start up)
Mrs. P. What’s that ?
Frank. A pane of glass broken.
Mrs. P. It is those tiresome children in the next village al-
ways throwing stones. (loud ringing ofa bell) There’s P.
come back, how vexed he will be.
Enter Perripone L. affecting to sing.
Per. Tol lol de lol, &c. I’m come back (sings) I’m come
back—what’s the matter, Betsy? you seem confused.
Mrs. P. I’ve been startled.
Pet. Indeed!
Mrs. P. While talking with our friend some one threw a
stone through one of the panes of the conservatory.
Per. Oh, was that all; never mind, Betsy.
Mrs. P. Yes, dear.
Per. Bring me a carving-knife—I mean a corkscrew—when
I say a carving-knife I always mean a corkscrew, I want
to open some hock—it’s in your room—don’t stand staring
at me as if you didn’t know what I meant—do as I bid you.
Mrs. P. Well, I’m sure (flounces into room, R.)
Per. (eagerly to Frank) Well, have you said anything?
made any advances ?
Frank. (aside) I can never tell him how they were received,
I’m quite astonished.
Per. Why don’t you answer me?
Frank. You were gone such a short time.
Prt. (asede) Quite long enough—quite long enough.
Frank. I spoke of my early attachment.
Per. Well?
Frank. She
Pet. Yes.
Frank. Stared vacantly at me, and said
Per. (very eagerly) What ?
Frank. Nothing.
Per. Qh.
Frank. Then I asked her how she came to prefer you
Per. What did she say?
gS
A KISS IN THE DARK. 11
Frank. Said that I was too fickle for her.
Pat. And what did she do then ?
Frank. Nothing.
Prt. (aside) That’s a lie !—Did you get close to her?
Frank. Yes.
Per. And did she get close to you?
Frank. (hesitating) No.
Per. (aside) Another lie !—he’s deceiving me, but I'll keep
my feelings down and—and—did you take her hand?
Frank. Yes.
Per. And did she snatch it away again ?
Frank. Yes.
Per. (aside) Another lie—a diabolical lie—and told you
she’d tell me? I knew she would, I was convinced she
would, ha, ha, ha!—now I’m happy—what a miserable
devil I am—oh what villainy (aszde) what treachery! Well
I watch’d ’em—I shall now know how to act.
Frank. (aside) Mrs. P.’s conduct is very strange, I can’t tell
him the truth—’tis impossible—well it’s his own fault, not
mine. Excuse me for a moment, I’m going to bring in
my presents, and see my box placed in my room—don’t
trouble yourself, the servants will shew me—poor P. I
pity him. Exit u.
Per. He’s confused—he hurries from my presence—no won-
der—oh what falsehood I’ve been told—she stare at him
vacantly—she snatch her hand away, when I with my own
eyes saw him kiss it. This accounts for his presents—his
scalping knives and tomahawks—I may use ’em in a way
they won’t like.
Enter Mary, t. with table cloth.
Per. Mary.
Mary. Yes, sir.
Per. I’m in the City all day.
Mary. Yes, sir.
Per. How does your mistress pass her time ?
Mary. Sometimes one way—sometimes another.
Per. Explain.
| Mary. Works a bit and scolds a bit, and sits at the bedroom
window a bit.
Per. (aside) Of course—to be admired—to be nodded at by
the young fellows passing the house on the tops of the
ié)
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12 A KISS IN THE DARK.
omnibusses— when the fellows see a fine woman sitting at
her bed-room window working, they always nod to them,
and kiss their hands to them—lI know their tricks—I’ ve
done it myself. Bring candles.
Mary. Yes, sir (aside) what’s the matter with him to-night.
Exit w.
Enter Mrs. PETTIBONE, R. D., with a penknife and pen.
Mrs. P. P., dear.
Per. Yes, dear.
Mrs. P. (going to writing-table) I wish you'd mend me some
pens before you go to town in the morning.
Per. I will (aside) going to write to him, no doubt—and I’m
to mend the pens—I’ I split ’em all up. Betsy.
Mrs. P. Yes, dear.
Pet. Nice fellow, Fathom, isn’t he?
Mrs. P. Tolerable.
Per. Don’t you think him very handsome?
Mrs. P. So, so.
Pet. Ain’t you sorry you didn’t have him ?
Mrs. P. W h at an idea ( goe s to table and writes
PET. Affects to be indifferent—oh, what herd i duplic ity—
now she’s writing a note to him—I don’t care, tol, de, lol,
lol, &c.—I don’ ta wre, tol, de, lol, lol, &e. (while singing
he gets near her, she draws blotting paper over her writing
Mrs. P. Now you know I never like to be looked at while
writing.
Per. Makes you nervous, I suppose ?
Mrs. P. Yes.
Per. And then you can’t spell your words correctly. (Mary
enters, L., W ith two SE Pe S Q) na snuffers—she plac es ve m on
table—l'atruom enters, t.—Mary exits, t.— Mrs. P. has
folded note.)
Per. It is a note she has been writing—now who ean it be
for? Well, Frank, seen your eS sien table, isn’t it?
FRANK. Very, indaed,
Per. You shall have supper directly —chops !—d’ye like
chops ? (fiercely)
Frank. Very much, indeed.
Pet. I should choke if 1 were to try to eat. (Mrs. P.
seated x. of table—Mr. Parr. in G.—FRANK L aS TTIBONE
Pt od
a
A KISS IN THE DARK. 13
alternately watches them till he detects Mrs. P. holding up
the note, intimating to FRANK that it is for him)
Per. That note zs for him. (starting up) An assignation—
of course it is. Never mind, I’ll find them out. I’m
going out again, only for a few minutes supper won't be
ready just yet—I may be five minutes, perhaps ten.
Mrs. P. Don’t be very long, dear.
Pret. No, dear. Exit, i.
Frank. Is he often so restless ? ;
Mrs. P. Oh! dear, no; the fact is—come near me. (they
draw their chairs close—Pur. darts in—they retreat, appa-
rently confused)
Pet. Oh, | was going without my hat—that’s all. (aside) I
nearly caught them. (looks at them suspiciously) Now I’m
oil. (takes his hat, and exits 1.)
Mrs. P. (giving note) Peruse this at your earliest oppor-
tunity. (Per. again darts in just in time to see Mrs. P. give
FRANK the note)
Per. The note was for him, sure enough. Very well—go
on—there’ll be murder presently.
Mrs. P. Back again, dear ?
Pet. Yes, I forgot—I felt—I thought—Lord! I’ve got it in
my hand. Emit; t.
Prank. (reading note) “Continue your attentions.” Cer-
tainly, as you request it. (draws close to her; PrevttpoNxe
again darts in ; they retreat as before
Pet. Shan’t go out at all—lI tell you I shan’t go out at all—
to-morrow will do. (sits in centre) You’ve done as I
bid you, I see—eh ?—ah, ah, ah! (aside) I think the last
time I left the room he kissed her! I could almost swear
I heard the squeak of a little kiss. Oh, if I could be con-
vinced! I'll conceal my feelings till I’m quite satisfied—
quite sure; and then ; Betsy, dear, if that note you
were writing just now, is for any one in the City, I'll leave
it for you.
Mrs. P. No, no, thank you, it is not worth the trouble, and
you wouldn’t be so mean as to defraud the revenue of a
penny.
Petr. How they look at each other; I’ve a great mind to
jump up and tell ’em both how they’ve deceived me. No
[ won't. Ill set a trap for them—show ’em what they
are; ah! a good thought—I have it.
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14 A KISS IN THE DARK.
Mrs. P. Selim, what’s the matter with you this evening ?
Pet. Nothing; I’ve been vexed—City business. I think,
as I have a moment to spare, I’ll drop a note to the
wine-merchant about the empty bottles, (takes imkstand to
L. table) he ought to fetch ’em away, or I shall be charged
for ’em. What horrid candles! (snuffs one out) Why did
I go to the expense of a handsome lamp, when you will
burn candles. (In trying to light it, he purposely extinguishes
the other ; stage dark)
Mrs. P. P., dear, how clumsy you are.
Per. Sit still—I’ll get a light; Mary’s cooking—I’ll get a
light. (he pours some ink on his pocket-handkerchief, and in
passing Mrs. P., contrives to leave a large patch on her
NOSE )
Mrs. P. P., what are you doing ?
Per. Nothing, dear, nothing; sit still. Dll fetch a light.
Exit, i.
Frank. Is it really your wish that I should continue my at-
tentions ? (getting close to her) ’Gad, she’s a fine woman,
and I never in my life could be in the dark with one, with-
out giving hera kiss; and, encouraged as 1 am, who could
resist ? (attempts to kiss her)
Mrs. P. Don’t, don’t; I won’t allow it; how can you be so
foolish ? (kisses her, and blacks his nose) Go away, here’s P.
(lights up ; Fran returns to his chair as P. enters 1., stands
between them moonstruck at seeing Franx’s face, he trem-
bles, places one candle on the table, and seizes Mrs. P.’s
arm)
Per. Woman, look at that man—look at his nose. Now
go to your room—to the glass, and look at your own!
come, madam, come. (he drags her off; R. D.)
Frank. Very strange conduct; however, my poor friend is
severely punished for the pains he has taken to test his
wife’s constancy. What amItodo? I can never truly
tell him how my advances have been received; he’s mad.
Enter Mary, L.
Mary. You’re wanted, sir.
Frank. (with his back to Mary) Who is it ?
Mary. A post-boy wishes to see you, sir.
Frans. I'll speak to him at once. (turns, Mary laughs at him)
' What are you laughing at ?
A KISS IN THE DARK. 15
Mary. Your nose, sir! it’s all over ink—ha, ha, ha!
Frank. Then V’ll make it marking ink. (kisses her, and blacks
her face; she exits indignantly) Egad! the girl’s s tight.
How, how could this happen? and Mrs. P.’s face, too ; now
I understand P.’s rage, and he must know all. Poor P.!
Let me see the post-boy, and then to confirm my poor
friend’s misery. Eat, L. D.
Enter PETTIBONE, R. D.
Pet. Now, sir, I’m for you, He’s gone—gone to elude my
vengeance, As for Mrs. P., I never could have believed
her so hardened; don’t shed a tear—won’t speak a word.
[ want to have a good row about it. Oh, Betsy! how
could you ?—Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do? T’ll
set fire to the villa—I’ll do something that shall be the
talk of the whole City—nay, the West-end shall hear of it.
Enter Mary, t.
Mary, where’s that man ?
Mary. What man, sir?
Per. The viper.
Mary. I haven’t seen any viper, sir.
Per. (sees Mary’s nose) He’s been at the maid—Oh, what a
libertine! You know who I mean—the man with the
curiosities.
Mary. Oh!-yes, of course; he’s gone to the inn with the
post-boy.
ET. Post-boy! with a post-boy !—they’re going to elope.
I’ve a brace of pistols, that I bought to shoot the eats,
when I took a pride in my garden. I'll load ’em both to
the muzzle, and fire through and through him and her too.
Mary, remain you here, and watch the door of that room—
I’m going to look for my pistols.
Mary. (frightened) Qh, sir.
Per. Aye, my pistols! ‘if your missus comes from her room,
say I’m gone out for the night—I’m gone out fora week—
I don’t think I shall ever come home any more—now for
vengeance. Eat at back.
Mary. What can be the matter? it’s very strange; master
seems to have gone mad all at once, and such a quiet little
gentleman as he used to be. (gate bell rings, L.) Some one
at the gate, perhaps it’s the viper, as master calls him,
be ee ee
= sewn arte a eons sre
nee:
en
16 - . A KISS IN THE DARK.
come back again. I declare the supper will be. quite
spoiled. (takes the light and exits, u.; stage dark ; Mrs. P.
looks from her room, RB.)
Mrs. P. No one here? I heard P. talking of pistols; where
can he be? Some one comes—Mr. Fathom, perhaps—I’ll
retire to my own room again. Exit, w.
Enter Mary, carrying box, and showing in a Lavy veiled and
wrapped in shawl ; she places box on table, and hands the
Lapy @ chair
Mary. Pray sit down, ma’am, the wind has blown my light
out; Pll soon get another; your box is on the table; I
shall not be a minute. Exit, w.
PETTIBONE appears at back with two large pistols.
Per. Gracious powers! what figure is that? “Tis Betsy
wrapped in her bonnet and shawl, waiting in the dark to
elope with that fellow; and what’s this? her box corded
up with all her little things ready (runs to Lapy, and
seizes her) oh, you traitress! you horrid woman! none of
your nonsense, you are not going to run away from me in
this manner; don’t struggle; it’s no use; I’m as strong as
alion. There are two pistols on the table, and we’ll go
to destruction together. (The Lapy screams at his violence
—Mary rushes in with lights—stage lght—followed by
FRANK, u.—Mrs. P. comes from her room, R.—PETTIBONE
surveys them all in surprise and dismay)
Lavy. (unveiling) Sir!
Mary. Master!
Mrs. P. P. dear!
Per. Not Betsy !—the lady I’ve pulled about so—not Betsy!
Who are you, madam? Explain before I faint away—
who are you ?
Frank. That lady, sir, is my wife. (Frank and Lavy
embrace)
Per. Your wife! and really you are not going to elope?
you are still your own Pettibone’s ?—but that kiss in the
dark, madam! what can remove that stain ?
Mrs. P. My candid confession
Pet. Of what?
Mrs. Per. That I overheard the test by which I was to be
tried, and knowing in my heart that I did not deserve such
A KISS IN THE DARK. 17
a trial, I was resolved, as you had thought proper to suspect
me without a cause, for once to give you a reason for your
jealousy.
Pur. on his knees) Oh, Betsy, forgive me.
Frank. This lady was married clandestinely to me before I
left England for America; she is here to meet me with the
welcome news that our marriage need no longer be kept a
secret, and to-morrow a post-chaise shall take us to our
happy home.
Prt. (rising) Oh, my dear boy, you shall stay for a week
and witness our renewed domestic felicity. (shakes hands
with Lavy) How d’ye do, madam ?—very glad to see you
madam. (kisses her)
Frank. Hallo! sir!
Per. All right, my boy; now we’ve balanced the book, for
you'll forgive me, dear; I’ll never be such a noodle again.
Come, Betsy, dear, kiss your P. and make him happy ;
Pll buy you a new satin dress. (she kisses him) Hurra!
I’m forgiven at last; and if you (to the audience) will be
equally forgiving, and I think you will, for if I know
human nature well, there’s not one amongst you can lay
your hands upon your hearts and say you do not like
“A Kiss in tHe Dark.”
R. L.
Mary, Mrs. P. Per. Lapy. FRANK,
Curtain.
PRINTED EY THOMAS SCOTT, WARWICK COURT, HOLBORX.
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