THE D R U N K A R D ; OR, The Fallen Saved. A MORAL DOMESTIC DRAMA. IN FIVE ACTS. ADAPTED BY W. H. SMITH, AS OBIGINALLY FEBFOBMED AT BOSTON, IN 1844 THE MUSEUM, TO W H I C H I S ADDED A DESCRIPTION OF THE COSTUMES—CAST OF THE CHARACTERSENTRANCES AND EXITS-RELATIVE POSITIONS OF THE PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE, AND THE WHOLE OF THE STAGE BUSINESS. -< OJLYDE, OHIO! AMES' PUBLISHING CO. THE CAST OF DRUNKARD. CHARACTERS. Museum, Boston, 1844. EDWARD MIDDLETON Mr. W. H. Smith.. LAWYER CRIBBS.... Mr. G. H. Wyatt....; WILLIAM DOWTON ; Mr. C. W. Hunt. FARMER GATES. Mr. C. H. Saunders FARMER STEVENS Mr. G. Howard OLD JOHNSON Mr. G. E.Locke SAM Mr. S. Adams FIRST LOAFER Mr. J . Adams SECOND LOAFER.... Mr. Thompson M R . RENCELAW ...Mr. G. C. Germon LANDLORD Mr. Harris BAR-KEEPER Mr. Willard WATCHMAN Mr. Coard -. MARY WILSON Mrs. G. C. Germon AGNES DOWTON, a maniac... Mrs. Thoman MRS. WILSON Mrs. Woodward PATIENCE Mrs* C. W. Hunt JULIA Miss A. Philips Villagers, loafers, ivatchman, eta TIME OF R E P R E S E N T A T I O N — 3 American Museum, ' N. Y„ 1856. Mr. Goodall. .......Mr. Wemyss. , Mr. Weaver. Mr. G-rosvenor. Mr. Bleeker. Mr. G.Clarke. Mr. Williams. Mr. Jones. Mr. Stafford. Mr. Harrison. Mr. Roberts. Mr. Smith. Mrs. Rogers. Miss Keogh. .Mrs. Deering. Mrs. Randolph Miss Albertini HOURS. SCENERY. AdT I,—Scene 1—interior of a pretty rural cottage, flowers, painting, etc.; table with Bible; arm-chair, R.; table, with embroidery chair, and frame, L. Scene 2— Front, and cut woods, in c. Scene 3—Interior of Miss Spindle's dwelling house; toilette table, looking glasses, essence bottles, all showy and gaudy. Scene 4—Landscape view. Scene 5—A village back-ground; exterior of a beautiful cottage, L.; vines) entwined roses, etc.; the extreme of rural tranquil beauty; rustic table, with fruit, cake, etc., L.; rustic chairs and benches. ACT II.—Scene 1—A chamber in Miss Spindle's house Scene 2—A landscape. Scene 3—A country bar-room, bar, L.; old-fashioned gun hung up; cow notices, etc., table, R.; chairs and stools around room; decanters on bar. Scene 4—Landscape view. Scene 5—Interior < f cottage, as in Act I ; furniture very plain; lack of como fort and order; table and two chairs, R. C ; set door, R . 2 E . ; everything in disorder. ACT III.—Scene 1—Broadway. Scene 2—A street. Scene 3—Interior of the Arbor, on Broadway; bar, with decanters, etc., R.; table, with backgammon board at the back, c ; chairs around. Scene 4—Exterior of a bar-room on the Five Points. Scene 5—A wretched garret; old table and chair, with lamp burning dimly; straw, bed on floor, R. Fcene 6—The Five Points, stage dark. ACT IV.—Scene 1—A wretched outhouse or shed, supposed to be near a tavern; early morning. Scene 2—Union Square. Scene 3—Broadway, with a view of Bar mini's Museum. Scene 4—Room in Rencelaw's house. ACT V.—Village entrance, as in Act I.; cottage, L. U. E. Scene 2—Front and cut wood. Scene 3—Intciior of ccttagt, as in Act I., Scene 1. THE DBUNKARD. PROPERTIES. Bible, embroidery frame, and embroidery; wild flowers, grasses and weeds, for Agnes; fruit and cake for bridal party; flowers; baskets of bells to ring off stage; bottles, glasses, and pitchers for bar-room; whip for Stevens; bottle for hollow of tree; check for Oribbs; money for ditto; poor lamp, to burn dimly; shop-work for Mary; half a loaf of bread; old, tattered shawl for Mary; very shabby hat; phial full of fluid; ball and hoops for children; wallet and check; books for room in ;iRencelaw's house; will; pistol. (See last scene for full description of articles needed to form tableaux.) BYNOPSI&. EDWARD MIDDLETON, a young, genorous, accomplished man, is left wealthy by the death of his father. One LAWYER CRIBBS, who has much to do with the Middleton estate, has been left a sort of guardian to young MIDDLETON. CRIBBS—in his anxiety to have M R S . WILSON turned out of her cottage, in order that he may reduce her and her daughter to poverty, and thus forward his designs upon the beautiful girl—leads to her meeting MIDDLETON. The youth is overheard by the girl, uttering the noblest sentiments, and is thus prepossessed in his favor; while he no sooner sees her than he is smitten by her rare beauty—his admiration is further increased when he converses with her, and finds that her person,l loveliness is eclipsed by the purity of her principles, and the extent of her information. He soon makes a declaration—is accepted—and the sun soon shines upon what appears the most auspicious of nuptials. But EDWARD MIDDLETON'S very frankness—his open heart and generous disposition—only renders him an easy victim to the wiles of LAWYER CRIBBS, who sets about with devilish ingenuity to lead him into dissipation* until he lowers himself step by step to the very lowest depth of drunkenness. His -family is broken up, and he himself becomes a wietched loafer about the filthiest dens of Five Points. Here CRIBBS follows him, but fails in his artful attemps to get * him to commit a felony. I n the same dark neighborhood M R S . MIDDLETON strives jto make a livelihood for herself and little daughter—and barely succeeds in escapi n g starvation. Here a noble temperance apostle, M R . RENCELAW, comes to the aid " of the fallen MIDDLETON, and his devoted family, and by dint of wise precepts and solemn adjurations he rouses all that is noble and manly in MIDDLETON'S heart, and -the still young man rises to his native dignity of character, breaking loose from the ." trammels that had bound and degraded him. But not alone on MIDDLETON had > LAWYER CRIBBR tried his hellish arts. By an act of violence he had overthrown :' the sanity of AGNES DOWTON, a beautiful village girl, who now and then appears, » singing snatches ot songs, and strewing the road with wild flowers. AGNES has a " brother, "WILLIAM, the foster-brother of MIDDLETON, and his good genius throughout the play. Flitting in and out, like a bird of ill-omen, is a conceited spinster, PATIENCE, who is sharp-set for a breach of marriage suit against any specimen of the male gender. She occasions much fun—relieving the sombre shades of the very affecting drama. At last LAWYER CRIBBS is detected, and his whole career of villainy exposed. AGNES regains her senses, and EDWARD MIDDLETON, and his wife and child, entertain their numerous friends in their "Paradise Regained"—a happy cottage home. The Drunkard. ACT SCENE I. I.—Interior of a pretty rural cottage—MRS. WILSOII covered in arm-chair, R.—MARY seated by table, L. dis- Mr», W. I t was in that corner, Mary, where your poor father breathed his last—this chair is indeed dear to me for it was in this he sat the very day before he died. Oh, how he loved this calm retreat, and often in his last illness he rejoiced that the companion of his youth would close his eyes in these r u r a l shades, and be laid in yon little nook beside him ; but now Mary. Dear mother. I t is true, this sweet cottage is most dear to us. B u t we are not the proprietors. Old Mr. Mid die ton never troubled us much. B u t as our late w o r t h y landlord is no more, it is generally believed that our dear cottage will be sold. We cannot censure his son for that. Mrs. W. N o ; the y o u n g must be provided for, and willingly would I bow with resignation to that great power that loveth while it chasteneth; b u t when I think that you, m y beloved child, will be left exposed to the thousand temptations of life, a penniless orphan. [a knock, c. b.) H a r k who knocks? D r y your tears, my darling. Come in. Enter, LAWYER C R I B B S , C. D.—comes down c. —Good morning, sir. Mary, my child, a chair. Crib, {sitting L . C.) Good m o r n i n g , Mrs. Wilson: good morning, m y dear young lady. A sad calamity has befallen the neighborhood, m y good Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. W. Many a poor person, I fear, will have reason to think so, sir. Crib. Yes, yes. You are right. Ah ! he was a good man, that Mr. Middleton. I knew him well. He placed great confidence in my advice. Mary. Was he not very rich once, M r . Cribbs? Crib. Yes, y e s ; when the times were good, but bad speculations, unlucky investments, false friends—alas ! alas! we have all our ups and downs, m y dear m a d a m ! Mrs. W. A h ! Mr. Cribbs, I perceive you are a man, who Crib. H a s a heart to feel for the unfortunate. T r u e , madam, it is the character I have attained, though I am not the man to boast. Have you any prospect of—that is—have you provided-^— Mary. I t is true, then, too t r u e , the c'ttnge and garden will be sold? THE DBUNKARD. 5 Crib. W h y , what can the y o u n g man do, m y clear? A gay young man lfke h i m . Fond of the world, given somewhat to excess, no doubt. B u t pardon me, m y dear Miss M a r y ; I would not call u p a blush on the cheek of modesty. B u t you know, the extravagance, that is, the folly Mrs. W. All, sir. I understand you—very much unlike his father, I would say. Crib. I place great confidence i n your prudence, Mrs. Wilson. I wish the y o u n g man well, with all m y heart. Heaven knows, I have cause to do so, for his houored father's sake. (puts a handkerchief to his eyes Mrs. W. Come, come, Mr. Cribbs, he is better off. I t is impiety to mourn a good man's death. His end was that of a Christian. Crib, J u d g e , then, of the interest which I take in. the last r e maining scion of that honored stock. But madam, E d w a r d Middleton. H e is yet young, and Mrs. W. I think he is not more than t w e n t y . I recollect him when a lad, a bright, blue-eyed hoy, with flaxen hair, tall of his age. Crib. Twenty-three last J u l y , m a d a m ; that is his age, precisely— he is giddy, wild, and reckless. A s the good man says, " W h e n I was a child, I t h o u g h t as a child." [apause—CRIBBS" looJcs round the room) Well, madam, business is business. I am a plain man, Mrs. Wilson, and sometimes called too blunt—and—and Manj. You mean to say that we must leave the cottage, sir. Crib, {pretending feeling) ]STo, not yet, my dear y o u n g lady—I would say it is best to be prepared, and as E d w a r d is sudden in all his movements, and as m y entreaties would never change him—why, if you could find a place before he moves iivthe matter, it might save you much inconvenience, that's all. Mrs. W. You impose upon us a severe task, my dear sir. Crib. Bear u p , m y dear madam, bear u p . If I may be so officious, I would try Boston—at the Intelligence Offices tliere, any healthy young woman, like your daughter, can obtain a profitable situation—think of it, think of it, m y good madam. I will see you again soon, and now, heaven bless you. (exit, c. D., and offjj. M R S . W I L S O N and M A R Y look for amoment at each other, and then embrace. Mrs. W. Well, comfort, m y daughter, comfort Ifc is a good thing to have a friend in the hour of trouble. This Mr. Cribbs appears to be a very feeling m a n ; b u t before taking his adv'ee, we would do well to make our proposed trial of this young man, E d ward Miclclleton. You have the money in your purse ? Mary. I t is all here, mother. Thirty dollars—rhe sum we have saved to purchase fuel for the winter. 31rs. W. That will partially pay the rent score. When this young man finds we are disposed to deal fairly with him, he may relent. You t u r n pale, M a r y ; what ails m y child ? Mary. Dear mother, it is n o t h i n g ; it will soon be over—it must be done. I fear this young man. H e has been described so wild, so reckless. I feel a sacl foreboding Mrs. W, Fear not, Mary ; call him to the door. Refuse to enter the house—give him the money, and tell him your sad story. H e must, from family and association at least, have the manners of a gentleman—and however wild a youth may be when abroad among THE 6 DBUNKARD. his associates, no gentleman ever insulted a friendless and unprotected woman. Mary, Y o u give me courage, dear mother. I should indeed be an unnaturel child, if—(aside)— yet I am agitated. Oh, w h y do I tremble t h u s ? (puts on a village bonnet, <&c. Mrs. W. (kisses her) Go forth, my child—go, as t h e dove flew from the ark of old, and if thou shouldst fail in finding the olive branch of peace, return, and seek comfort where thou shalt surely find it—in the bosom of t h y fond and widowed mother. (exit, R. D., and M A R Y , C. D . SCENE II.—Front and cut woods in c . Enter, L A W Y E R C R I B B S , L . Crib. Well, that interview of mock sympathy and charity is over, and T flatter myself pretty well acted too, h a ! h a ! Yes, the widow and her child must quit the cottage—I'm resolved. First for t h e wrongs I years ago endured from old Wilson; and secondly, it suits my own interests: a n d in all cases, between myself and others, I consider t h e last clause as a clincher. H a ! here comes the girl—I must watch closely here. (retires, L. 2 E . M A R Y enters, fearful and hesitating, L . Mary. I have n o w nearly reached the old mansion house. I n a few moments I shall see t h e young man, this dissipated collegian. O h ! m y poor mother must be deceived ! Such a man can have no pity for the children of poverty, misfortune's suppliants for shelter beneath the roof of his cottage—oh! my poor mother, little do you know the suffering that—ha! a gentleman approaches. M y fears tell me this is the m a n I seek. Shall I ever have courage to speak to him ? I will pause till he has reached the house. (retires, gathering flowers, R. Enter, E D W A R D M I D D L E T O N , R. 2 E . , and C R I B B S , L . 2 E . , meeting. Crib. Good day, good day, soli of my old friend! I have been looking for you. Ed. M r . Cribbs, your most obedient: any friends of m y father are always welcome. Crib. Well said, nobly said. I see your father before me, when I look on y o u . Ed. Y o u were enquiring for me, Mr. Cribbs? Crib. I was. I wished to see you with regard to the eottnge and lands adjoining. I have an opportunity of selling them. W h e n last we talked "upon this subject Ed. I was then ignorant that a poor widow (MARY at back^ c. ? listening) and her only daughter Crib. W h o are in arrears "for rent Ed. H a d lived there many years—that my father highly esteemed them—to turn them forth upon the world in the present condition of the old l a d y - — Crib. Which old lady has a claim upon the Aims-House. ( M A R Y shudders THE DRUNKARD. / Ed. I n short, Mr. Cribbs, I cannot think of depriving them of a home, dear to them as the apple of their e y e s - to send them forth from the flowers which they have reared, the vines which they have trained in their course—a place endeared to them by tender domestic recollections, and past remembances of purity and religion. Crib. Oh ! all that and more—fences which they have neglected ; the garden gate off the hinges; the limbs of the old birch tree broken down for firewood; the back windows ornamented with an old hat-— Ed. Cease, Mr. Cribbs; all this has been explained; my foster brother, William, has told me the whole story. The trees were broken down by idle school-boys, and with regard to an old hat in the window, w h y , it was the hat of a m a n ; can as much be said of yours, Mr. Cribbs ? Crib, You are pleased to be pleasant, to-day, sir. Good morning, sir; good morning. (exit L., muttering Ed. I ' m sorry I offended the old man. After all, he was the friend of the family; though it is strange, m y poor father almost always took his advice, and was invariably unfortunate when he did so. Re-enter, C R I B B S , L, Crib. Good morning a g a i n ; beg pardon, sir. I now understand you better. You are r i g h t ; the daughter—line girl—eh ! sparkling eyes, e h ! dimples, roguish glances! A h , when I was young, eh, ha? Well, never m i n d ; you have seen her, eh? Ed. ISTever; explain yourself, M r . Cribbs. Crib. If you have not seen her, you will, .you know, e h ! I understand. Traps for wild fowl; mother and daughter grateful; love-passion; free access to the cottage at all hours. Ed. Cribbs, do yo know this girl has no father ? Crib. That's i t ; a very wild flower, growing on. [he open heath. Ed. Have you forgotten that this poor girl lias not a brother ? Cnb. A garden without a fence, not a stake standing. You have nothing to do but to step into it, Ed. Old man ! I respect your gray hairs. I knew an old man once, peace to his ashes, whose hair was as gray as y o u r s ; but beneath that aged breast there beat a heart, pure as the first throbs of childhood. H e was as old as you—he was more aged; his limbs tottered as yours clo not—I let you go in peace. But had that old man heard you utter such foul sentences to his son ; had he heard you tell me to enter, like a wolf, this fold of innocence, and tear from her mother's arms the hope of her old age, he would have forgotten the winters that had dried the pith within his aged limbs, seized you by the throat, and dashed you prostrate to the earth, as too foul a carcass to walk erect and mock the name of man. (crosses, L. Crib. But, Mr. Micldleton, sir— Ed,' Leave me, old m a n ; begone; your hot, lascivious breath cannot mingle with the sweet odor of these esseneed wild flowers. Your raven voice w ill not harmonize with the warblings of these heavenly songsters, pouring forth their praises to that Almighty power, who looks with horror on your brutal crime. (crosses, R., MARY rushes forward, c , and kneels Mary. The blessings of the widow and fatherless be upon thee ; may they accompany "thy voice to [leaven's tribunal, not to cry for vengeance, but plead for pardon on this wretched man. 8 THE DBUNKARD. Crib. H a ! The widow's daughter! Mr. Middle ton, you mistake me. I—I cannot endure a woman's tears. I—poor child! {aside) I'll be terribly revenged for this. (exit C R I B B S , L. 2 E . Ed. This, then, is the widow's child, nurtured in the wilderness. She knows not the cold forms of the fashionable miscalled world. Cribbs, too, g o n e ; a tale of scandal—I'll overtake the rascal, and at least give no color to his base fabrications, {crossing, and going, L. Mary, (JR.) Stay, sir, I pray you. I have an errand for you. This is part of the rent, which {holding out money Ed. N a y , then, you have not overheard my discourse with the old man, who has j u s t left us. I have told him—— Mary. That we should still remain in the cottage. Oh, sir! is that a reason we should withold from you these dues? now paid with double pleasure, since we leoognize a benefactor in our creditor —take this, I entreat, 'tis but a portion of the debt; but be assured, the remainder shall be paid as soon as busy, willing hands can garn it. Ed. N a y , nay, clear g i r l ; keep it as a portion of your dowry. Mary. Sir! Ed. If you overheard the dialogue that I just held with that old man, you must know that I sometimes speak very plain. - Mary, {apprehensively) Yes, sir. Ed. I have spoken plainly to h i m ; shall I now speak plainly to you? Mary. Alas, sir ! I t is not our fault that the fences are broken down. When m y poor father lived, it was not so. But since Ed. W h e n that vile old man spoke to me of your charms, [ heeded him not. There are plenty of pretty girls in this section of the c o u n t r y ; but I have since discovered whVit I had before heard, something more than the ordinary beauty which he described. A charm that he is incapable of appreciating. The charm of mental excellence, noble sentiment, filial piety. These are the beauties that render you conspicuous above all the maidens I have seen. These are the charms which bind captive the hearts of men. I speak plainly, for I speak h o n e s t y , and when I ask you to keep that money as a portion of your dowry, need I say into whose hands I would like to have it fail at last. Mary, {droops her head during the above) To affect—to affect not to understand you, sir, would be an idle return for kindness such as yours, and yet Ed. I sometimes walk down in the vicinity of your cottage, and Mary. Should I see you go by without stopping—why, then • ~Ed\ Then what, dear Mary?" Mary, Then I should suppose you had forgotten where we lived. Ed. T h a n k s ! {kisses her hand) A h ! little did I think when I thought of selling that dear old cottage, that it should be regarded as a casket, invaluable for the jewel it contained. {leads her off, L. U. E . SCENE III.—Interior oj Miss SPINDLE'S dwelling house.— Miss SPINDLE discovered at toilette table, n. Miss S. The attractions of the fair sex are synonymous. True, Ola B^nus is the destroyer of female c h a r m s ; bcu .> aiy beautiful THE DRUNKARD. 9 poet, Natty P . says, in his sublime epistle to Lueinda Octavia Pauline, " A g e cannot wither me, nor cusiom stale my intiniie vecuity*" B u t time is money, then money is time, and we bring back by the aid of money, the times of youth. I value my beauty at fifty dollars a year, as that is about what it cost me for keeping it in repair year by year* Well, say that my beauty is repaired in this way, year by y e a r ; well, what then ! I have heard a gentleman sav that a pair of boots when repaired and foxed were better than they were when new. W h y should it not be so with our charms? Certainly, they last longer in this way. We can have red cheeks at seventy, and thanks to the dentist, good teeth at any time of life. W o m a n was made for love. They suppose that my heart is unsusceptible of the tender passion. But the heart can be regulated by money, too. I buy all the affecting novels, and all the terrible romances, and read them till m y heart has become soft as maiden wax, to leceive the impression of that cherished image I adore. A h ! as true as I live, theie goes his foster-brother, William, by the window. Hem, William! {taps at window, c . — W I L L I A M sings without, L. ' When I was a young and roving boy, Where fancy led me I did wander, Sweet Caroline was all my joy, But I missed the goose and hit the # gander." - Enter, W I L L I A M DOWTON, L . Will. Good day, Miss Spindle. Miss S. You heard my rap, William ? Will. As much as ever, Miss Spindle. Such fingers as yours don't make a noise like the fist of a butcher. Miss S. M y hand is small, William, but I did not suppose that you had noticed it. Will. I only noticed it by the lightness of your tap. So I suppose you must be very light fingered. Miss S. P r a y , sit down, William; take a chair; don't be bashful; you're to modest. Will. I t ' s a failing I've got, Miss Spindle. I ' m so modest I always go to bed without a candle. (both sit, c. Miss S. (R. c.) Shall I tell you what I have thought, William? Will. ( L . C.) W h y that's just as you agree to with yourself. I don't care much about it, one way or t'other. Miss S. You were singing as you clime in, William. I suppose you know I sometimes invoke the help of Polyhymnia. Will. W h y , I don't know as to the help of Polyhym-him-nina, but if you waut a good help, you can't do better than hire Polly Striker, old Farmer Jone's wife's daughter, by her first husbnnd. Miss S. You don't understand the Heathen mythology, William. Wdl. W h y , I hear Pardon Roundtext talk sometimes of the poor benighted h e a t h e n ; but I am free to say, that I can't come anything in regard to their eonchology, as you call it. Will you have some shell-barks, or chestnuts, Miss Spindle? Miss iS. !N"o, William. B u t this is what I have thought. William, there are two sorts of men. Will. Oh, yes. Miss Spindle, long ones and short ones, like cio-nrs. Sometimes the short ones are the best smoking, too. ^3Iiss S. You mistake my meaning, William. Some are warm and susceptible of the charms of women. 10 THE DRUNKARD. Will. Warm, oh, yes. Florida boys, and Carolina niggers, eh? Miss S. While others are cold, and apparently insensible to our beauties Will. Oh, yes. Newfoundlanders, Canada fellows, and Blue noses. Miss S. Now, William, dear William, this is the confession I would confide in your generous secrecy. I have a trembling affection, and then, a warm, yet modest flame. Will. Trembling affection, warm flame, why, the old girl's got tne iever and ague. Miss S. And how to combat with this dear, yet relentless foe. Will. P u t your feet into warm water, and wood ashes, take two quarts of boiling hot arb tea. Cover yourself with four thick blankets, and six Canada comforters, take a good perspicacity and you'll be well in the morning. Miss S. Sir! Will. T h a t ' s old Ma'am Brown's recipe for fever and ague, and I never yet found it fail. Miss iS. Fever and a g u e ! You mistake me, William, I have an ardent passion. Will. Don't be in a passion, Miss Spindle, it's bad for your complaint. Miss S. Y o u will not understand. I have a passion for one. Will. For one ! Well, it's lucky it's only one. , Miss IS. Can you not fancy who that one is? He lives in your house. Will. Well, I'm darned, Miss Spindle, it's either me or Mr. Middleton. Miss S. I never can bestow my hand without my heart, Will'am Will. W h y , I think myself they ought to be included in the same bill of sale. Miss S. A h ! William, have you ever read the "Children of the Abbey ?" Will. No, Miss Spindle, but I've read the "Babes of the Wood." Miss S. I have read all the Bomantics of the day. I have just finished Mr. Cooper's Trapper. Will, (aside) O h ! I dare say she understands trap, but she don't come the trapper over my foster-brother this year. Miss S. (aside) He understands little of the refinements of the civilized circular. I must try something else, (aloud) How do yon like my new green dress? H o w does it become me? Will. Beautiful! I t matches very well indeed, ma'rm. Miss g. Matches with what, William? Will. With your eyes, m a ' r m . yiiss S. I t becomes m y complexion, William. Will. It's a beautiful match—like a spaci of grey horses. Miss S. Does your master fancy green, William ? Will. Oh, yes, ma'rm. He loves it fine, I tell you. Miss 8. But in what respect. How did you find it out? Will. In respect of drinking, ma'rm. Miss S. D r i n k i n g ! Will. Yes. He always tells the cook to make green tea. Miss S. Well, William, how about the cottage? W h e n are yon going to turn out those Wilsons? THE DBTJNKARD. 11 Will. The girl will be out of t h a t place soon, depend on that, ma'rm. Miss S. I ' m glad to hear it. I never could endure those Wilsons, and it's a duty when one knows that respectable people like your master are injured, to speak out. I know they h a v e n ' t paid their rent, and do you know, that girl W.MS seen getting into a chaise with a young man, w h e n she ought to have been at work, and she did not r e t u r n "till nine o'clock at night, William, for I took the pains to p u t on m y hood and cloak and look for myself—though it w a s raining awful. Will. T h a t w a s t h e time you cotched t h e fever, t h e fever and ague, m a ' r m . Well, good b y e . Miss S. A r e you going, William ? Will. Yes, m a ' r m . I shall be wanted to h u m . Y o u take care of your precious health, ma'rm. Keep your feet warm, and your head cool; your mouth shut, and your heart open, a n d you'll soon have good health, good conscience, and stand well on your pins, m a ' r m . Good morning, ma'rm. "To reap, to sow, to plough and mow, And be a farmer's boy, and be a farmer's boy." (exit WILLIAM, L. Miss S. T h e vulgar .creature! B u t w h a t could I expect? H e ought to know that American ladies ought never to have a n y pins. B u t I am certain for all this, E d w a r d , clear E d w a r d , is dying for me—as the poet, D r . Lardner, s a y s : fciIIe lets concealment, like a worm in the bud, fed on the damask curtains of— his—cheek"— damask bud. I ' m quite sure it's something about bud. Y e s , I am convinced, m y charms as yet are undecayed, and even when old age comes on, the charm of refined education will still remain—as the immortal Chelsea Beach poet has i t : "You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, The scent of the roses will cling round it still." (exit, SCENE IV.—Landscape affectedly, R. View. Enter, P A T I E N C E B R A Y T O N , SAM E V A N S , O L D J O H N S O N , male and female villagers, R. u . E.—Music. Pa, Come, there's young m e n enough, let's have a ring-play. All. Yes, a ring-play. A ring-play ! fall in here. Sam. Come, darnation, who'll go inside? Pa. Go in yourself, Sam. Sam. Well, I ' m agreed. G o o n . (they form a circle and revolve round the young man, singing "I am a rich widow, I live all alone, I have but one son, and he is my own. Go, son, go, son, go choose you one, Go choose a good one, or else choose none." SAM chooses one of the girls—She enters the ring—lie the ring goes round. kisses hery and THE J& DBUNKARD. "Now, you are married you must obey Now you are married you must prove true, As you see others do, so do you." The ring goes round—PATIENCE, who is in the ring, chooses O L D JOHNSON. Patience— *'Mercy on me, what have I done? I've married the father instead of the son. His legs are crooked, and ill put on, They are ail laughing at my old man." (a general laugh Sam. Come, girls, you forget 'tis almost time for Mary Wilson's wedding. Pa. ( E . c.) Well, now, ain't we forgetting; how proud she must be, going to m a r r y a college-bred. John. ( L . c.) She'll be none the better for that. L a m i n g don't buy t h e child a new frock. tiam. Well, let's have a dance, and be off at once. All, Yes. P a r t n e r s . A dance! a dance! (a village dance, and exit, L . Enter, LAWYER CKIBBS, L . Crib. T h u s ends my prudent endeavors to get rid of those Wilsons. B u t , young Middleton, there is yet some hope of him* H e is at present annoyed at m y well intended advice, b u t that shall not part us easily. I will do him some unexpected favor, worm mvself into his good graces, invite him to the village bar-room, and if lie falls, then, h a ! h a ! I shall see them begging their bread yet. The wife on her bended knees to me, praying for a morsel of food for her starving children—it will be revenge, revenge! Here comes his foster-brother, William. I ' l l wheedle him—try t h e ground before I put m y foot on it. Enter, W I L L I A M DOWTON, whistling, L. Will. L a w y e r Cribbs, have you seen my poor, little half-witted sister, Agnes, e h ? Crib. N o , William, my honest fellow, 1 have not. I want to speak to you a moment. Will, {crossing, K. ; aside) What does old Razor Chops want with me, I wonder, (aloud) Well, lawyer, w h a t is it? Crib. Y o u seem to be in a h u r r y . They keep you moving, I see. Will. These are pretty busy times, sir. Mr. E d w a r d is going to be married—that's a dose, (aside) Senna and salts. Crib. Yes, yes, ahem ! Glad to hear it. Will. Yes, I thought you seemed pleased, (aside) Looks as sour as Sam Jones, when he swallowed vinegar for sweet eider. Crib. I am a friend to early marriages, although I never was married mvself. Give m y best respects to Mr. Ed\\ ard. Will. Sir? Crib. William, suppose T leave i t to your ingenuity to get me an invitation to the r e d d i n g , e h ? And here's a half dollar to drink my health. THE DRUNKARD IS Will. N"o, I thank you, lawyer, I don't want your money. Crib. Oh, very w e l l ; no offence meant, you know. Let's step into the tavern, and take a horn to the happiness of the young couple. Will. Lawyer Cribhs, or Squire, as they call you, it's my opinion, when y o u r uncle Beelzebub wants to bribe an honest fellow to do a bad action, he'd better hire a pettifogging bad lawyer to tempt him, with a counterfeit dollar in one hand, and a bottle of r u m in the other. (exit, W I L L I A M , R. 'Crib. Ah, a h ! Y o u ' r e a cunning scoundrel, but I'll fix you yet. Agnes. (sings without, L. ''Brake and fern and cypress dell, Where the slippery adder crawls." Crib. Here comes that crazy sister of his. She knows too much for my happiness. Will the creature never die! H e r voice haunts me like the spectre of the youth that was engaged to h e r ; for my own purpose, I ruined, I triumphed over him—he fell—died in'a drunken fit, and she went crazy. Why don't the Aims-House keep such brats at home ? Enter, AGNES, deranged, L . Agnes. "Brake and fern and cypress dell, Where the slippery adder crawls, Where the grassy waters well, By the old moss-covered walls." For the old man has his grey locks, and the young girl her fantasies. "Upon the heather, when the weather Is as mild as May, So they prance, as they dance, And we'll all be gay," But they poured too much red water in his glass. The lawyer is a fine man, ha, h a ! He lives in the brick house yonder. But the will. A h , ha, h a ! the will Crib, {angrily) Go home, Agnes, go home. Agnes. H o m e ! I saw a little wren yesterday. I had passed her nest often. I had counted the eggs, they were so pretty—beautiful, so beautiful—rough Robin of the mill came this morning and stole them. T h e little bird went to her nest, and looked in—they were gone. She chirruped mournfully and flew away. She won't go home any more. Crib. Agnes, who let you out? You distress the ceighborhood with your muttering and singing, (threatening) I'll have you taken care of. Agnes. There's to be a wedding in the village. I saw a coffin carried i n full of bridal cake. "And the bride was red with weeping, Cypress in her hair." Can you tell why they cry at weddings? Is it for joy? I used to weep when I was joyful. You never weep, old man. 1 should have been married, h u t my wTeddin (shakes hands across the bar) W h a t ' s it to be, gentlemen ? The same, Mr. Micldleton ? Ed. O h ! I must be excused; you k n o w I have j u s t drank. Crib. Well, well, I'll leave it to h i m . Landlord, how long is it since I've seen you ? Land. W h y , Squire, it must be full ten years a g o ; you remember the day Si Morton had his raising? the day I saw you digging in the woods. Crib, (starts violently) Go on, go on—nothing b u t the cramp. I'm subject to it. Land. Well, Squire, I ' v e never seen you since then. Crib. Well, come, let's d r i n k ; come, E d w a r d . Land. Oh, take a little more, Mr. Middleton—the Squire wouldn't advise you to what wasn't right. ' Ed. Well, I — Crib. Well, come, here's whisky—good whisky. Ed. I believe I drank Land. Mr. Micldleton drank b r a n d y before. Crib. Not half so healthy as good whisky. THE DRUNKARD. 19 I t can't be stronger than the other was. (STEVENS looks up and shakes his head Ed. (drinks) Well, this is pleasant, h a ! h a ! this goes to the right place, eh, Cribbs? I s this Irish whisky ? Land. Y e s , s i r ; pure Innishowen. Ed. Well, the Irish are a noble people, ain't they, Cribbs? (slightly intoxicated) Friend Cribbs, I think I may call y o u . I never doubted it. Crib. N e v e r ! Ed. O h ! I might have suspected; b u t "suspicion's but at best a coward's v i r t u e ; " the sober second thought Crib, Oh, exactly! (shaking his hand earnestly Ed, I have a heart, Cribbs— (getting tipsy) I have a h e a r t ; landlord, more w h i s k y ; come, gentlemen, come one, come all. Landlord! Land. I n a minute, sir. Ed. Landlord, give* them all anything they want. Come—a bumper—here's the health of my old tried friend, Cribbs. (drinks it off Crib, (throwing away his liquor unseen) Well, here goes! Ed, L a n d l o r d ! landlord! Land. Sir ? Ed. I have a heart, Cribbs. W e know how to do the handsome thing, landlord. ( C R I B B S slyly Jills E D W A R D ' S glass Land. Don't we? I t takes us, sir. Ed. (drinks) Well, I think, landlord, a little spirit hurts no man. Land. Oh, no, s i r ; no—does him good. Ed. 1 have a heart, Squibbs—a heart, m y old boy. Come, let's have another horn— (1st LOAFER Jails asleep on bench, R . , against partition) Come, boys, trot u p , I ' l l p a y . 2d Loaf. Well, I don't want to hurt; the house. 3d Loaf. Oh, no—mustn't h u r t the house! (walking up to bar Stev. Come, don't you hear the news ? (strikes 1st LOAFER xoith whip, and he falls on ground 1st Loaf. Hollo! what's that for ? Ed. Come, tread u p , and d r i n k ! 1st Loaf. Well— (lazily) I don't want to h u r t the house. (tumbles against wall Land. Y o u will h u r t the house, if you b u t t off the plastering at that rate Ed. A bumper—well in the absence of Burgundy, whisky will do, eh, old Kibbs?— (hitting C R I B B S ) W h y don't you join iis, old Ed. sulky? Oh, whisky be it. (to STEVENS Stev. I drink when I ' m dry, and what I drink I pay for. Ed. Y o u ' r e saucy, old fellow. Stev. Do you think I ' m a sponge to p u t m y hands into another man's pocket? Co away, you make a fool of yourself! Ed. A fool! Say that again, and I ' l l knock you down—a fool! Stev. (rising) I w a n t n o t h i n g to say to you—be off—you're drunk! Ed. (strikes him) Death and fury! D r u n k ? Stev. Take that, then ! (CRIBBS and others sneak off—struggle— STEVENS hits him doion with whip) Landlord, you see 1 wns not to blame for this. (exit STEVENS, R. D . THE 'w DRUNKARD. Land.-, Well, he's got it, anyhow—seiveshim right, quarrelsome y o u n g fool. House was quiet enough till he came in disturbing honest people. This is too had. H o w to get this fellow home ? H e lives two miles from here, at least. Enter, W I L L I A M D O W T O N , R. D. Will. Mr. Middleton—where is he? Lord ha 5 mercy, what is this? Speak! ( S U B L A N D L O R D ) If you have done this, I'll tear out your cursed windpipe, old heathen ! Land. I n my own house? Let go my t h r o a t ! Will. W h o did this? Land. Let g o ; it wasn't m e ! it was drover Stevens. Will, (throws him off, kneels by MIDDLETON) Blood on his forehead—Mr. E d w a r d , speak to me, oh, speak—his poor wife—poor, old, sick Mrs. Wilson, too! Ed. (reviving) What is this? W h a t ' s been the matter here? Will. Don't y o u know me, sir? I t ' s William, sir, poor Bill, come to help you home. Sam Stanhope told me you were in a row at the tavern, sir. Ed. Oh, yes, I remember; where are they all? Where's Cribbs? where's Cribbs? Will. Cribbs? (to LANDLORD) Was he with him? Land. Why, yes, I guess the Squ're was here a short spell. (to EdwARD) Well, you can walk, sir, can't y o u ? Ed. Walk, yes, I can walk—what's the matter with my . head? Blood ? I must have fallen against the corner of the bench! Land. Don't you remember Mr. Stevens? Ed. I don't know what you mean by Stevens; what the devil have I been about? Land. W h y , Stevens said you were drunk, and you hit him, and he knocked you down with his whip handle. Will, A n d if I get hold of Mr. Stevens, Til make him smell something nastier than peaches, or my name's not Bill! Come, s i r ; come home. Ed. D r u n k ! fighting! Oh, shame! s h a m e ! Will. Lean on me, Mr. Edward. You go sand your sugar, and water your bad brandy, old corkscrew ! His poor wife ! Ed. H u s h , William, hush !' Will. P r e y give me your pardon, sir: oh, I wish I had died before I had seen this. Ed. Drunk,, fighting—my v\ ife, my children! Oh, a g o n y ! a g o n y ! (exit leaning on W I L L I A M , L. D . — L A N D L O R D retires behind bar SCENE IV.—Landscape Enter, View. C R I B B S , L. Crib. So far the scheme works well. H e has tasted, and wi'l not oblivion. I mostly fear his wife, she him. A h , who's this? Bill Dowton admirably. I know his nature stop now short of madness or will have great influence over ! Where, then, is Middleton? (retires, L . THE DRUNKARD. n Enter, W I L L I A M D O W T O N , L . Will. Well, I don't know b u t he's r i g h t ; poor fellow, if he were to appear before his wife, without her being warned, it might frighten her to death, poor thing, and, as he says, the walk alone may do him good, and sober him a bit. The old woman takes on most cruel, too, and she so very, very ill. H e r e he comes. I guess he'll follow me. I'll hasten on, for if he sees me, he'll be angry, and swear I ' m watching him. T h a t old serpent Cribbs, he'd better keep out of my track. I'd think no more of wringing his old neck, than I would twisting a tough thanksgiving t u r k e y . (exit threatening, R. Crib, {advancing cautiously) I ' m much obliged to you, most valiant Billy Dowton. I shall hold myself non est inventus. I promise y o u ; here comes E d w a r d ! Caution, caution, [retires, L . Enter, EDWARD, I,. Ed. Is this to be the issue of my life? Oh, must I ever yield to the fell tempter, and bending like a weak bulrush to the blast, still bow my manhood lower than the brute? W h y , surely I have m y eyes to see, hands to work with, feet to walk, and brain to think, yet the best gifts of Heaven I abuse, lay aside her bounties, and with m y own hand, willingly put out the light of reason. I recollect m y mother said, my clear, dying mother, they were the last words I ever heard her utter—"Whosoever lifts his fallen brother is greater far than the conqueror of the world." Oh, how m y poor brain b u r n s ! my hand trembles! my knees shake, beneath m e ! I cannot, will not appear before them t h u s ; a little, a very little will revive and strengthen me. ISTo ones sees; William must be there ere this. Now for my hiding place. O h ! the arch cunning of the d r u n k a r d ! (goes to tree R., and from the hollow draws forth a bottle; looks round and drinks. C R I B B S behind, exulting) So, so, it relieves! it strengthens! oh, glorious liquor! W h y did I rail against thee? Ha, h a ! (drinks and draws bottle) All g o n e ! all! (throws the bottle away) Of what use the casket when the jewel's gone ? Ha, h a ! I can face them now. (turns and meets C R I B B S ) H e h e r e ! Confusion! Crib, ( L . ) W h y , Micldleton! E d w a r d , my friend, what means this? Ed. ( R . ) T e m p t e r ! begone! Pretend not ignorance! Were you not there when that vile fray occurred ? Did you not desert me? Crib. As I am a living man, I know not what you mean. Business called me out. I left you jovial and merry, with your friends. Ed. F r i e n d s ! H a ! h a ! the drunkard's friends! Well, well, 3^011 may speak truth—my brain wanders—I'll go h o m e ! Oh, misery! would I were dead! Crib. Come, come, a young man like you should not think of dying. I am old enough to be your father, and I don't dream of such a thing. Ed. Y o u are a single man, Cribbs. You don't know w h a t it is to see your little patrimony wasted away—to feel that you are the cause of sufferings you would die to alleviate. Crib. Pooh, pooh! Suffering—your cottage is worth full five hundred dollars. I t was but yesterday Farmer Amson was inquiring how much it could be bought for % THE DRUNKARD. Ed. Bought for! Cribbs Crib. Well, Edward, well. Ed. You see yon smoke curling up among the tree? Crib. Yes, Edward. It rises from your own cottage. Ed. You know who built that cottage, Cribbs? Crib. Your father built it. I recollect the day. It was Ed. It was the very day I was born that yon cottage was first inhabited. You know who lives there now ? Crib. Yes. You do. Ed. ]STo one else, Cribbs ? Crib. Your family, to be sure Ed. And you counsel me to sell it!—to take the warm nest from that mourning bird and her young, to strip them of all that remains of hope or comfort, to make them wanderers in the wide world, and for what? To put a little pelf into my leprous hands, and then squander it for rum. (crosses, R. Crib. You don't understand me, Edward. I am your sincere friend; believe me; come — Ed. Leave me, leave me Crib. Why, where.would you go thus, Edward? Ed. Home! Home—to my sorrowing wife—her dying mother, and my poor, poor child. Crib. But not thus, Edward, not thus. Come to my house, my people are all out. We'll go in the back way—no one will see you. Wash your face, and I'll give you a little—something to refresh you, I'll take care it shall not hurt you. Come, now, come. Ed. Ought I- —dare I? Oh, this deadly sickness! Is it indeed best? Crib. To be sure it is! If the neighbors see you thus—I'll take care of you. Come, come, a little brandy—good—good brandy. Ed. Well, I—I Crib. That's right—come, (aside) He's lost! Come, my dear friend, come. (exeunt, i. SCENE V.—Interior of the cottage as in Act I. Enter MARY from set door, R. 2 E.—Her dress plain and patched, but put on with neatness and care—She is weeping. Mary. Oh, Heaven, have mercy on me!—aid me!—strengthen me! Weigh not thy poor creature down with woes beyond her strength to bear. Much I fear my suffering mother never cara survive the night, and Edward comes not, and when he does arrive, how will it be? Alas, alas! my clear, lost husband! 1 think I could nerve myself against everything, but—oh, misery! this agony of suspense"! it is too horrible ! Enter JULIA from room, R. 2 E.—She is barefooted—Dress clean, but very poor. Julia. Mother! dear mother, what makes you cry? I fur" so sorry when you cry—don't cry any more, dear mother. Mary, (L.) I cannot help it, clearest. Do not tell your j «or father what has happened in his absence, Julia. THE DRUNKARD. S3 Jul. • "No, dear mother, if you wish me not. Will it make him cry, mother ? When I see you cry it makes me cry, too. Mary. H u s h , dear one, hush ! Alas, he is unhappy enough already. Jul. Yes. Poor father! I cried last night when father came home, and was so sick. Oh, he looked so pale, and when I kissed him for good night, his face was as hot as fire. This morning he could not eat his breakfast, could he? W h a t makes him sick so often, mother? Mary. Hush, sweet one! Jul. Dear grandma so sick, too. Doctor and nurse both looked so sorry. Grandma won't die to-night, will she, mother? Mary. Father of mercies! This is too m u c h ! (weeps) Be very quiet, Julia, I am going in to see poor grandma, (crossing, R.) Oh, Religion! sweet solace of tho wTretched h e a r t ! Support me ! aid me, in this dreadful trial. (exit into room, R. 2 E . Jul. Poor, dear mother. When grandma dies, she'll go to live in heaven, for she's good. Parson Heartall told me so, and he never tells fibs, for he is good, too. Enter, W I L L I A M , gently, D . in F . Will. Julia, where is your mother, darling? ( J U L I A puts her fingers on her lip, and points to door) A h , she comes! Re-enter, M A R Y , R. 2 E . Will. H o w is poor Mrs. Wilson now, madam ? Mary. K e a r the end of all earthly trouble, William. . She lies in broken slumber. B u t where is m y poor E d w a r d ? Have you not found h i m ? Will. Yes, m a ' r m , I found him in the ta—in the village— he had fallen, and slightly hurt his forehead; he had me come before so as you should not be frightened. He'll soon be here now. Mary. Faithful friend ! I wish you had not left him. Was he— oh, what a question for a doating wife—was he sober, William? Will* I must not lie, dear lady. He had been taking some liquor, but I think not much—all, I hope, will be well. Ed. {sings without) " W i n e cures the gout," etc., H a ! h a ! Mariji Oh, great H e a v e n ! W I L L I A M rushes out, c. D . , and off, L . U. E . , and re-enters with E D WARD, drunk and noisy—WILLIAM trying to soothe him; he staggers as he passes the door way. Ed. I've had a glorious time, Bill. Old Cribbs — Mary, ( R . ) H u s h ! dearest! Ed. W h y should I be silent? I am not a child, I Mary. My mother, Edward, mj dear mother! Ed. (sink into chair) Heaven's wrath on m y hard heart. I — I — forgot. H o w is she? Poor woman ; how is she? Mary. Worse, Edward, worse. (trying to hide her tears Ed. And I in part the cause. Oh, horrid vice ! Bill, I remember my father's death-bed; it was a Christian's faith in his heart; hope in'his calm, blue e y e ; a smile upon his l i p ; he had never seen his Edward drunk. Oh, had he seen it—had he, seen i t ! 24 THE DRUNKARD. Jul. (crossing to her father from R. to c.) F a t h e r , dear father! (striving to kiss him Ed. Leave me, child, leave me. I am hot enough already, (she weeps, he kisses her) Bless you, J u l i a dear, bless y o u ! Bill, do you remember the young elm tree by the arbor in the garden? Will. Yes, sir. Ed. Well, I slipped and fell against it, as I passed the gate. My father planted it on the very clay I saw the light. I t has grown with m y g r o w t h ; I seized the ax and felled it to the earth. W h y should it flourish when I am lost forever? (hysterically) Why should it lift its head to smiling heaven while I am prostrate ? H a , ha, h a ! (a groan is heard, R. D.—exit M A R T — a pause—^a shriek Enter, MARY. Mary. E d w a r d , m y mother Ed. Mary! Mary. She is dead ! Ed. H w r o r ! A n d I t h e cause ? Death, in t h e house, and I without doubt t h e means. I cannot bear t h i s ; let me fly—— Mary, (springing forward and clasping his neck) E d w a r d , dear E d w a r d , do not leave m e ! I will work, I will slave, a n y t h i n g ; we can l i v e ; b u t do not abandon me in m y m i s e r y : do not desert me, E d w a r d , love! husband ! Ed. Call m e n o t husband—curse me as your destroyer; loose your arms—leave m e . Mary. N o , n o ! do not let him go. William, hold h i m ! Will, (holding him) E d w a r d , dear b r o t h e r ! Jul. (clinging to him) F a t h e r ! father! Mary. Y o u will be abused. N o one near to aid you. Imprisoned, or something worse, E d w a r d . Ed. Loose m e ; leave m e ; w h y fasten me clown on fire? Madness is m y s t r e n g t h ; m y brain is liquid flame! (breaks from her— WILLIAM is obliged to catch her) H a ! I am free. Farewell, forever! (rushes off, c. D . Mary. H u s b a n d ! Oh, H e a v e n ! (faints Will, (burstinginto tears) E d w a r d ! brother! Jul. Father, father! (runs to the door, and falls on the threshold ACT III. SCENE Enter, I.—Broadway. L A W Y E R C R I B B S , R. Crib. I wonder where that drunken vagrant can have w a n d e r e d . E v e r since he came to N e w York, thanks to his ravenous appetite and m y industrious agency, he has been going down hill rapidly. Could I b u t tempt him to some over act, well managed, I could line m y own pockets, and insure his ruin. H a ! here he"conies, and two of his bright companions. H e looks most wretchedly. Money gone, and no honest way to raise it. He'll be glad to speak to old ('Yibbs now. I m u s t watch m y time, (retiring THE 25 DRUNKARD. Enter, E D W A R D and two loafers. Cheer up, JSTed; there's more money 1st Loaf. where the last came from. Ed. (clothes torn and very shabby, hat the same) B u t I tell you my last cent is gone. I feel ill. I want more liquor. 1st Loaf. Well, well, you wait round here a spell. Joe and I will take a t u r n down to Cross street, (crosses, L.) We'll make a raise, I w a r r a n t you. Ed. Well, be quick then ; this burning thirst consumes me. (exit L O A F E R S , L . Crib, (advancing, L) W h y ! is that you, Mr. Middleton? Ed. ( R . ) Yes, Cribbs, what there is left of m e . Crib. W h y , I don't see that you are much altered; though you might be better for a stitch or two in your elbows Ed. A h , Cribbs, I have no one to care for m e . I am lost; a ruined, broken-hearted man. Crib. Y o u won't be offended, Middleton, will y o u ? Allow me to lend you a dollar or two when you want i t ; ask me—there, there I (offering it; aside) Before sundown h e ' s a few yards nearer his grave. Ed. (slowly taking it, struggling with pride and necessity) Thank you, Mr. Cribbs, thank y e ; you are from the village. I hardly dare ask you if you have seen them. Crib. Y o u r wife and child? Gh, they are doing charmingly. Since you left, your wife has found plenty of sewing, the gentlefolks have become interested in her pretty face, and you know she has a good education. She is as merry as a cricket, and your little girl blooming as a rose and brisk as a bee. Ed. Then Mary is happy ? Crib. H a p p y as a l a r k ! Ed. (after a pause) Well, I ought to be giacl of it and since she thinks no r&ore of me Crib. Oh, yes, she thinks of *you occasionally. Ed. Does she, indeed? Crib. Yes, she says she cannot b u t pity you. Beit that Heaven never sends affliction without the antidote, and that, but for your brutal-^hem!—your strange conduct and drunkenness—hem !—misfortune, she should never have attracted the sympathy of those kind friends, w h o now regard her as the pride of their circle, Ed. Did she really say all that? Crib. Yes, and she pities you. I am sure she thinks of you, anu would be glad to see you—to see you become a respectable member of society. Ed. (musing) I t is very kind of her—very—very k i n d ! pities m e ! respectable! But, Cribbs, how can one become respectable, without a cent in his pocket, or a whole garment on his wretched carcass ? Crib, (pause) There are more ways than one to remedy these casualties. If the world uses you ill, be revenged upon the world! Ed. Revenged! But how, Cribbs. how? Crib, (cautiously) Do you see this paper ? 'Tis a check for five thousand dollars. You are a splendid penman. Write but the name of Arden Rencelaw, and 3'ou may laugh at poverty. Ed. W h a t ! forgery ? and on whom? T h e princely m e r c h a n t ! the noble philanthropist! the poor m a n ^ friend ! the orphan's bene- THE $6 DRUNKARD. factor! Oat and out on you for a villain, and coward! I must be sunk indeed, when you dare propose such a baseness to my father's son. Wretch as I am, b y the world despised, shunned and neglected by those who should save and succor me, I would sooner perisli on the first dunghill—than that m y dear child should blush for her father's crimes. Take back your base bribe, miscalled c h a r i t y ; the maddening drink that I shoald purchase with it, would be redolent of sin, and rendered still more poisonous by your foul hypocrisy. (throws down the money Crib, (bursting with passion) Ah, you are w a r m , I see. Y o u ' l l think better when—when you find yoniself starving. (exit, L . Ed. Has it then come to this ?—an object of pity to my once adored wife; no longer regarded with love—respect—but cold compassion, p i t y ; other friends have fully made u p m y loss. She is flourishing, too, while I am literally starving—starving—this coldblooded fiend, too; what's to become of me? Deserted, miserable— but one resource. I must have liquor—ha!—my handkerchief— 'twill gain me a drink or two, at all events. Brandy, aye, brandy, brandy I (rushes off, R. SCENE II. —A Street. Stage Enter, half dark. C R I B B S , R. Crib. Plague take the fellow! who would have thought he would have been so foolishly conscientous ? I will not abandon my scheme on the house of Bencelaw, though the speculation is too good to be lost. W h y ! as I live here comes that old fool, Miss Spindle. Enter, M i s s S P I N D L E , L . , her dress a ridiculous compound of by-gone days, and present fashions. Miss S. W h y ! this 3\Tew York is the most awful place to find one's way I was ever i n ; it's all ups*and downs, ins and outs. I ' v e been trying for two boars to find Trinity Church steeple—and I can't see it, though they tell me it's six hundred yards high, Crib. W h y ! angelic Miss Spindle, how do you do? How long have you been in the commercial emporium ? Miss S. Oh, Squire Cribbs, how d'ye do? I don't know what you mean by the uproarium, b u t for certain it is the noisiest place I ever did see. But, Squire, what has become of the Micldletons, can you tell ? Crib. I've had my eye upon them ; they're down, Miss Spindle, never to rise a g a i n : as for that vagrant, E d w a r d Miss S. A h ! Squire! what an escape I h a d ! How fortunate that I was not ruined by the nefarious influence, the maligant coruscations of his illimitable seductions. How lucky that prim Miss Mary Wilson was subjected to his hideous arts, instead of my virgin immaculate innocence! Crib. Ho von know why his wife left the village and came to New Y o r k ? " Miss S. Oh, she is low, degraded ! She sank so far as to take in washing to feed herself and child. She would sooner follow her drunken husband, and endeavor to preserve him as she said, than remain where she was. THE 27 DRUNKARD. Crib. Well, well, they are down low enough now. Which way are you going, towards Broadway? W h y , I ' m going towards Broad way "myself. Allow me the exquisite honor of beauing you— this way, perfection of your sex, and adoration of ours—your a r m , lovely and immaculate Miss Spindle, (exit together, arm in arm, L . Enter, E D W A R D and 1st and 2d L O A F E R , R. 1st Loaf. To he sure I d i d ! I swore if he didn't let me have two or three dollars, I ' d tell his old man of last night's scrape, and I soon got it to get rid of m e . 2d Loaf. H u r r a h for snakes! Who's afraid of fire? Come, N e d , two or three glasses will soon drive away the blue devils. Let's have some brandy. Ed. With all m y heart. Brandy he :'t. Since I am thus abandoned—deserted—the sooner I drown all remembrance of m y wretchedness the better. Come! boys, brandy be it. H u r r a h ! Omnes. (sings) ''Here's a health to all good lasses!" (exeunt, R. SCENE III.—Interior of the Arbor on Broadway—Two men playing at backgammon—Another reading paper and smoking—Others seated around, etc. Enter, E D W A R D and LOAFERS, R . , singing,—"Here's a health," etc Bar-keeper, (behind bar) T h e same noisy fellows that were here last night. What is it to be, gentleman? Ed. Oh, brandy for me—brandy. Its Loaf. Give me a gin-sling—that's what killed Goliah; ha, ha, ha I 2d Loaf. I'll have brandy. Come, old fellows, tread up, and wet your whistles. 1*11 stand, Sam, tread u p . EDWARD and others after drinking, dance and sing, uDan u Boatman dance^ etc. Tucker," Bar-keeper. I must civilly request, gentlemen, that you will not make so much noise; you disturb others—and we wish to keep the house quiet. Ed. Steady, boys, steady; don't raise a row in a decent house. More brandy, young man, if you please. Come, Bill, t r y it again. Is* Loaf. With all my heart, h u r r a h ! Ed. and 2d Loaf. "Dance, Boatman, d a ^ c e , " etc. (laugh) More brandy, h u r r a h ! Bar-keeper. I tell you once for all, I'll not have this noise. Stop that singing. 2d Loaf. I s h a n ' t ; we'll sing as long as we please—give me some liquor. Ed. A y e , more bandy—brandy. Bar-keeper. Well, will you be still, then, if I give you another drink? Ed. Oh, certainly, certainly. 1st Loaf. I n course we will Bar-keeper. Well, help yourselves. (hands decanters 2d Loaf. W h a t ' s yours, J\Ted ? Ed. Oh, brandy—here goes! (finis and drinks 1st Loaf. Here goes for the last. 28 THE DRUNKARD. Omnes. (singing) " W e w o n ' t go home till m o r n i n g , " e t c . Man. (at table playing checkers) Look h e r e ! that's m y k i n g . 2d Man. (at table) You're, a liar! I have j u s t j u m p e d h i m . 1st Man. (at table) I tell you, you lie! (regular wrangle Ed. and Loaf. Go it, you cripples ! (singing and laughing Bar-keeper. Stop that noise, I tell you. Come, get o u t ! {pushing man from table—the two men fight Ed. and Loaf. Go it, Charley! H u r r a h , etc. (regular scene of confusion—Bar-room fight, etc.—Scene changes SCENE IV.—Exterior of a Bar-room on the Five Points—Noise inside—CRIBBS enters and listens at door. Crib. So, a regular bar-room fight. Middleton must be secured— here's the watch. (enter, 2d watchman—exit C R I B B S , L . E D W A R D , watchman and loafers enter struggling, singing, shouting, etc., etc.—Exit fighting—Clubs are heard in all directions—First and second loafers enter clinching each other and fighting—Several knock-downs; square off, recognizing each other. 1st Loaf. W h y , Sam, is that you? 2d Loaf. W h y , Ned, m y dear fellow, is that y o u ? 1st Loaf, (who has his hat knocked entirely over his head, crown out) To be sure it i s ; look here, you've completely caved in my best beaver. 2c? Loaf. Well, I ask your pardon. (exeunt arm in arm, R . SCENE V.—^A wretched garret—Old table and chair with lamp burning dimly—"MARY in miserable apparel, sewing on shop-work; a wretched shawl thrown over her shoulders—Child sleeping on a straw, bed on the floor, R., covered in part by a miserable ragged rug—Haifa loaf of bread on table—The ensemble of the scene indicates want and poverty. Mary. Alas, alas! I t is very cold—faint with hunger—sick— heart weary with wretchedness, fatigue, and cold, (clocks strikes one) One o'clock, and m y work not near finished. I—they must be done to-night.- These shirts I have promised to hand in to-morrow by the hour eight. A miserable quarter of a dollar will repay my industry, and then my poor, poor child, thou shall: have food. Jul. (awakening) Oh, dear mother, I am so cold. (MARY takes shawl from her shoulders, and spreads it over the child) JSTO, m o t h e r keep the shawl. You are cold, too. I will wait till morning, and 1 can w a r m myself at Mrs. Brien's lire; little Dennis told me I should for the gingerbread I gave h i m . Goes to sleep murmuring—MABY puis the shawl on herself, waits till the child slumbers, and then places it over J U L I A , and returns to work. Mary. A l a s ! where is he on this bitter night? I n vain have I made every inquiry, and cannot gain any tidings of my poor, wretched h u s b a n d ; no one knows him by name. Perhaps already the inmate of a prison. Ah, merciful heaven, restore to me m y Edward once again, and 1 will endure every ill that can be heaped THE DBUNKARD. 89 upon me. (looks towards child) Poor Julia, she sleeps soundly; she was fortunate to-day, sweet lamb, while walking in the street in search of a few shaving, she became benumbed with cold. She sat down upon some stone steps, when a boy moved with compassion, took from his neck a handkerchief, and placed it upon h e r s ; the mother of that boy is blessed. W i t h the few cents he slipped into her hands, she purchased a loaf of bread; she ate part of it. (talcing bread from table) And the rest is here, (looks eagerly at it) I am hungry—horribly h u n g r y . I shall have money in the morning. (pause) No, n o ; my child will wake and find her treasure gone. I will not rob my darling, (replaces bread c n table, sinks into chair, weeping) That ever I should see his child thus ! for myself, I could bear, could suffer all. J U L I A awakes noiselessly, perceiving shawl, rises and places it over her mother's shoulders, Jul. Dear mother, you are cold. Ah, you tried to cheat your darling. Mary, (on her knees; aside) Now, heaven be praised. I did not eat that bread. Jul. Why, mother, do you sit up so late?- You cry so much, and look so white—mother,"do not cry. Is it because father does not come to bring us bread ? We shall find father bye and bye, shan't we, mother? Mary. Yes, dearest—yes, with the kind aid of H i m . (knock at the door, L.) Who can that be? Ah, should it be E d w a r d . (going to L. Enter, CRIBBS— she gets c. Crib, ( L . ) Y o u r pardon, Mrs. Middleton, for my intrusion at this untimely hour, but friends are welcome at all times and seasons, eh? So, so, you persist in remaining in these miserable quarters? When last I saw you, I advised a change. Mary. Alas! sir, you too well know my wretched reasons for remaining. But why are you here at this strange h o u r ; oh, tell me, know you ought of him? Have you brought tidings of my poor Edward. Crib, (avoiding direct answer) I must say your accommodations are none of the best, and must persist in it, you would do well to shift your quarters. Mary. Heaven help m e ! where would you have me go? Return to the village, I will'not. I must remain and find my husband. Crib. This is a strange infatuation, young woman ; it is more strange, as he has others to console him, whose soft attentions he prefers to yonrs. Mary. W h a t do you mean, sir? Crib. I mean, that there are plenty of women, not of the most respectable class, who are always ready to receive presents iroiu wild young men like him, and are not very particular in the liberties that may be taken in exchange. Mary. Man, man, why dost thou degrade the form and sense the Great One has bestowed on thee by falsehood ? Gaze on the sharp features of that child, where famine has already set hei seal, look on the hollow eyes, and the careworn form of the hapless being that so THE DRUNKARD. brought her into life, then if you have the heart, furthur insult the helpless mother, and the wretched wife. Crib. These things I speak of, have been, and. will be again, while there are wantons of one sex, and drunkards of the other. Mary. Sir, you slander my husband. I know this cannot be. I t is because he is poor, forsaken, reviled, and friendless, t h a t t h u s I follow him, thus love him still. Crib. He would laugh in his drunken ribaldry, to hear you talk thus. Mary, (with proud disdain) Most contemptible of earth-born creatures, it is false. The only fault of my poor husband, has been intemperance, terrible, I acknowledge, but still a weakness t h a t has assailed, and prostrated the finest intellects of men who would scorn a mean and u n w d r t h y action. (crosses, L . Crib. Tut, t u t . You are very proud, considering (looking round) all circumstances. B u t come, I forgive you. Y o u are young and beautiful, your husband is a vagabond. I am rich, I have a true affection for you, and with me (attempts to take her hand Mary. W r e t c h ! (throws him off) Have you not now proved yourself a slanderer, and to effect your own vile purposes? B u t know, despicable wretch, that my poor husbend, clothed in rags, covered with mire, and lying d r u n k at m y feet, is a being whose shoes you are not worthy to unloose. (wosses, n. Crib. ISTay, then, proud beauty, you shall know my power—'ti3 late, you are unfriended, helpless, and thus (he seizes her, child screams Mary. H e l p ! mercy ! (she struggles, crosses, JR.,—CRIBBS follows her Enter, W I L L I A M , hastily, L., seizes C R I B B S , and throivs him round to L.—he falls. Will. Well, Squire, what's the lowest you'll take for your rotten carcass? Shall I turn auctioneer, and knock you down to the highest bidder? I don't know much of pronology, but I've a great notion of -playing Yankee Doodle on your organ of rascalit} r . Be off, you ugly varmint, or I'll come the steam ingine, and set y o u r paddles going all-fired quick. Crib. I ' l l be revenged, if there's law or justice. Will. Oh, get o u t ! You're a bad case of villainy xersus modesty and chastity, printed in black letters, and bound in calf; oil with you, or I'll serve a writ of ejectment on you, a posteriori to you—1 learnt that much from Mr. Middleton's law books. Crib. But I say, sir—1 am a man * Will. Y o u are a m a n ? Nature made a blunder. She had a piece of refuse gtirbnge, she intended to form into a hog, made a mistake, gave it your shape, and sent it into the world to be miscalled man. Get out! (pushes him off, L.—noise of falling down stairs—re-enters) I did not like to hit him before you, b u t he's gone down those stairs, quicker than he wanted to, I guess. Mary. Kind, generous friend, how came you here so opportunely ? Will. W h y , I was just going to bed, at a boarding-house close by Chatham street, when I happened to mention to the landlord, a worthy man as ever broke bread, about y o u ; he told me ^ h e r e you THE SI DRUNKARD. was. I thought you might be more comfortable there, and his good wife has made everything as nice and pleasant for you, as if you were her own sister. So come, Mrs. Midclleton, come, Julia, dear. Mary, But, William, m y poor husband. (clubs, R. and L. Will. There's another row. Well, if this !N"ew Y o r k isn't the awfullest place for noise. Come, Mrs. Middleton, I'll find him if he's in N e w York, jail or no jail, watch-house or no wa,tch-house. Mary. Heaven preserve m y poor, dear E d w a r d ! (exit, L. SCENE VI.— The Five Points—Stage E D W A R D - M I D D L E T O N , in dark, clubs, R. and L.—Enter, the custody of two watchman—he is shouting—WILLIAM DOWTON, enters, hastily, knocks down watchman, rescues EdWARD, and they exit, R. Enter, C R I B B S , with coat torn half off, and dancing, fighting about stage, from L . U . E. Crib. Oh, m y ! Oh, good gracious! H o w can I get out of this scrape ? I came here with the best intentions. Oh,, m y ! to see the law p u t in force! Oh, dear! somebody has torn m y coat tail—good gracious! Lord have m e r c y ! I've lost my hat—no, here it is. Picks up dreadful Enter, shabby hat and puts it on, runs from one side to another. Watchmen and mob, meeting him from R. Will, (pointing out C R I B B S to watchmen) worst among 'em ! Crib. I ' m a respectable m a n ! T h a t ' s the chap, the (they seize C R I B B S They pick him up bodily and carrry him off, R . , shouting—he exclaims, "I'm a lawyer I" "Tm a respectable man!" etc.—WILLIAM follows laughing—General confusion. ACT IV. SCENE I.—A wretched out-house or shed, supposed to be near a tavern, early morning—Stage dark—EDWARD discovered lying on ground, without hat or coat, clothes torn, eyes sunk and haggard, appearance horrible, etc., etc. Ed. (awakening) Where am 1 ? I wonder if people dream after they are dead? hideous! hideous! I should like to be dead, if I could not dream—parched! parched! 'tis morning, is it, or cominonight, which? I wanted daylight, b u t now it has come, w h a t shall I do in daylight? I was out of sight when it was dark—and seemed to be half hidden from myself—early morning, the rosy hue of the coming sunshine, veiling from mortal si^ht the twinkling stars what horrid dreams; will they return upon me, waking? Oh, for some brandy ! r u m ! I am not so ashamed, so stricken with despair, when I am d r u n k . Landlord, give me some b r a n d y . W h a t horrid place is this? P a i n ! dreadful p a i n ! Heavens, how I t r e m b l e ! B r a n d y ! brandy ! (sinks down in agony' to THE Enter, DRUNKARD. LANDLORD, with whip, R . Land, Where in nature can my horse be gone? Is there nobody in this place ? H alio! Ed. H a l l o ! Landlord, I say ! Land. "What's t h a t ? O h ! I say, have you seen m y horse? What—as I live, that scape-gallows, Middleton : how came he here ? (aside) I thought he was in Sing-Sing. Ed. O h ! I know you, you needn't d r a w b a c k — w e have been acquainted before now, eh ? Mr. Land, (aside) Z o u n d s ! he knows m e ! (aloud) Yes, yes, we were acquainted once, as you say, young m a n ; b u t that was in other days. Ed. Y o u are the same being still—though I am changed—miserably changed—you still sell r u m , don't y o u ? Land. I am called a respectable inn-keeper; few words are best, young fellow. Have you seen a horse saddled and bridclled near hei e ! Ed. I ' v e seen nothing—you are respectable, you say. You speak as if you were not the common poisoner of the whole village; am not I, too, respectable ? Land, (laughs rudely) Not according to present appearances. You w^ere respectable once, and so was Lucifer—like him y o u have fallen pas!; rising. You cut a pretty figure, don't y o u ? h a ! h a ! W h a t has brought you in this beastly condition, y o u n g man ? Ed. (springing up) You ! Rum ! Eternal curses on you ! Had it not been for your infernal poison shop in our village, I had been sti 1 a man—the foul den, where you plunder the pockets of your fellow, where you deal forth in tumblers, and from whence goes forth the blast of ruin over the land, to mildew the bright hope of youth, to till the widow's heart with agony, to curse the orphan, to steal the glorious mind of man, to cast them from their high estate of honest pride, and make them—such as I. H o w looked I when first I entered your loathsome den, and how do I look now? Where are the friends of m y happy youth? where is m y wife? where is my child ? They have cursed m e ; cursed me, and forsaken me ? Land. Well, wThat brought you to my house? Y o u had your senses then ; I did not invite you, did I ? Ed. Doth hell send forth cards of invitation for its horrid orgies. Sick and faint—make m e some amends, m y brain is on fire. My limbs are trembling—give me some b r a n d y — b r a n d y . , (seizes him Land. H o w can I give you b r a n d y ? m y house is far from here. Let; me go, vagabond! Ed. N a y , I beseech you—only a glass, a single glass of brandy, rum—anything—give me liquor, or I'll Land. Villain! let go youi hold! Ed. B r a n d y ! I have a claim on you, a deadly claim! Brandy, b r a n d y ! or I'll throttle you ! (choking him Land, (struggling) H e l p ! m u r d e r ! I am choking! h e l p ! Enter, Will. W I L L I A M D O W T O N , R. Good Lord ! what is this? E d w a r d , Edward ! (EDW^ARD releases L A N D L O R D and falls, R. Land. Y o u shall pay for this—villain! you shall pay for this ! (exit, hastily, L* THE DRUNKARD 33 Ed, (on ground in deliiium) Here, here, friend, take it off, will you?—these snakes, how they coil round me. Oh, how strong they are! there, don't kill it, no, no,'don't kill i t ! give it brandy, poison it with rum, that will be a judicious punishment, that would be justice, ha, h a ! justice! ha, h a ! Will* H e does riot know me. Ed. H u s h ! gently—gently, v\hile she's asleep. I'll kiss her. She would reject me, did she know it, hush ! there, heaven bless my Mary, bless her and her child—hush ! if the globe turns round once more, we shall slide from it's surface into eternity. Ha, h a ! great idea! A boiling sea of wine, fired by the torch of fiends! h a ! h a ! Will. H e ' s quite helpless. Could I but gain assistance, he can not move to injure himself. I must venture. (exit, rapidly and noiselessly, u. Ed. So, so; again all's quiet; they think I cannot escape. I cheated them yesterday—'tis a sin to steal Enter, M R . REKCELAW, it. —But no crime to purloin sleep from a druggist's store—none— none, (produces phial) Now for the universal antidote, the powerful conqueror of all earthly care—death! (about to drink: R E N C E LAW seizes phial and casts it from him) H a ! who are you, m a n ? what would you ? Hence. N a y , friend, take not your life, but mend it. Ed. Friend, you know me not. I am a fiend, the ruin of those who loved m e ; leave me. Bence. I came not to upbraid, or insult you. I am aware of all your danger, and come to save you. You have been drinking. Ed. T h a t you may well know. I am dying now for liquor—and —and—will you give me b r a n d y ? Who are you that takes interest in an u n h a p p y vagabond, neither my father nor my brother? Bence. I am a friend to the unfortunate. You are a man, and if a man, a brother. Ed. A b r o t h e r ! yes, but you trouble yourself without hope. I am lost, of what use can 1 be to you ? Bence. Perhaps I can be of use to you. Are you indeed a fallen m a n ? ( E D W A R D looks at him, sighs and hangs his head) Then you have the greatest claim upon my compassion, my attention, my u t most endeavors to raise you once more, to the station in society from which you have fallen, ""for he that lifts a fallen fellow creature from the dust, is greater than the hero who conquers a w o r l d . " Ed. (starts) Merciful heaven! My mother's dying words ! Who and what are you ? Bence. I am one of those whose 'life and labors are passed in rescuing their fellow-men from the abyss into which you have fallen. I administer the pledge of sobriety to those who would once more become an ornament to society and a blessing to themselves and to those around them. Ed. That picture is too bright, it cannot be. Bence. You see before you one who for twenty years was a prey to this dreadful folly. Ed. Indeed ! no, n o ; it is too late. Bence. You mistake; it is not too late. Come with me, we will restore you to society. Reject not my p r a y e r s ; strength will be given you, the Father of purity smiles upon honest endeavors- THE 84 DRUNKARD. Come, m y brother, enroll your name among t h e free, the disenthralled, and be a man again. {takes his hand Ed. Merciful heaven! grant the prayer of a poor wretch be heard! {exeunt, R. SCENE II.—Union Square—Lights up—Citizens passing scene—Children playing ball, hoop, etc. Enter, during the L A W Y E R C R I B B S , R* Crib. Now, this is a lucky escape. I t ' s fortunate that old Sykes, the miller, was in court, who knew me, or I might have found it difficult to get out of the infernal scrape. W h a t a dreadful night I have passed, to be sure—what with the horrid noise of the rats that I expected every moment would commence making a breakfast of my toes, the cold, and horrible language of my miserable and blackguard companions. I might as well have passed the crawling hours in purgatory, u g h ! I ' m glad it's over—catch me in such company again, t h a t ' s all. N o w for m y design on Eencelaw & Co. I think there can be no detection, the signature is perfect. I'll get some well-dressed b o y to deliver the check, receive the money, and I ' m off to the far West or England, as soon as possible. Would I were certain of the ruin of this drunken scoundrel, and the infamy of his tiger-like wife, I should be content. Enter, B O Y , L . U. E., crosses to R. -—Where are you going so quickly, m y lad ? Boy. (R.) On an errand, s i r . Enter, W I L L I A M D O W T O N , L. U. E . Crib. Do you w a n t to earn half a dollar? Boy. With pleasure, sir, honestly. Crib. Oh, of course, honestly. Will. I doubt, that, if he rows in your boat. Crib. 1 am obliged to meet a gentleman on business, precisely at this hour, b y the Pearl St. House. Call at the Mechanic's Bank for me, deliver this check; t h e teller will give y o u the money, come back quickly, and I ' l l reward you with a silver dollar. Boy. I'll b e as quick as possible, sir, and thank you, too. (exit hastily, R . Will. I knew the old skunk had money, b u t I was not aware that he banked in N e w York. H a l l o ! here's Miss Spindle a twigging the fashions; here'll be fun with the old rats. I told h e r half an hour ago, Cribbs was at a large party among the 'stocracy, last night. Crib, (after putting up his IDallet, sees Miss S P I N D L E ) Confound i t ! here's that foolish old maid, at such a time, too. A h ! there's no avoiding. Enter, Miss S P I N D L E , L . Miss S. Good gracious! M r . Cribbs, h o w do you do? I declare, a how well you do look—a little dissipation improves you. Crib. W h a t ? Will, (aside) She's beginning already. H u r r a h ! Go it, old gal! THE DRUNKARD. 3b Miss 8. I swow, now, I'm right glad to see y o u . Crib. Y o u have all the pleasure to yourself. Will, (aside) She'll rind that out, bye and bye. Jfliss 8. N o w , don't be so snappish. Lawyer Cribbs; neighbors should be neighborly, you know. W h o was it that ha'J the pleasure to introduce y o u ? Will, (aside) I rather guess I went that stick of candy. ( C R I B B S stares at M i s s S P I N D L E Jfiss 8. N o w , don't look so crass about it. I think you ought to feel right slick, as I do. N o w do tell what kind of music had you ? Will, (aside) P l e n t y o' hollaring and clubs, with considerable r u n n i n g accompanimen t. Miss 8. N o w don't look so angry and scared. W h o did plav the fiddle ? Was it H e r r Noll, Y o u n g Burke, or Ole Bull ? D o n ' t keep my curiosity on the stretch. Crib. Beelzebub stretch your curiosity! W h a t are you yelling about H e r r Noll, Y o u n g Burke, and Ole Bull for? Will, (aside) I calculate Captain (name of captain of watch) played first fiddle to the overture of "Lock and K e y . " Miss 8. Well, I swow, I never seen such lil-temper. W h y I know N e w Y o r k tip-tops always have somebody first chop among the fiddlers; for cousin Jemima told me when she was at the Tabernacle, her very hair stood on end when Her wig led the musicians vuth Heat-oven's sympathy. Crib, (aside) T h e old fool's perfectly crazy ! Will, (aside) Well, if the old chap h a d n ' t any music, it wasn't for want of bars and staves. I reckon he got out his notes when they let him off. Miss 8. Now, don't be angry, Lawyer Cribbs; you know 1 only ask for information. Do the 'stocracy go the hull tempeiance principle, and give their visitors nothing b u t ice water? Will, (aside) There was a big bucket and dippers, I reckon. Crib. Miss Spindle, will you only hear me ? Miss 8. Well, ain't I listening all the time, and you won't tell me nothin'. Were there any real live lions there? Did Col. J o h n son scalp a live Indian, to amuse the ladies? Did Dr. Dodds p u t everybody into a phospherie state, when they were all dancing, and the lights went out? Did Senator D dance a hornpipe to please the children, and make a bowl of punch at twelve o'clok? Did (out of breath Will, (aside) She'll ask him directly if the elephants played at billiards. Crib. M a d a m ! m a d a m ! will you listen? (shouts out) I n the name of confusion, what are you talking about? Miss 8. W h y , of the grand sorrie—the partv, to be sure. Crib. I know nothing of any p a r t y ; you're insane. Miss 8. Oli, no, I ain't neither. I was told of it by one Crib. Told by one ? who ? Will, (coming forward, c.) Me, I calculate. I watched you, I guess. Crib. Watched! Will. Guess I did—so shut up ! Crib. Confusion! Will. 1 say, Squire, ^ h e r e did you buy your new coat? Crib. Go to the devil, both of you ! THE SG DRUNKARD. Will, Where's the tail of your old one? H a ! h a ! (exit, CRIBBS, it.—WILLIAM follows laughing Miss S. Well, I swow, this is like one of Jeddie's addle eggs. I can neither make clucks nor chickens on 'em. Well, I ' v e got a good budget of news and scandal anyhow. So I'll be off back to the t i l lage, this very clay; this vile city is ho place for romantic sensibilities and virgin purity. ' (exit, L. SCENE III.—Broadway, with a view of Barnum's Enter, A R D E N RENCELAW, L. ; crosses ton—Bank after him, L* Museum. messenger enters Mess. Mr. Rencelaw ! Mr. Rencelaw! I beg pardon for hurriedly addressing you, b u t our cashier desires to know if this is your signature. (produces check Hence. My signature—good heavens, no!—five thousand dollars. Is it cashed ? Mess. Not half an hour. The teller cashed it instantly. Hence. Who presented the check? Mess. A young boy, sir, whom I saw just now, recogn'zed, and sent to the bank immediately; b u t the cashier, Mr. Armond, arriving directly afterwards, doubted it, and I was despatched to find you. Hence. R u n to the bank directly; call for a police officer as y o u pass. I am rather infirm, b u t will soon follow; clo not appear Hurried ; our measures must be prompt and I fear not for the result. (exit M E S S E N G E R , L . Enter, W I L L I A M D O W T O N , R. —Ah, honest William ; I have been searching for you ; E d w a r d desired to see you. Will. Thank and bless you, sir. How is he ?-—where ? Hence. Comparatively " ell and happy, at m y house. His wife w and child will be h e r e immediately; I have sent a carriage for them. Their home—their happy home—is prepared for theni in the village, and I have obtained almost certain information of his grandfather's will. Will. Thank heaven! But, sir, you appear alarmed, excited. Hence. A forgery has been committed, in the name of o u r firm, Upon the Mechanic's Bank. Will. Bless m e ! t h e Mechanic's B a n k ! W h o gave the check, sir? Hence. A boy, William. Will. A boy ? how long ago? Hence. Not half an h o u r ! W h y this eagerness ? Will. I—I'll tell you, sir. Mr. Middleton told me that Lawyer Cribbs, when the poor fellow was in poverty and clrunkeness, urged him to commit a forgery. Not half an hour since, I saw Cribbs give a boy a check, and tell him to take it to the Mechanics' Bank, receive some money, and bring it to him somewhere near t h e Pearl Street House, where he would find him with a gentleman. Hence. So, s o ! I see it all. Come with me to the Tombs, and secure an officer. Jf you should meet Middleton, clo not at present mention this—come. (exit, R. Will. I ' l l follow you, sir, heart and hand. If I once get my grip on the old fox, h e w o n ' t get easily loose, I guess. (exit hastily, R . THE SCENE IV.—Boom DRUNKARD. in KENCELAW'S house—very chairs, handsome books, etc. E D W A R D M I D D L E T O N , C , discovered 87 handsome reading—dressed, and table, looking well, etc.^ Ed. (side of table) What gratitude do E not owe this generous, noble-hearted'man, who, from the depths of wretchedness and horror, has restored me to the world, to myself, and to religion. O h ! what joy can equal the bright sensations of a thinking being, when redeemed from that degrading vice; his prisoned heart beats with r a p t u r e ; his swelling veins bound with vigor; and with tremulous gratitude, he calls on the Supreme Being for blessings on his bene^ factor. Mary, (outside, R . ) Where is my dear—my beloved, redeemed one ? M A R Y enters, with J U L I A , R , —Edward ! m y clear, dear husband! (they embrace Ed. Mary, my blessed one! My child, m y darling. Bounteous heaven ! accept m y t h a n k s ! Jul. Father, clear father—you look as you did the bright sunshiny morning I first went to school. Your voice sounds as it used when I sang the evening h y m n and you kissed and blessed me. Y o u ciy, father. Do not c r y ; b u t your tears are not such tears as mother shed, when she had no bread to give me. Ed. (kissing her) No, m y blessed child, they are n o t ; they are tears of repentance, Julia, b u t of joy. Mary. O h ! my beloved, my redeemed one, all my poor sufferings are as nothing, weighed in a balance with m y present joy. Enter, KENCELAW, R. —Respected sir, what words can express our gratification? Hence. P a y it where 'tis justly due, to heaven! I am b u t the humble instrument, and in your sweet content, I am rewarded. Jul. (going to EENCELAW, R . ) I shall not forget what mother last night taught me. Hence. W h a t was that, sweet girl ? Jul. I n m y prayers, when I have asked a blessing for m y father and m y mother, I pray to Him to bless Arden Bencelaio, too. Hence. Dear'child. (kissing her Ed. I will not wrong your generous nature, by fulsome outward gratitude, for your most noble conduct, b u t humbly hope, that H e will give strength to continue in t h e glorious path, adorned by your bright example. I n the words of New England's favored poet: "There eame a change, the cloud rolled off, A light fell on my brain, And like the passing of a dream, That cometh not again. The darkness of my spirit fled, I saw the gulf before; And shuddered at the waste behind. And am a man once more." THE 88 DRUNKARD ACT V. SCENE I.— Village Enter, landscape, as in Act J.—Side cottage, L. U . E . F A R M E R S T E V E N S , R . , and F A R M E R G A T E S , L . , meeting. Stev. Good afternoon, Mr. Gates. You've returned from Boston earlier than common to-day. A n y news? anything strange, eh? Gates. W h y , ye-es, I guess there is. J u s t b y t h e Post Office I met William D o w t o n ; how are you, says I , and was driving slowly along, when he hailed me to stop, and—but I forgot to ask you, has Squire Cribbs heen here to-clay ? Stev. I have not seen the old knave—why do you ask so particular? Gates. Well, William, you know, is as honest as the sun, and h e told me there were dreadful suspicions that Cribbs tiad committed a heavy forgery on the firm of Rencelaw & Co., and as I was already in m y wagon, and had a good horse, h e wished I would drive out pretty quick, and if old Cribbs were here, manage to detain him till Mr. Rencelaw and William arrived with t h e police officers—that it the sly old fox were guilty he might be caught before he absquatulated. Stev. Well, I hope for the credit of the village, h e is not guilty of this bad action, though I have long known his heart was blacker than his coat. Witness his conduct to the sweetheart of Will's poor sister, Agnes. Did you tell him the glad news that her senses were restored?. Gates. No, our h u r r y was so g r e a t ; but his mind will be prepared for it, for good Dr. Wooclworth always told him her malady was but temporary. Stev. Well, the poor girl has got some secret, I'm sure, and she'll not tell it any one but William. {exit, R. Gates. H a r k ! that's his voice; yes, here's William, sure enough. Enter, WILLIAM, L. —-Well, William, everything is just as you directed, but no signs of the old one yet. Will* The rascal's on his way to be sure. Bill P a r k i n s told me he saw him passing throught Kings bridge half a n hour before we came through there. I guess he's taken the upper read, to lead all pursuit out of the track. M r . Rencelaw and t h e police are a t the cross-roads, and I rather guess we can take charge of the lower part of the village; so there's no fear of our missing h i m ; mind, you're not to say anything to Edward Middleton. M r . Rencelaw would not have him disturbed till all is secure. Gates. Oh, I understand. H o w the whole village rejoiced when they saw him and his sweet wife return in peace and joy to the happy dwelling of their parents. Have you seen your sister, William? Will. No, farmer, I haven't seen t h e poor girl y e t . Nor do I wish it, till this business is all fixed. Gates. Ay, but she wants to see y o u ; she has got to tell you some secret. Will. A secret! some of her wild fancies, I reckon, poor girl. Gates. William, you are mistaken; your clear sister's mind is quite restored. THE DRUNKARD. 89 Will. W h a t ! h o w ? Don't trifle with me, farmer, I could not stand it. Gates. I tell you, William, she is sane, quite well, as Dr. Woodworth said she would he. Will. W h a t ! will she know and call me by my name again? Shall I hear her sweet voice carolling to the sun at early m o r n i n g will she take her place among the singers at the old meeting-house again? Shall I once more at evening hear her m u r m u r the prayers our poor old mother taught her ? Thank heaven! thank heaven! Gates. Come, William, come, rouse you, she's coming. Agnes. t (without, E . ) "They called her blue-eyed Mary, When friends and fortune smiled." Will. Farmer, just stand back for a moment or t w o ; all will be right in a few minutes. (exit FARMER, R. Entei, A G N E S , plainly but neatly dressed, ix.—Sees her brother. Agnes. William! brother! if ill. My darling sister! (embrace Agnes. I know you, William ; I can speak to yon, and hear you, dear, dear brother. Will. May H e be praised for this. Agnes. William, I have much to tell you, and 'tis important that you should know it instantly. I know E d w a r d Micldleton is here, and it concerns him most. W h e n I recovered m y clear senses, William, when I remembered the meeting-house, and the old homestead, and the little dun cow I used to milk, and poor old iSTeptune, and could call them by their names Will* Bless you I Agnes. Strange fancies would keep forming in my poor brain, and remembrances flit along my memory like half-forgotten dreams. But among them, clear and distinct, was that fearful day when old Cribbs would have abused me, and you, clear brother, saved me. Will. Darn the old v a r m i n t ! Agnes. Hush, William, the memory of that precise spot would still intrude upon me, and a vague thought that when insane I had concealed myself, and seen something hidden. Searching round carefully one day, I saw a little raised artificial hillock close beneath the hedge. I went and got a hoe from Farmer William's barn, and after digging near a foot below, I found—what think you, William? Will. What, girl—what? Agnes. Concealed in an old tin case, the will of E d w a r d ' s grandfather! Confirming to his dear son the full possession of all his property. The other deed under which Cribbs has acted was a forgery Will. W h e r e is it now ? Agnes. In the house, safe locked up in mother's bureau till }rou returned. Enter, Rence. the hill. RENCELAW, Police Officers and Boy, hastily, L. Friend William, Cribbs is on the upper road coming down THE 40 Enter, DRUNKARD F A R M E R GATES and F A R M E R S T E V E N S , R. Will. F a r m e r Gates, do you meet him h e r e ; answer any questions he m a y ask with seeming frankness. Sister, he is after that will, even now. Mr. Eencelaw, let us retire into the house and watch the old rascal. {exeunt into house, L. TJ. E . , all except GATES Gates, '{alone) Well, am I to lie now, if he asks any questions? It's a new thing to me, and I ' m afeared I can't do it, even in a good cause. Well, if I m u s t n ' t tell trutli exactly, I must do as the papers say the members do in Congress, and dodge the present question. Enter, C R I B B S , L . , hurriedly, evidently alarmed—Starts FARMER, then, familiarly. at seeing Crib. Good day, farmer, good d a y ; your folks all well ? Gates. All sound and hearty. Crib. A n y news, eh ? Gates. Nothing particular; corn's riz a little; sauce is lower. Potatoes hold their own, and Wilkin's cow's got a calf. Crib* Been in N e w York, lately, eh ? Gates. W h y , yes, I was in the city this morning. Crib. Did you see William Dowton, there, e h ? ' Gates. N o , not in N e w York, (aside) That's dodge number one. Crib. Fine afternoon, e h ? Gates. Yes, fine day, considering. Crib. Likely.to rain, eh? Gates. If it does we shall have a shower, I guess, (aside) Come* blackcoat didn't make much out of me this time. (exit into house, L. U. E . Crib. He's gone! N o one observes me. Now, then, for the will, and instant flight! If I take the lower road I shall escape ail observation. Haste—haste! (exit, R. Enter, from house, W I L L I A M , EENCELAW, A G N E S , Farmers, lice Officers, and Boy. Po- Will. There he goes by t h e lower road. Boy, was that the man gave you the paper. Boy. I ' m sure of it, sir. Will. Mr. Eencelaw, you know enough, sir, from what I have said, perfectly to understand our purpose? Hence. Perfectly, honest William. Will. Now, Farmer Gates, he's gone round by the lower road, evidently to get clear of being seen if possible, N o w , if u e cut pretty quick across F a r m e r William's pasture we are there before him, and can keep ourselves concealed. Gates. Certainly, William. Will. Come along, then. Now, old Cribbs, I calculate you'll find a hornet's nest about your ears pretty almighty quick. (exeunt, R. SCENE Enter, WILLIAM, IL—Fiont EENCELAW, and Cut Wood. A G N E S , Boy, Officers, R. Farmers, and Police THE Enter, DRUNKARD C R I B B S , cautiously and fearful, 41 L. Will. All r i g h t ; we're here first, now for ambuscade. All hide behind t h e trees, H a s h ! I hear a footstep, he's coming round the barn. Close, close. (all retire, L . Crib, All's safe—I'm certain no one has observed me. Will, (aside) W h a t would you like to bet ? i Crib. H a r k ! 'tis nothing. 'Now for the will; from ths f a t a l evidence I shall at least be secure, (advances to the mound, n., and starts) Powers of mischief I the earth is freshly turned, (searches) The deed is g o n e ! Enter, AGNES hastily, and down L.—In a tone of madness. The will is gone—the bird has flown. The rightful heir has gothis own!—ha! ha! Crib, (paralyzed and recovering) devil, you shall pay for this. H a ! betrayed! r u i n e d ! Mad (rushes toward her W I L L I A M enters, catches his arm, and holds up the will—Police Officer, who has got to R., seizes other arm, and points pistol to his head— R E N C E L A W holds up forged check, and points to it—Boy, n., pointing to CRIBBS—Farmers, it. c— Picture—Pause. Will. Trapped ! All day with you, Squire. Hence. H u s h ! William, do not oppress -a poor down-fallen fellow creature. Most unfortunate of men, sincerely do T pity you. Crib, (recovering—bold and obdurate) Will your pity save me from the punishment of m y misdeeds? N o ! w h e n companion is quired I'll beg it of the proud philanthropist, Arclen Rencelaw. Bence. U n h a p p y wretch ! W h a t motives could you have? This world's goods were plenty with you—what tempted you into these double deeds of guilt ? Crib, Revenge and avarice, the master-passions of my nature. W i t h my h e a r t ' s deepest, blackest feelings, I hated the father of Edward Midclleton. In early life he detected me in an act of vile atrocity, that might have cost me my life. H e would not betray, but pardoned, pitied, and despised me. From that hour I hated, with a feeling of intensity that has existed even beyond the grave, descending unimpaired to his noble son. By cunning means, which you would call hypocrisy, I wormed myself into the favor of the grandfather, who, in his djdng hour, delivered into my hands h's papers. 1 and an accomplice*, whom I bribed, forged the false p a p e r s ; the villain left the country. Fearful he should denounce me, should he return, I dared not destroy the real n i l ! ; but yesterday the news reached me that he was dead. And now, one blow of evil fortune has destroyed me. Pence. Repentance may yet avail 3rou? Crib. Nothing. I have lived a villain—a villain let me die (exit, with Officers and Farmers Pence. William, tell Middleton I shall see him in a clay or t w o ; I must follow (hat poor man to New York. Will, Oh, Mr. Rencelaw, what blessings can repay you. 42 THE DRUNKARD, Hence. The blessings of m y own approving conscience. " T h e heart of the feeling man is like the noble tiee, which, wounded itself, yet pours forth precious balm.'" When the jnst man quits this transitory world, the dark anael of death enshrouds him with heavenly ]oy, and bears his smiling spirit to the bright regions of eternal bliss. (exit, KENCELAW, leading boy, R. Will. Well, if there's a happier man in all the world than Bill Dowton, I should like to see him. My brother E d w a r d again a man—you, my dear sister, again restored to rae-come, we'll go tell all the n e w s ; h u r r a h ! h u r r a h ! (singing "We'll dance all night by the bright moonlight, And go home with the girls in the morning." LAST SCENE.—Interior of Cottage as in Act 1st, Scene 1st. Everything denoting domestic peace and tranquil happiness—The sun is setting over the hills at back of landscape—EDWARD discovered near music stand, R . — J U L I A seated on low stool on his L . — M A R Y sewing at handsome work table, L.—Elegant table, R. 2 B . , with astral lamp not lighted—Bible and other books on it.—Two beautiful flower-stands, with roses, myrtles, etc., under window, L. and R.—Bird-cages on wings, R. and L.—Covers of tables, chairs, etc., all extremely neat, and m keeping. EDWARD plays on flute symphony to "Home, Sweet Home."—JULIA sings first verse—Fluto solo accompaniment—The burthen is then taken up by chorus of villagers behind—Orchestral accompaniments, etc.—Gradually crescendo, Jorte.— Villagers enters from c. gradually, grouping L . and c.—Action of recognition and good wishes, etc., while melody is progressing—The melody is repeated quicker, and all retire with exception of E D W A R D , M A R Y , J U L I A , W I L L I A M and A G N E S , singing, and becoming gradually diminuendo—Air repeated slowly—JULIA kneels to E D W A R D , who is at table, R., seated, in prayer.—EDWARD'S hand on Bible, and pointing up— M A R Y standing, leaning upon his chair—WILLIAM and A G N E S , L. C,—Music till curtain falls—Picture. THE EN£ 3 My Pard Tne Fairy of The Tunnel. - O R - A Western Drama in 4 acts, by Len Ware, for 6 male, 5 female characters. Time of playing, 2 hours. SYNOPSIS OF EVENTS. ACT I.—Home of Mrs. Divine—Katie, the Irish servant girl—Lucky Bill and Katie—'-Squire, and he's no gentleman"—Lawyer Smart arrives, to give Charley Divine p a p e r s and instructions, how to find the lost heiress—Unexpected arrival of Charley, half drunk—Lost $500 on the eagle—"You're a drunken,fool! Charley, you will break your mother's heart"—"I'll reform"—"Here are the papers, now you must go"—Lucky Bill a scoundrel—Charley places p a p e r s on table and greets his mother—Lucky Bill changes p a p e r s and pockets those belonging to Charley—"If you have any trouple. Katie will come and identify the lost heiress"—The farewell—"Mother, I'll find my father, or his grave"—Lucky Bill t r i u m p h a n t . ACT II.—A mining town in the Sierras—Santa-Anna's* saloon—Lucky Bill and others a t table—Carrots and the squirrel—Santa Anna and Carrots—"Don't kill the girl"—Col Billy interferes—"Total wreck! total wreck!"—My P a r d and Col Billy—Pard's story of the blue eyed baby—Charley arrives, surprising Lucky Bill—A game of bluff—Bill shows his hand and tells Charley t h a t Belle is the heiress, and she is to be his wife—Chai-ley w a r n s Belle, and makes an enemy of Bill, but gains the friendship of Carrots and My Pard—Pard and Charley become p a r t n e r s in the tunnel—"We'll strike it rich some day, there's gold there, I've been here since '49, and orter know"—The stolen papers—"Lucky Bill, you are not only a gambler, but a thief! you have stolen my papers"—"Have a care tenderfoot, nothing would suit me better, t h a n to draw this knife across your throat"—Carrots and My P a r d interfere—%I'd like to p u t a head on him"— "Drop'er stranger, drop'er." ACT III.—Lucky Bill communes with himself—Carrots and Lucky Bill— " W h a t are you doing in My P a r d ' s door-yard?"—Col Billy on the s c e n e Banished by the vigilants, total wreck! total wreck!"—Carrot's song—Charley gives Carrots p a p e r to keep—"Keep the secret, I love you Carrots"—Pard and Carrots—"Charley kissed me P a r d ; tell me Pard, did you ever love anyone?"— P a r d ' s story of the blue eyed baby in the cradle and the wife t h a t is waiting for him—A sad, sad story—The Christmas dinner^-"Nothing b u t coon, coon straight, once a year you require coon; I've been here since '49, I orter k n o w " —*'Of course he orter know, he's always right, I know w h a t coon is—why—well coon is coon"—Pard's poverty, no credit—Carrot steals bread of S a n t a A n n a Charley tells My P a r d how he fought Lucky Bill in the tunnel and got the paper back—"OJ Charley, the vigilants, give me the paper, they won't h u r t an old m a n like me"—Charley's Christmas song—Pard discovers in Charley his blueeyed baby, before he can tell him, the vigilants are upon them—Arrest of Charley—Pard tells them t h a t Charley is innocent, t h a t it w a s himself that stole the paper—Arrest of My Pard. ACT IV,—The t r i a l of My Pard—Charley's errand to the tunnel—Arrival of Lawyer|Smart—Col Billy's oath—That yaller dog—The penalty is death—Carrots pleads for My Pard—Lawyer as a witness—"Never lost a case or made a mistake in my life"—Katie swears he is no lawyer—Smart regains, the stolen papers—Lucky Bill accused—"Save me from the vigilants"—Charley finds ?i father and a sweetheart—Katie's song—surprise of Carrots, who joins in the chorus—"Carrots, the lost heiress is found"—Gold in the tunnel—"Struck it rich at last, I knew we would, been here since '49, I orter know"—"Carrots, I hope you will always keep a place in your heart for 'My P a r d ' . " P r i c e 2 5 c . ESTABLISHED 1870—TWENTY-TWO YEAES OF SUCCESS ! 500,000 PLAYS WANTED. Do not retain your copies of Plays you do not desire to use, but take advantage of the EXTRAORDINARY OFFER! made only by Ames' Publishing House ! W e will exchange Plays as follows: For every copy sent us published by Baker, Roorbach, Denison, and of French's Standard Dramas, we will send one from Our Own List, which is headed: "Ames* Series W e w i l l n o t e x c h a n g e for Lacy's, Dick's, Cumberland Edition; or, P l a y s i o O u r L i s t i The books sent us must be clean and whole. Prepay your postage or express charges. Do not ask us if we will exchange any other way —it will be time wasted. Address, AMES' PUB'G. GO., Lock Box 152. CLYDE, OHIO; » o » W Always remember that we fill orders for any Play published, no matter whether you see it on any of the catalogues we send out or not. Don't fail to put your adU dress on wrapper. In your order state titles of books and number of plays sent in for d"W/n>"k cs T& e r a S £?^n@g@ requests are not complied with DJLOUMJJLg C?e g no notice ^wiUb^^ivTOyoyr or&On the Sly 3 2 : ro ^ .Zinies' Plays—Continued, NO. NO. 57 217 165 195 159 171 180 267 309 48 138 115 55 . 327 232 241 270 1 326 339 137 328 252 315 40 38 101 167 308 285 68 295 54 28 292 142 276 263" 7 281 312 269 170 213 332 151 56 70 135 147 155 111 157 Paddy Miles' Boy 5 2 Patent Washing Machine 4 1 Persecuted Dutchman 6 3 PoorPilicody 2 3 Quiet Family 4 4 Rough Diamond... 4 3 Ripples 2 0 Room 44 .' 2 0 Santa Claus' Daughter 5 4 Schnaps 1 1 Sewing Circle of Period 0 5 S. H. A M. Pinafore 3 3 Somebody's Nobody 3 2 Strictly Temperance 2 2 Stage Struck Yankee 4*2 Struck bv Lightning 2 2 Slick «nd Skinner ,5 0 SI a .^bpr and Crasher 5 2 Too Many Cousins 3 3 Two Gentlemen in a Fix 2 * Takiner the Census 1 1 The Landlords Revenge 3 That Awful Gurnet Bag 3 3 Thnt Rascal Pat 3 2 Th-it Mvsterious B'dle 2 The Bewitched Closet 5 The Coming Man 3 Turn Him Out 3 The Actor's Scheme 4 The Trish Squire of Squash Ridge 4 The Mashers Mnshed 5 The Sham Professor 4 The Spellin' Skewl 7 The Two T . J ' s 4 Thirty-rhree Next Birthday 4 Tim Flannigan 5 Tit for Tat. 2 The Printer and His Devils.. 3 Trials of a Country Editor.... 6 The Wonderful Telephone..,. 3 Two Aunt Emilys 0 Uncle Ethan 4 Unjust Justice 6 U . S . Mail ~ 2 Vermont W°°l Dealer 5„ Which is Which 3 Wanted a Husband 2 Wooing Under Difficulties 5 Which wilThe Mnrry 2 Widower's Trials 4 Waking Him U p . Why they Joined the ReYankee DuelistYankee Peddler.. GUIBE BOOKS. .17 Hints on Elocution 130 Hints to Amateurs CANTATA. 215 On to Viciorv 3i_ 4 M " M,, p. E T H I O P I A N FARCER. • 2 4 3.5 65 15 172 21 214 145 190 '27 153 230 103 24 236 319 47 77 256 128 90 61 244 234 150 246 109 297 134 258 177 96 107 133 179 94 243 25 92 Academy of Stars ;6 0 A Coincidence...i . J8 0 An Unwelcome Re turn 3 1 An Unhappy Pair ,1 1 Black Shoemaker : 4 2 Black Statue :... 4 -2 Colored Senators 3* 0 Chops :. .3 0 Cuff's Luck 2 Crimps Trip.. Fetter Lane to Gravesend... Haunted House Hamlet the Dainty How Sister Paxey got her Child Baptized Handy Andy^ Hypochondriac The In For It In the Wrong Box Joe's Vis t c. Mischievous Nigger Midnight Colic.. Musical Darkey ,2 No Cure No Pay : 3 Not as Deaf as He Seems .3 Old Clothes 3 Old Dad's Cabin 3 OldPomney t Othello.: 4 Other People's Children 3; Pomp Green's Snakes 2 Pomn's Pranks ;. 2; Prof.Bones'LatestInvention 5,, Quarrelsome Servants 3 Rooms to Let -f S School ." 5'. Seeing Bosting 3^ Sham Doctor....". .*. 3 16,000 Years Ago :. 3i Sports on a Lark 3( Sport with a Sportsman 2\ Stage Struck Darkey 2j Strawberry Shortcake ;2 Stocks Up, Stocks Down 2 That Boy Sam :...... 3. The ]rfest Cure .... 4< ( The Intelligence Office.: 3i The Select School 5 The Popcorn Man 3 The Studio 3 Those Awful Boys 5 Ticket Taker .• 3 Twain's Dodging 3 Tricks 5 Uncle Jeff 5 Vice Versa *...... 3 Villkens and Dinah, 4 Virginia Mumir^ 6 Who-Stole the Cmckens 1 William Tell A WUr-Maker and His Servants 3 Happy Franks Songter.. The Little Gem Make-Up Box. Price 50 Cents.