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 SERGEL'S 
 
 Comic .Dialogues 
 
 u-CM IC A.GOG 
 
 d 
 
 TOE-DRAMATIC-PUBLISHING -COMPANY. 
 
PRACTICAL INSTRUCTIONS 
 
 FOR 
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 By W. D. EMERSON. 
 
 Author of "A',Country Romance," "The Unknown Rival*" "Hix*» 
 ble Pie," etc. 
 
 Price, 25 cents. 
 
 Here is a practical hand-book, describing in detail all the ac* 
 
 gessories, properties, scenes and apparatus necessary for an ama- 
 teur production. In addition to the descriptions in words, every- 
 thing is clearly shown in the numerous pictures, more than one- 
 hundred being inserted in the book. No such useful book has* 
 ever been offered to the amateur players of any country. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter I. Introductory Remarks. 
 
 Chapter II. Stage, How to Make, etc. xn drawing-rooms 
 ar parlors, with sliding or hinged doors. In a single large room, 
 The Curtain; how to attach it, and raise it, etc. 
 
 Chapter III. Arrangement of Scenery. How to hangite 
 Drapery, tormentors, wings, borders, drops. 
 
 Chapter IY. Box Scenes. Center door pieces, plain wings, 
 door wings, return pieces, etc. 
 
 Chapter V. How to Light the Stage. Oil, gas and electric 
 lights. Footlights, Sidelights, Reflectors. How to darken the 
 Dtage, etc. 
 
 Chapter VI. Stage Effects. Wind, Rain, Thunder, Break- 
 Sing Glass, Falling Buildings, Snow, Water, Waves, Cascades, 
 Passing Trains, Lightning, Chimes, Sound of Horses' Hoofs, Shota, 
 
 Chapter VII. Scene Painting. 
 
 Chapter VIII. A Word to the Property Man. 
 
 Chapter IX. To the Stage Manager. 
 
 Chapter X. The Business Manager. 
 
 Address Orders to 
 
 THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
 
 CHICAGO. 
 
SERGEL'S 
 
 Comic Dialogues 
 
 SELECTIONS FOR AMATEUR AND 
 
 PARLOR THEATRICALS AND 
 
 SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS 
 
 Copyright, IQO4, by The Dramatic Publishing Company. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
Two Copies fi 
 
 DEC 30 1304 
 
 Copyrigm tntry. 
 
 cuss a. xxc, Not 
 
 COPY B» 
 
 *rt» 
 
 
 
 iO > 
 
 yf 
 
CONTEXTS 
 
 OF 
 
 SERGEL'S COMIC DIALOGUES 
 
 A Wife by Advertisement Clifton Cliffe. 5 
 
 (Four Male and and two Female Characters.) 
 Caught at Last Nomad. 10 
 
 /Two Male and one Female Characters.) 
 The Blue Stocking , Delissa Joseph. 15 
 
 (One Male and two Female Characters.) 
 My Mysterious Rival J. Palgrave Simpson, 19 
 
 (Two Male'and two Female Characters.) 
 Don't he too Quick to cry Wolf T. Edgar Pemberton. 30 
 
 (Two Male and one Female Characters.) 
 Number Two Austin Friars. 40 
 
 (Two Male and three Female Characters.) 
 A Fireside Story Walter Gordon. 47 
 
 (Two Male and three Female Characters.) 
 A Cloud in the Honeymoon J. Palgrave Simpson. 55 
 
 (One Male and one Female Character.) 
 Loved and Lost ^ Austin Friars 65 
 
 (Two Male and one Female Characters.) 
 True F. Allen Laidlaw. 71 
 
 (Three Male and two Female Characters.) 
 Picking up the Pieces.. si 
 
 (One Male and one Female Character.) 
 A Lover's S^ta^m S. T. A. X. 02 
 
 (Eight Male Characters.) 
 Mr - x Sydney Rosen f eld. 105 
 
 (Three Male and three Female Characters.) 
 
A WIFE BY ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Clyde Clynton, of the Custom House. 
 Madge Clynton, his wife. 
 Jack Clynton, his brother. 
 Valerie De Vigne, an adventuress. 
 James, a servant. 
 Detective. 
 
 Scene. — Nicely furnished room in Clyde Clynton's house, Rose Grove, 
 Fordham. Clyde and Madge discovered at Breakfast. 
 
 Madge. Well, Clyde dear, you haven't to go to that odious Custom 
 House to-day, have you? So we shall have one more day together. I 
 don't know what I shall do when you go back. Only fancy, it will 
 seem so dreadful your being away from ten till four every day! 
 
 Clyde. Hardly so bad as that, ducky; you know I never go till 
 nearly eleven o'clock, and nearly always return about half-past two 
 or three. 
 
 Madge. Yes ; but consider how terribly hard you have to work 
 during that time. Now, what do you really do in the office ? 
 
 Clyde. Well, dearest, I make it a rule to read whatevers interest- 
 ing in the " Times" and the "Herald," first of all, then I go and get 
 a glass of lager, and smoke a weed, and then 
 
 Madge. (Anxiously). What then? 
 
 Clyde. Oh! then I go back and look through the other papers, do 
 a little writing, and come home. 
 
 Madge. And you are expected to do all that for $2000 a-year? It's 
 preposterous. Really shameful. 
 
 Clyde. Yes, my dear, it is ; but do you know, I sometimes think 
 that I might do worse, for I have my evenings free, and manage to 
 make another thousand by writing critiques, musical and theatrical, 
 for the papers, which same writing I manage to do, between times, in 
 the office. Now there's my poor young brother, Jack, he's in the 
 Patent Office, and has any amount of work to do, a great deal harder 
 than mine, and he only gets $1000 a-year for it. Poor old Jack, I 
 wonder what his next craze will be ? * You know, pet, that Jack is 
 always going in for something fresh. 
 
 (A knock at the door. Clyde calls) Come in. (A pause, and then louder) 
 Come in. (Amothcr pause — he shouts) Come in! (Enter James r. d.) 
 
 Clyde. {Angrily). Why the Dickens didn't you come in when I 
 told you ? 
 
 James. (Rubbing his hands). Well, sir— You see, sir — I've been in 
 a goodish many situations, sir — and you see, sir, newly married 
 couples, sir 
 
 Clyde. (In a rage). Newly married fools. 
 
 James. Yes, sir; certainly, sir; newly married fools, sir, don't 
 usually like servants to come in too quick, sir. 
 
6 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Clyde. What the Dickens do you mean ? — do you dare to insinuate 
 that / am — am — am — am a fool ? 
 
 James. Oh, sir! no, sir! certainly not, sir; I hopes I knows — (In 
 trepidation) — my place, sir; and if you please, sir, a boy brought this 
 letter, sir, he says it's from the Patent Office, sir 
 
 Madge. The Patent Officer ? — does he mean some new kind of an 
 officer. 
 
 James. Oh, no, miss. 
 
 Clyde. Dash it all, sir, your mistress is not a miss. 
 
 James. No, sir, I shouldn't think as how she was amiss, sir! I 
 thinks that on the contrairy she's rather pretty, sir. 
 
 Clyde. Confound your impudence • this is intolerable. Give me 
 the letter, and go to the devil. 
 
 Madge. This is going too far; I won't listen any longer. {Exit L.D.) 
 
 James. (Giving letter). Yes, sir; certainly, sir. Will you pay my 
 fare, sir? 
 
 Clyde. You're very near to a fool. 
 
 James. (Edging close up to Clyde). Yes, sir, I think I am, sir. 
 
 Clyde. Get out of this, will you ? 
 
 James. Yes, sir ; the boy's waiting, sir. 
 
 Clyde. Go to the devil. 
 
 James. Yes, sir; I'll tell him you're coming, sir. (Exit R. D.) 
 
 Clyde tears open the letter, and reads aside : — 
 
 "Dear Clyde, — I have been and gone and done it at last." I guess 
 it ain't the first time. "I have gone in a buster." The Dickens he 
 has. "I have advertised in " Matrimonial Times " as follows." Phew — 
 w — w. "'A gentleman of good family, and most prepossessing ap- 
 pearance, 24 years of age, tall, fair, with blue eyes and auburn hair." 
 Auburn hair! "and of most gentle and loving disposition, wishes to 
 meet with a lady who has a moderate income of her own, with a view 
 to matrimony." Oh, Law! "C. J., No. 1024, this office." Well, old 
 man, I got no less than five hundred and eighty-six replies, half of 
 which enclosed portraits — one of them was grand. It was from Mrs. 
 Valerie De Vigne, a widow without encumbrances, and $3000 a-year, 
 more or less." Yes, especially less, I'll bet. "She wants to marry 
 just such a young fellow as I. Of course she asked for an appoint- 
 ment. What was I to do ; a poor beggar living in furnished apart- 
 ments, consisting of one small bed- room ; I couldn't ask her there ! " 
 I suppose not. " So I told her I was living at Rose Grove, Fordham," 
 Dash it! that's here. " and should be glad to see her on the 25th," 
 Confound it, that's to-day. " at 12 o'clock." (Looking at watch.) And 
 it's half -past eleven now. " I applied for leave, but have failed to get 
 it ; so you must see her for me, and explain and all that, and I will 
 come round at two. Till then, your affectionate brother, Jack." Well, 
 here's a pretty kettle of fish. What will Madge say ? I can't tell her 
 that Jack's made such a dunce of himself. (Enter Madge l. d.) I 
 must dissemble — Ah, Madge ! — a lady is coming to see me on business 
 at 12 o'clock ; will you kindly see that 
 
 Madge. (Angrily). A lady! what do you mean, sir? Only just 
 married to me, and receiving letters from ladies, making appointments 
 under this very roof. It's shameful! — It's horrible! — I won't allow 
 it, sir! 
 
 Clyde. (In mock, tragic tones). Now, Madge, just listen. It is not 
 an affair of my own : it is about a " government contract " I have to see 
 her. I would willingly tell you all about it, but my duty to my country 
 seals my lips. J have to see her, and Jack has to see her — he is com- 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 7 
 
 ing for that purpose at two o'clock. The fate of this great country 
 depends upon our secrecy. 
 
 Madge. Oh, very well, I will retire when she arrives. {Aside). And 
 if I don't listen through the keyhole to all you say, I'm not a woman. 
 
 Clyde walks across the room, takes a pipe from a rack, Jills it, lights 
 it and tries to smoke, finds it won't draw. 
 
 Clyde. Have you a hairpin, Madge ? 
 
 Madge. No! I don't hairpin to have one — 
 
 Clyde. Oh! well then, I suppose it's " needles" to ask you. 
 
 Madge. Oh! I wonder you don't keep one specially for your nasty 
 old pipe. 
 
 Clyde. It's not a nasty old pipe; it's my best friend. 
 
 Madge. Then I count for nothing — Oh — oh — (Takes out her hand- 
 kerchief and commences to cry). 
 
 Clyde. (Sympathetically). Now, don't be foolish, Madge; of course 
 you are very much more than a friend. You are my ownest own, my 
 duckey, darling wifey, and no one can ever be preferred to you! 
 
 Madge. Then if that is true, I won't cry any more. (Loud knock 
 at door R.) 
 
 Clyde (shouts) Come in. 
 
 Enter James. Please, sir, a lady to see you, sir; (aside) and aint 
 she a flash 'un neither. Oh, no! not at all. 
 
 Clyde. Show her up at once, James. Madge, my darling, will you 
 kindly retire ? (Exit James r. d. Madge l. d.) 
 
 Clyde. By Jove! suppose she takes me for Jack. Happy thought: 
 I'll pretend I am Jack, and find out all I can about her, — Ah, here she 
 comes (rushes to glass, arranges his hair and moustache. 
 
 (Enter r. d.Valerie, followed closely by James; she rushes to Clyde 
 and seizes his hand). 
 
 Val. Oh, Mr. Clynton, if you but knew how I have longed for this 
 moment. 
 
 James. (Aside). Well, if that aint warm. Strikes me, I've heard 
 that voice before, and she's just about the height of that sister of mine 
 that went to be housekeeper to old Fitznoodle. 
 
 Clyde. (Discovering James). James, how dare vou enter without 
 being called ? Leave the room at once, or I'll " 
 
 James. Oh, Law!— Oh, Law!— aint his temper up neither. (Exit 
 James r. d. ) 
 
 Val. Now, Mr. Clynton, now we have met, I think you are even 
 better and nicer than I had imagined, and I feel sure that we shall be 
 very happy together. 
 
 Clyde. Do you, though? 
 
 Val. Yes, I do. Don't you ? 
 
 Clyde. Well, you see, I can't see what you are like. 
 
 Val. (liaising her veil). Now, sir, will l"do ? 
 
 Clyde. (Aside). She's devilish pretty, but rather too much paint. 
 (To Val). Yes, you may; but of course you know we've got a lot to 
 talk about, and to see more of each other before we settle matters. 
 
 Val. Oh, yes, of course we have. In the first place I must tell 
 you that when I married my poor dear Mr — ah — Jones. 
 
 Clyde. Jones? I thought his name was De Vigne ? 
 
8 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Val. Of course. You see, Jack, the excitement of this meeting i s 
 too much for me, driving my head all topsy-turvy ; fancy my forgetting 
 the name of my husband. It's quite too awfully absurd, now, isn't it f 
 
 Clyde. Yes; yes. Quite too — too — utterly, intensely ah — con- 
 summately absurd — (aside) — and very suspicious, too. 
 
 Val. Oh, Jack! do you go in for aesthetics then? I do so love 
 aesthetics. 
 
 Clyde. Oh, you do — do you? (Aside). She's an impostor; I must 
 manage to dismiss her and save my brother. (Knock at the door, R.) 
 
 Clyde. Dash it ! it's — Oh, I am sure — I beg your pardon- — Come 
 in. (Enter James r. d. ) 
 
 James. Please, sir, missus sent me to say — (Val starts) — would you 
 like some wine sent in. 
 
 Clyde. Wine, not— Ah, yes, of course by all means; yes, send it — 
 that is, bring it in. (Aside). Just the thing: Fll give her an over-dose 
 and find out all. (Exit James r. d.) 
 
 Val. What did I hear? — his mistress sent him! Who is that, Jack? 
 Are you — ma — ma — ma — married already ? 
 
 Clyde. My wife — no — my sister keeps house for me. You see, the 
 excitement of this meeting is driving things topsy-turvey in my mind 
 now. (Another knock). Come in. (Enter James with refreshments R. d.) 
 
 Val. You will introduce me to your sister, I hope ? 
 
 Clyde. Not I — that is — oh yes, of course. 
 
 James. (Aside). His sister — whatever is the game? And her voice, 
 too. I am almost certain it is my sister. I'll get round to the front 
 and look at her. (Creeps round; Val. looks at him, then drops Iter veil). 
 
 James. (Aside). L could almost swear to it! Fll watch — Fll go in 
 the next room and look through the keyhole. No, I can't though, 
 'cause missus is a-doin that.— Oh, I know! I'll pop in suddenly, with- 
 out knockin', and I'll catch her then, I'll warrant. 
 
 Clyde. Now, James, what are yon waiting for ? You can go. 
 
 James. Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. (Aside.) Fll catch you yet, Miss 
 Jemima, see if I don't. (Exit R. d.) 
 
 Val. helps herself to a glass of wine; drinks it off. Clyde starts. 
 
 Clyde. (Aside). Well, she's a bold one. 
 
 Val. Well, Jack, as I was saying, when I married poor Jo De 
 
 Vigne, I was only a girl. We lived most happily together, and when 
 he died he left me all his fortune, which brings me in about $2000. 
 
 Clyde. Ah, yes! just the same as my salary at the Custom House. 
 
 Val. But I thought you said you were in the Patent Office, and 
 only got $1000 a-year. 
 
 Clyde. Yes, of course, I meant the same as my younger — that is, 
 elder brother gets at the Custom House — so that it, it's necessary for 
 my brother— I mean for me, to get married to someone with a little 
 money of her own. 
 
 Madge. (From other room). Oh! you brute, you. 
 
 Clyde and Val. both jump from their seats. 
 
 Val. What was that? 
 
 Clyde. Oh, ah ! my sister talking to the dog m the next room, I 
 expect, that's all 
 
 Madge from the next room screams. 
 
 Clyde. Oh ! the brute must have bitten her. I must go and see. 
 (Exit in haste L. D.) 
 Val. 'Tis all very strange. I almost believe he is as big a swindler 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. n 9 
 
 as myself; but what am I to do ? I must get married, and that quickly; 
 for, with a husband, nobody would suspect me of being Jemima Jones, 
 Fitznoodle's housekeeper, who ran off' with all his portable property 
 during his absence at Newport. And those horrible detectives too, 
 they are following me, I know, but I will throw them off the track yet. 
 
 Madge. (Screaming in next room). Go away, you brute, leave me at 
 once ; go back to that woman. 
 
 Val. What's that I hear? I must listen. — (Goes to keyhole: suddenly 
 starts away again). What's that? Oh, the wretch, he calls her his 
 darling wife ; he's married already. (Faints. Enter James, r. d. 
 
 James. Now madam, or miss, we'll see who you are. (Goes uj) to 
 Val. and raises her veil). Yes! it is as I thought, my long lost 
 sister. 
 
 Enter r. d. Clyde and Madge, arm-in-arm. 
 
 Clyde. What are you doing there, James? 
 
 James. A-looking at my sister, sir. 
 
 Clyde and Madge together. Your sister? 
 
 James. Yes, my sister. 
 
 Clyde. Then it's clear she's an impostor. 
 
 James. Did she say as how she warn't my sister then? 
 
 Clyde. No, but she said shu was somebody else, which is much the 
 same thing. 
 
 James. Oh, Law ! Oh, Law I Sharper than a serpent's sister it are 
 to have an ungrateful tooth. No, that aint it, I'm wrong somewhere. 
 (Knock at door, B.) 
 
 Clyde calls Come in. (Enter Detective r. d.) 
 
 Clyde. Well, sir, what's your business? 
 
 Detective. I am a detective from the Central Office, and from in- 
 formation received 
 
 James. Oh, Law ! that's a fine saying, and quite new too ; I'll put 
 it down. (Takes out pocket-book). 
 
 Clyde. Shut up. 
 
 James. ( IVritiug). Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. From i-n in f-o-r for 
 m-a-y may s-h-u-n tion information r-e re s-e-e see e-v-e-d eved, from 
 information received I shuts up. 
 
 Detective. Well, sir, we have been informed that a lady that we 
 want, has been seen to enter this house, and — Oh, there she is — 
 (Crosses to Val., who lias just recovered). Miss Jemima Jones, you are 
 my prisoner on a charge of robbery. 
 
 James. Oh, Law ! from information received. I casts her off. She 
 aint no longer my sister. (Enter Jack in a hurry, k. d. 
 
 Jack. Clyde, old man, congratulate me, my salary is raised to $2000 
 at last, and I shan't have to marry a "Matrimonial Times" wife after 
 all. but go in the country, and espouse my dear little cousin Lillie, 
 whom I have loved all my life. 
 
 Clyde. We congratulate you, old boy, most heartily, though you 
 have put us in a pretty kettle of fish here. Here's this Mrs. Valerie 
 De Vigne, alias James's sister 
 
 James. No she aint; from inflammation — no, infonualion received 
 I casts her off. 
 
 Clyde. Well, then, this ]><rs<>n comes here, mistakes me for you, 
 puts Madge in no end of a way, and finishes up by getting arrested 
 for robbery. Let this be a warning, and if you happen to want a wife 
 again, don't try to get one by ;i«l\ ctt is«_-iii<*jit. 
 
 CURTAIN, 
 
10 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Lord Warton a fond, irritable father. 
 
 Mabel, his wilful daughter. 
 
 Cosmo d'Yncourt, her cousin and lover. 
 
 SCENE — Drawing-Boom in Lord Warton's House, Lord Warton 
 and Cosmo D'Yncourt in earnest conversation. 
 
 Lord W. {irritably.) Of course, I know you are a connection of 
 ours ; I don't dispute that fact. {Clears Ms throat after a fussy 
 manner.) (Erhum! Erhum!) In fact, you are quite justified in call- 
 ing yourself her cousin — after a fashion, after a fashion (Erhum! 
 Erhum!) {Gets up, and walks round, $c.) 
 
 Cosmo. I've loved Mabel from a boy, sir — my lord. 
 
 Lord W. {Sarcastically) Prom the time you were a boy, I presume 
 you mean, (Erhum! Erhum!) 
 
 Cosmo, {a little hotly.) Yes, of course I mean that, and it seems to 
 me incredible that my having come suddenly into 20,000 a year should 
 frustrate my hopes of winning her. 
 
 Lord W. It may well do so, but you don't know Mabel ; you see, 
 you have been away eight years and you don't know that girl, demme, 
 as she is now. Wilful is only a mild term for her whims and vagaries. 
 
 Cosmo. She loved me when we parted, or, at least, I had every rea- 
 son to think so. In fact {rising, with some temper) I'm sure she did. 
 
 Lord W. {irritably. ) Well, 'tisn't many men who can speak so 'cock- 
 sure.' Isn't that your nautical term ? (Erhum ! Erhum !) Why, sir, 
 I tell you she's a very devil of far-fetched ideas and contrarieties, and 
 the older she grows the worse she gets. As to making sure of her 
 favor — ha ! ha ! ha! I fancy many men have thought that same ; but 
 they've found their mistake, sir — they've found their mistake. For 
 my part {waxing confidential) I don't mind telling you, Davenant — hum ! 
 D'Yncourt — seems odd to call you so — I'm sick of it all; sick of it all. 
 She leads them along, and the blind fools don't see 'tis for her own 
 pleasure for the time, demme, I won't say for her own convenience ; 
 but there ! women must always have men dangling at their heels, 
 fetching and carying for 'em. They all come to me (Erhum ! Erhum !) 
 with the same tale, and she, demme, she only laughs at them and at me 
 into the bargain. All this I tell you, sir, is nothing new to me. I only 
 Wish with all my heart she'd marry you and have done with it. 
 
 Cosmo, {a shade bitterly.) If you had said that eight years ago it 
 would have been more to the point. 
 
 Lord W. {coolly.) Eight years ago, sir, you were young Cos. Dave- 
 nant, a poor devil of a navigating lieutenant, with something under 
 £100 a year. 
 
AMATEUR AKt) PALLOR THEATRICALS. 11 
 
 Cosmo, (bitterly.) I see. (With some warmth.) And yet you say 
 now that it is no use my coming to you, although you pronounce her 
 fancy free. I confess I do not understand you. Have you laid my 
 offer fairly before her, and explained matters fully, as stated in my 
 letter ? 
 
 Lord W. Yes, I tell you, and had the letter torn into bits before my 
 face, and laughed at for my pains. 
 
 Cosmo, (gloomily.) Fm convinced she did love me. I thought her 
 answer sure. 
 
 Lord W. (talcing snuff.) Nothing's sure in this world, but death and 
 taxes ; least of all, a girl's fancy ; there is no for ever in that ; they 
 said — at least, some fellow says — that "a man's for ever is until his 
 fancy changes, ,' so what can you expect from a woman's % (closes his 
 silver snuffbox with an impatient click.) Why, they're all weathercocks 
 for fickleness! they're asuustable, they're as unstable — demit, they're 
 as unstable as — as 
 
 Cosmo, (anxiously.) What does she say to my accession of fortune, 
 and consequent change of name ? 
 
 Lord W. (testily.) Nothing, nothing. She has a sovereign contempt 
 of money. 
 
 Cosmo, (rising, and flinging away his chair impatiently.) May I see 
 her ? I am altogether at sea ; there is some confounded mystery in all 
 this. 
 
 Lord W. See her ? Of course, by all means, and the sooner the 
 better — now, if you like. There is some chance in taking 'em unawares 
 (Erhum! Erhum! ) We are going to the opera to-night, and it's quite 
 time I was getting ready. I'll send word to her that's she's wanted ; 
 try your luck in person it ought to cell — try it w r ith all your might ; 
 you may bring her round, but she swears, egad ! she'll never marry a 
 rich man. (Erhum! Erhum!) I'm tired of her vagaries. Of course 
 I'm her father, and fond and proud of her, and I don't like (with some 
 emotion) to see her throwing away chance after chance, and remain- 
 ing single at her age, nearly thirty. By Jove ! demme, she ought to 
 think herself lucky to get such a chance. 
 
 Cosmo. For heaven's sake ! don't put it that way. If you did, no 
 wonder she took it badly, and tore up my cursed letter. 
 
 Lord W. Not I. Not I. All this is only between ourselves. 
 " Eutrenous, entrenous," as all the second-rate novel writers would 
 say, as if the Queen's English wasn't good enough for 'em to express 
 the little they've got to say in, demme, and a shade too good, I take 
 it, Ha ! ha ! ha ! (Exit, L. 
 
 Enter Mabel (r,) in evening dress, with opera cloak and gloves in 
 hand, singing "Oh, love for a day, a week, a year, But alas for 
 the love that loves al-wa^ ," goes to the glass and views herself, 
 continues humming the air, turns a waltzing step or two, and sees 
 Cosmo. (Starts.) 
 
 Cosmo. Mabel! (Somewhat frigidly.) 
 
 Mabel. Cosmo! ! Oh dear Cosmo! ! ! (Runs to him, takes his out- 
 stretched hand, looking eagerly into his face, with her own half 
 raised, expectantly. Cosmo remains coolly erect; she recoils 
 shivering, but presently sees he is only putting some severe restraint 
 on himself, when her natural wilfulness and vivaeity returns.) 
 (Demurely) You are looking much older, Cosmo. 
 
 Cosmo, (awkwardly.) Yes— I— um— suppose so. I have been rough- 
 ing it at sea for eight years. 
 
i2 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Mafbl. (sighing) Yes, for eight long years. 
 
 Cosmo, {impulsively.) Oh, my darling-, my old love, you are more 
 beautiful than ever. I must — I must kiss you this once ? at least I 
 have a coiisin?s right. 
 
 Mabel. Oh, Cosmo! (yielding:) (then pettishly retracting.) I hate 
 cousinly embraces. 
 
 Cosmo. You are too heartless, (desisting.) 
 
 Mabel, (loitli archness.) Nay, Cos. I think it is you who are heart- 
 less and — and (aside) stupid. (Looks up into his face, and once more 
 his arms close round her, and his lips loouldhave met hers, but she springs 
 aside with a ringing laugh.) Oh, dear, dear, I thought that was papa 
 coming. Hark ! do you not hear him stampeding about over-head ? 
 he's been raging all day in such gusts, because I vexed him about a 
 letter. 
 
 Cosmo. Ah, about D'Yncourt's offer. 
 
 Mabel, (blushing.) So he has already told you of my sins in that 
 quarter. Of course you know that I will never marry so- 
 
 Cosmo. But why will you not say yes, Mabel, darling ? 
 
 Mabel, (gasping.) Cosmo!!! And you— you only come to say 
 this to me, after^-after all these years! (stamps her foot with sudden 
 passion.) But, for all that, know that I will never marry like this. 
 Fancy! a disgusting creature writing such an insulting offer to a 
 woman who does not even know him by sight. I would not marry 
 such a coarse minded brute not even if he were stuffed with tenfold 
 his hateful gold. Now papa just make the best of it, for I will re- 
 main single all my — all my wretched miserable life. I wish I had never 
 been born. Cosmo ! ! You are a wretch, 
 
 Cosmo. I confess I cannot understand you. I thought you loved me. 
 
 Mabel. Are you an idiot? Of course I loved you — once (laughing 
 rather shrilly.) I don't deny it ; occasionally women are such fools, 
 but now- 
 
 Cosmo. Then why on earth don't you marry me ? 
 
 Mabel, (passionately.) Because now I hate you. 
 
 Cosmo. That's plain at all events. 
 
 Mabel. I always speak plainly, (fumbling ivith her gloves.) 
 
 Cosmo, (with some amusement.)' Those gloves seem tiresome to get 
 fastened. Shall I help you ? 
 
 Mabel. Thanks; such ridiculous nonsense putting such quantities 
 of buttons on gloves. (loOlcs up questionin gly into his face, and smiles ; 
 he puts his arm round Iter to get more conveniently at the glove ; she does 
 no t struggle, but leans against him.) What a delightful lady's maid 
 you would make ; at once a help and a rest. I ! should like a maid 
 Uke ycfu, Cos. (icith provolcing coquetry.) It would be de-li-cious ! 
 
 Cosmo, (laughing.) You would like me much better as a husband. 
 Say yes, Mabel, why are you so contrary ? 
 
 Mabel. Well, really, Cosmo ! and you never asked me before. 
 (Erhum! Erhum!) (heard outside, both start apart.) 
 
 Enter Lord W., l. 
 
 Lord W. Well, Cosmo f Have you surrendered : has she come to 
 her senses ? 
 Mabel. As if I had ever been out of them, papa. 
 Lord W. Well, it's a long lane that has no turning. Fm sure I 
 
Amateur and parlor theatricals. 13 
 
 hope you will both be happy ; and so this is why you have stayed sin- 
 gle all this time, miss, (kissing her.) 
 
 Mabel. Of course it is. 
 
 Lord W. All for a rascally young sailor. 
 
 Mabel. Hush, papa. 
 
 Lord W. (Erhum! Erhum!) Well, he can't think 'tis for his sud- 
 den accession of fortune you have manned him, anyhow. 
 
 Mabel, (wonder ingly.) Have you had some good fortune, Cos ? 
 
 Cosmo. I begin now to think I have, but I don't understand. I 
 thought you despised my fortune. 
 
 Mabel. Oh dear, no. 
 
 Cosmo. And declined me with scorn, and now you seem 1 confess 
 
 I am in the dark very much still. 
 
 Mabel. Are you not poor now, then ? 
 
 Cosmo. No, rather not, but your father said you would not listen to 
 reason — said you would never marry a rich man. 
 
 Mabel. " Circumstantium alterum casum." 
 
 Cosmo, (laughing in spite of himself.) And that you tore up my 
 letter, and all that, don't you know. 
 
 Lord W. (aside)Dem it, why they're all at sea now. 
 
 Mabel. What on earth do you mean, Cosmo. Has eight years of 
 sea and some wretched prize money, or something, turned your brain. 
 It was Mr. D'Yncourt's letter I tore up, and I'd tear him up too if I 
 could, because — I loved you. 
 
 Cosmo, (mystified, hut delighted.) But I am D'Yncourt. 
 
 Mabel. You ! ! Cosmo Davenant the rich D'Yncourt ? 
 
 Cosmo. Of course. I had to take the name with the money. 
 
 Mabel. And I never knew ! 
 
 Cosmo. Why, sir, (turning angrily to Lord WartonJ you cannot 
 have explained. 
 
 Mabel, (aside.) I hate to do a thing I've said I wouldn't do, and I've 
 sworn I'd never marry a rich man. I feel like a rat caught in a trap. 
 
 Lord W. (testily.) Of course I explained, of course I did; but 
 she was so infernally hasty, she couldn't have listened ; she always 
 rushes off at a tangent ; she couldn't have listened. 
 
 Mabel. Now, papa, you know that if I did not listen enough to 
 understand it is your own fault entirely ; you know it is such an old 
 tale ; you have always been pestering me to marry some wretched 
 bothering creature for his money, and I never will marry a rich man 
 (pettishly,) so there! 
 
 Cosmo, (in alarm.) Surely you will unsay that now, Mabel. 
 
 Mabel. No I will not. I am deceived all round ; you can go away 
 (stamping her foot.) 
 
 Lord W. (Erhum ! Erhum!) I told you she was full of whims and 
 vagaries. 
 
 Cosmo. Mabel ! ! You can never be so cruel — so stubborn. 
 
 Mabel, (haughtily.) Will you go away, sir? 
 
 Cosmo. Oh, certainly ; I begin to think, with your father, that you 
 do not quite know what you do want, (turns to leave her.) 
 * Mabel, (dolefully, and in tears.) Yes — I — do — know — what — I — 
 want (half sobbing.) I want — a — husband — who'll — who'll 
 
 Cosmo, (rushing back.) Yes, Mabel. 
 
 Mabel. Who'll 
 
 Cosmo. Well! Speak, darling. 
 
14 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Mabel. Who'll be kind to me, and — and — ■- 
 
 Cosmo. For heaven's sake, what f 
 
 Mabel. Who'll — kiss me, cousin. 
 
 Lord W. {exultant.) It's all right, you see. (Erhum! Erhum!) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS 15 
 
 THE BLUE STOCKING. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Gertrude Sadheart. 
 Amy d'Esprit, her friend. 
 Henry Spendlove. 
 Servant. 
 
 SCENE — A Modem Interior, with a Country outlook. 
 
 (Gertrude Sadheart discovered alone, seated listlessly, and surrounded 
 by books.) 
 
 Gert. (looking at watch. ) Four o'clock ! Six hours more of another 
 weary day before me, with the self-same problem still haunting me : 
 the problem how best to forget my grief . Forget! (laughing scorn- 
 fully. ) What mockery to dream of forgetting that which has made 
 itself part of my nature. I pine for my love — false though he has 
 shown himself, and shall pine and pine until he returns, or I die ! 
 
 (A knock at the door. ) 
 
 Gert. Come in ! 
 
 {Enter Amy d'Esprit. ) 
 
 Amy. They told me I should find you up here. I've just run up to 
 see if I could cheer you a little bit, Gerty. 
 
 Gert. You're really kind. 
 
 Amy. You're such a sad girl. I can't make you out. You're clever 
 and good-looking and well off, and yet you're always so sad and so 
 quiet, (mimicking Gertrude's languor. ) 
 
 Gert. My dear Amy, you would be sad and quiet too, if you labored 
 under a grief such as mine. 
 
 Amy. I have often wondered, Gerty, what this all-absorbing grief 
 of yours is. 
 
 Gert. Have they never told you, then? 
 
 Amy. Never. 
 
 Gert. The world is not generally so remiss in retailing peoples' 
 troubles. 
 
 [8] 
 
16 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. "V 
 
 Amy. Nor are girls, as a rule, as abstaining as I have been in ask- 
 ing about peoples' troubles. 
 
 Gert. Ah, you sly girl ; if the truth were told, you are burning to 
 know my melancholy little story. 
 
 Amy. My curiosity is certainly not lessened by my abstinence. 
 
 Gert. I know you are the kindest of girls, and that I am sure of 
 your sympathy. 
 
 Amy. You have never given me the chance of showing whether I'm 
 kind or not, but if you'll confide in me I can promise you my sympathy. 
 
 G-ert. Well, then, make yourself comfortable. (Pointing to chair.) 
 
 Amy. (laughingly.) And prepare my pocket-handkerchief ? 
 
 Gert. (sadly.) There is time enough for that, Amy, when your own 
 turn comes. 
 
 Amy. (mock-startled.) But I hope it never may. 
 
 Gert. And I pray it never will ! 
 
 Amy. Before you begin, let me make a guess. 
 
 Gert. Why not? 
 
 Amy. Is love an element of your grief ? 
 
 Gert. What a question, child What sentiment in woman is not 
 founded on love ? And mine was indeed love : pure, earnest, absorb- 
 ing ; a first, and an only love ! 
 
 Amy. And ivho was the happy man ? 
 
 Gert. You never knew him. Poor Harry ! Would that you had, 
 and you could better appreciate my disappointment. 
 
 Amy. But how can you look for my appreciation when you have not 
 told me anything yet ? 
 
 Gert. It is a short story, as most sad stories are. Harry and I 
 were brought up together as children; we loved one another as 
 children ; we loved one another as youth and maiden. At least, I 
 thought so, and 1 still hope so. But after years of mutual protest- 
 ation Harry one day suddenly left our neighborhood. No one knew 
 the why nor the wherefore. Some said to seek a fortune in business; 
 others, that he had an intrigue in the village, from which he wished 
 to escape. But that is calumny — base calumny. Be it what it may, 
 no one has ever heard from him since ; it is now five years since he 
 left me. I fear he is dead; he could not be alive and keep sucli cruel 
 silence. If he is dead (I shudder to speak the word !) my love will 
 outlive him. TJiat will die only with myself! 
 
 Amy. If you believe this person to be dead you should try to forget 
 him. 
 
 Gert. That is impossible. 
 
 Amy. You should throw off thoughts of the past, and, as you are 
 still young, make for yourself a new and a brighter future! 
 
 Gert. Impossible! It is the utmost I can do to make time pass 
 tolerably. My only solace I find in study. My books are my only 
 resource. Whilst I read, I forget. When I cease, all my sad memories 
 rush back to me with double force. I am a listless reader, for beyond 
 seeking a change, I read with no purpose. But I am an earnest read- 
 er, nevertheless. 
 
 Amy. Too earnest, by far! Too much reading is as bad as anover- 
 dose of medicine. Living in books is all very well, but you live in the 
 world, the bright and lively world, and must be up and doing, and see 
 the world, not simply read of it. Why, Gerty, what do you think the 
 people out of doors call you. 
 
 Gert. Something unkind, I have no doubt. 
 
17 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Amy. "Well, it isn't exactly nice, but it isn't so very unkind, either. 
 They call you u the Blue Stocking. " 
 
 Gert. I don't think the cap fits. 
 
 Amy. You should rather say the stocking ! 
 
 Gert. Typical blue-stockings are old maids who are too ugly to be 
 loved, and," therefore, make husbands of their books. 
 
 Amy. Not always. Sometimes they make husbands of the crotchety 
 old professors round whom they gather. 
 
 Gert. Then there used to be another sort of blue-stocking: the 
 blue-stocking of Pope's time. They were the first of the species. 
 They were often handsome, and- often had husbands — and lovers too. 
 
 Amy. Then you've been reading up the subject, Miss Gerty ? 
 
 Gert. By one of those curious coincidences I just came across a 
 paper on the subject, in a recent book of miscellanies. 
 
 Amy. Speaking of recent books, have you read the latest novel ? 
 
 Gert. What is it called ? 
 
 Amy. " Love in-Exile. " 
 
 Gert. What a strange title ! It quite takes my fancy. 
 
 Amy. And I am sure the story will. Shall I give you a sketch of the 
 plot ? 
 
 Gert. No, I think not, or you will destroy the interest. 
 
 Amy. Well, do you know it has a wonderful similarity to your own 
 tale, only it recounts both sides of the story. 
 
 Gert. How do you mean t 
 
 Amy. It tells what the young man was doing, while the girl was 
 simply pining. 
 
 Gert. Oh, how I shall devour it ! I am quite in a hurry to begin. 
 
 Amy. (rising.) Then you won't mind my saying good-bye ? 
 
 Gert. But you haven't given me the book. 
 
 Amy. (laughing, and taking book out of satchel, and handing it to 
 Gertrude.) I am a regular woman. I come with a purpose, and go 
 away without accomplishing it. 
 
 Gert. (who had risen, and who had just commenced carelessly turn- 
 ing over the pages of the took, now falls back with a scream.) Oh, heaven ! 
 this is too much. 
 
 Amy. (running to Gertrude, and in alarm.) What can be the mat- 
 ter, dear \ 
 
 Gert. You have indeed accomplished more than you came to do. 
 
 Amy. What do you mean, Gerty? Relieve my distress! 
 
 Gert. Read the title-page of that book. 
 
 Amy. (takes up book wouderingly, and finding the title-page, reads, 
 staccato, and in an inquiring roice.) u ' Love in Exile,' a Novel, in One 
 Volume, by Henry Spendlove, 1881. " 
 
 Gert. That is it! Henry Spendlove is my dear, dear lover; and 
 he lives, as the date shows. Thank God, he lives! 
 
 Amy. What a strange discovery ! How happy I am that I came 
 here to-day ! 
 
 Gert. How can I thank you, Amy ? 
 
 Amy. By ceasing to thank me. 
 
 (Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. A gentleman wishes to see Miss Sadheart, but refuses to 
 give his name. 
 Gert. It is Harry, I know, I am sure. 
 
18 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 (Harry Spendlove rushes in from behind Servant, runs towards Ger- 
 trude, and clasps her in his arms.) 
 
 Harry. It is indeed he, my dear Gerty. It is Harry come back to 
 
 ask forgiveness, and your hand : to ask the treasure he could not 
 
 claim five years ago, because he could have brought its fair possessor 
 only that love in a cottage which too often ends in love in a poor- 
 house. 
 
 Gert. But why did you leave us, Harry, without a word, and keep 
 us all this time without a line ? 
 
 Harry. I went away to try and make myself a position. I was 
 goaded into such suddeness of action by the taunts of a rival, who, 
 I thank heaven, has not displaced me. I determined that if I failed 
 you should never hear from me again. As I am here you know I 
 nave succeeded. 
 
 Gert. And what have you been doing all this time, Harry. 
 
 Harry. I went to a large city, and became a newspaper drudge. 
 The happy thought one day occurred to me to try and compensate my- 
 self, in a small degree, for the sadness our long separation gave me 
 by writing the story of our divided loves, hiding our identities under 
 fictional names. The publication of this novel by an hitherto un- 
 known author created a, furore among the critics by reason of what 
 they were good enough to call its truthful intensity and pathos. 
 They did not know that its pathos was wrung from my heart ; that I 
 was describing a faithfulness such as I knew was yours — a faithful- 
 ness as you know has ever been mine. I could not help the truthful- 
 ness of my story. I drew from life ; I told the world what my heart 
 told me. 
 
 Amy. (humorously.) Yours was a practical devotion, sir? 
 
 Harry, (looking to Gertrude with some confusion.) I — that is — I 
 really didn't — 
 
 Gert. (coming to the rescue. ) This is my kind friend, Amy d'Esprit 
 (they bow) who has so often brought me her kind presence in the hour 
 of my grief. She has a right to be here in the hour of my joy. 
 
 Harry, (observing booh.) Hallo, why here's my book! 
 
 Gert. Yes, that is another instance of Amy's kindness. And the 
 accident of my finding your name on the title-page prepared me for 
 the delightful shock of your return. 
 
 Harry. You will read my book, Gerty, of course ? 
 
 Gert. — I will read your book, Harry. I will read all your books. 
 And among your books you shall be as my bible. I shall henceforth 
 restrict myself to reading your heart, and to studying your comfort, 
 for from this day I shall cease to be 
 
 "A BLUE STOCKING." 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 19 
 
 MY MYSTERIOUS RIVAL. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Harry Hasty. Lucy Brown. 
 
 Peregrine Plume. Mary Marvel. 
 
 Scene. — A neatly-furnished Apartment Door in flat c. Side Doors. 
 E. 2 E., and L. 2 E. 
 Mary Marvel is discovered arranging the room. Harry Hasty 
 enters c. D. F. 
 
 Hasty. Ah, Mary. Can I see your mistress ? 
 
 Mary (pertly). Sometimes, sir. 
 
 Hasty. What means this evasive answer ? I ask you whether she 
 will receive now. 
 
 Mary (as before) You, sir. 
 
 Hasty. Why ! Of course ! me ! If she cannot receive me, I sup- 
 pose that she would not think of receiving anyone else. 
 
 Mary (as before). Perhaps not — except 
 
 Hasty. Except whom ? I should like to know. 
 
 Mary (affecting indifference). Except her maid. 
 
 Hasty. Well, then, make use of that privilege to see whether it 
 will be extended to me. 
 
 Mary. Just now, sir ? 
 
 Hasty. Immediately. 
 
 Mary. And what shall I say to my young lady, sir ? 
 
 Hasty. Say ! that I want to see her of course. (Aside). What the 
 deuce can the girl be giggling about ? 
 
 Mary. Well, sir, I'll try. 
 
 Hasty. Stop ! I hear her surely. 
 
 Enter Lucy Brown, l. d. 
 
 Mary, (to whom Lucy makes a gesture to go.) Very well, ma'am. 
 (Aside, going). Poor fellow ! How he is led about by the nose to be 
 sure. (Exit c D. f. 
 
 Hasty. Come, Lucy, come. Give me your hand (takes it). I could 
 not be happy until I saw you. You don't speak ! not a word ! Ah, 
 Lucy! 
 
 Lucy (tenderly). Do you give me time? You speak — I listen: and 
 you express all that 1 feel. 
 
 Hasty. Your words reassure me, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. Reassure you ! Were you uneasy then ? 
 
 Hasty. No — that is to say — yes. But it is past and gone. 
 
 Lucy. What could cause your uneasiness f 
 
20 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS, 
 
 Hasty. Nothing — nothing assuredly — only—sometimes when I 
 come, yon don't choose to receive me — yon are shut up — and, in fact, 
 I might almost fancy you want to get rid of me. 
 
 Lucy, (aside.) Can he suspect? (Aloud, endeavoring to corneal 
 some agitation.) You know that I live alone — that I am without fam- 
 ily — without friends except yourself. Whom should I receive. My 
 birth — my education — my position — all keep me from society. (Sighs. ) 
 
 Hasty. Don't say so, Lucy. Although of humble birth, early left an 
 orphan, and placed in another position of fortune only by the last 
 will of a godfather whom you never saw, you have always been irre- 
 proachable in your conduct ; you support the necessities of your iso- 
 lated position with a delicacy that disarms all censure, and you have 
 displayed a tact in adapting yourself to the manners of the polite 
 world that does you honor. There is no drawing-room but would be 
 proud of you, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. No, no. You must not natter me, Harry. I have done, 
 however, what I could to make myself worthy of you, who have 
 deigned to love, and asked me to be your wife. 
 
 Hasty. You are worthy of a prince's love. 
 
 Lucy (smiling but embarrassed). You are kind. But — but 
 
 Hasty {growing uneasy). But what? but what? Speak, Lucy. I 
 have all confidence in you. Yet these "buts" distract me. (Aside). 
 There is something. This constant constraint and mystery {walking 
 about). You do not speak! What's the meaning of this "but" "but?" 
 
 Lucy, Calm yourself, I entreat you. I would only say— but I can- 
 not forget that I have worked for my bread. 
 
 Hasty (relieved). Is that all? Is that really all ? (takes Iter hand). 
 Fie! fie, Lucy! Away with such thoughts! Do not /work for my 
 livelihood as an author? Need you blush for what was only honor- 
 able? 
 
 Lucy. How it relieves my mind to hear you speak thus! I feared 
 lest you should entertain a feeling of shame 
 
 Hasty (interrupting her). Never, never. Whatever your birth I love 
 you : is not that sufficient ? And you — tell me that you love me, too, 
 a little. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, Harry, yes. (A dock strikes. She starts uneasily). Ah! 
 
 Hasty. Why do you hesitate ? 
 
 Lucy. It has struck twelve. 
 
 Hasty. What matter ? Why check my happiness ? 
 
 Lucy, (embarrassed). I have promished to meet my lawyer. 
 
 Hasty. I thought you said all your law business, relative to your 
 godfather's property, was terminated. 
 
 Lucy, (as above) Not quite. I have a few papers still to sign. 
 
 Hasty (suspiciously). You will allow me then to accompany you to 
 your lawyer's ? 
 
 Lucy. Impossible! It would not be proper that we should be seen 
 to leave the house together. Perhaps you would have the kindness— 
 
 Hasty. Ah! You dismiss me. (Deprecating gesture of Lucy). Well! 
 I go. But when can I come back? 
 
 Lucy. At three. I shall be home by that hour. Good-bye, Harry. 
 At three, remember. I shall expect you. 
 
 Hasty. I shall not fail (aside) in my determination to follow her, 
 and see where she goes. 
 
 Lucy. Till then, good-bye, Harry. 
 
 Hasty. Good-bye. Good-bye. (Goes to the door, returns, looks, 
 round suspiciously). Good-bye ! (Exit L. D.) 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 21 
 
 Lucy {alone). I trust he will never discover. (A tap at the door R.) 
 Ah! it was high time that he should go. (She opens the door R. with 
 caution). Come in! Quick! quick! 
 
 Enter Peregrine r. d. 
 
 Pere. Behold me exact to the hour of rendezvous 
 
 Lucy. But one moment sooner, and we had been surprised. 
 
 Pere. You don't say so ! 
 
 Lucy. (Going to the entrance door at hack, looking out, and return- 
 ing). You know what importance I attach to this concealment. 
 
 Pere. Yes ! and I take every precaution to remain undiscovered. I 
 slip in at the back garden gate like a sylph. I scour the grass-plot as 
 Camilla scoured the plain, and I whisk into the back door like a pan- 
 tomime sprite into a vampire. (Imitating). Bang! hist! gone! 
 
 Lucy. And you are sure no one has ever seen you ? Not even my 
 maid ? 
 
 Pere. Once I fancied I saw that specimen of curiosity looking out 
 of an upper window at a fellow in the lane as I flitted through the 
 garden. But I skipped across with more than my usnal elasticity of 
 step. 
 
 Lucy. And you think that Mary never saw you? 
 
 Pere. As her eye was evidently on the fellow, I could not suppose 
 she did; unless indeed she looks two ways at once — a complication of 
 the visual organs — to speak delicately — with which I am not aware 
 she is endowed. 
 
 Lucy. But come ! Our time is so short ; and here we are not sure 
 against surprise. 
 
 Pere. Light as the air I follow you. 
 
 Lucy. Come. This way! (Going l. D.) In this room we need not 
 fear discovery. 
 
 Pere. We may defy the very — presiding chairman of the infernal 
 regions himself— to speak delicately. (Exeunt L. D.) 
 
 Mary Marvel peeps in c. d. f. 
 
 Mary (alone). Ah! ha! You need not fear discovery, need you 
 not? That's to be seen! (Advancing.) It is the very spark I saw 
 giving a hop, skip, and jump across the back garden the other day. I 
 knew he must be a lover, although I took him at first for a house- 
 breaker! What a fool you were, Mary Marvel! But I am only at my 
 A B C in love matters. And now I am not sorry to take a lesson of 
 my more accomplished mistress, who evidently has two strings to her 
 bow, or rather two beaux to her string. The intended is sent out of 
 the way, the more favored rival is received in secret. Well, so far all 
 is easy* enough. I could have done as much myself, without a lesson. 
 But who can this gentleman be ? When I listened at the keyhole — for 
 I did listen at the keyhole, all for the sake of instructing myself as a 
 decent lady's maid ought to do — I heard my mistress call him Pere- 
 grine. I'm sorry for Mr. Hasty, for he's a nice man; but then these 
 men were bom to be dupes; and I suppose it's his fate to be one also. 
 
 Enter Harry Hasty hurriedly c. d. f. 
 
 Hasty (aside). She certainly never left the house. I should have 
 seen her do so. {Aloud.) Mary! 
 
22 AMATEUB AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Mary. Sir ! 
 
 Hasty {scrutinizing). Your mistress not come back yet? 
 
 Mary. No, sir. {Aside). That's no lie, since she hasn't gone out. 
 
 Hasty. She is at home ! confess. {Pointings.) Don't I hear some- 
 one in that room ? 
 
 Mary. That's no room. It's a staircase. 
 
 Hasty. A staircase! {opening door R.) True! It's very odd! I never 
 knew of this staircase before. Where does it lead ? 
 
 Mary. Into the garden. 
 
 Hasty. And there is a back door ? 
 
 Mary. Into the lane close by. 
 
 Hasty. Ah! fool that I was! She went that way, and I thus have 
 missed her. {Seats himself). I shall wait. 
 
 Mary. I have no orders to the contrary, sir. {A slight noise, L.) 
 
 Hasty. I am sure I heard a noise in that room. {Goes L.) 
 
 Mary {aside). Now I shall see how she gets out of this scrape. It 
 will be an excellent lesson ! 
 
 Hastt. There is no key in the door. It is closed. 
 
 Mary. Probably in order that no one should open it. 
 
 Hasty {violently). What does this mean? She says she is going 
 out, and then stops at home and shuts herself up. I will know the 
 reason of this mystery. 
 
 Mary. Are you aware, sir, of the dangers of " fatal curiosity? " 
 
 Hasty. Stand aside. You are in the plot, no doubt! 
 
 Enter Lucy, l. d. She closes the door rapidly and places Iter self 
 before it. 
 
 Lucy. This noise ! Harry ! 
 
 Hasty. I was right. She was there ! 
 
 Mary {aside). Now let's hear what she has to say for herself. 
 
 Lucy. What is the matter, Harry ? I surely told you I should not 
 be back before three. 
 
 Hasty. And it seems to me, that you are back long before that hour. 
 
 Lucy. But — I have not been out yet. 
 
 Hasty. You need not tell me so. I can see it perfectly well. You 
 were in that room — hum! alone, of course ? 
 
 Lucy {confused). Why that question ? 
 
 Mary {aside). A perfect assumption of innocence! That's it! She's 
 a clever young woman I must say. 
 
 Lucy. Hear me, Harry. Before going out to my lawyer's 
 
 Hasty. Well— before going out to your lawyer's 
 
 Lucy. I was only — writing. 
 
 Hasty. Indeed! 
 
 Mary {aside). Admirable! Only writing! She is an expert young 
 woman. 
 
 Lucy {to Mary). What are you doing there ? 
 
 Mary. Listening to you, ma'am {with admiration). Ah! 
 
 Lucy. Go. 
 
 Mary {asife, going). Get rid of your maid, and cajole your intend- 
 ed — that's tie next manoeuvre ! I must repeat it — she is an expert 
 young woman. {Exit h. D.) 
 
 Hasty {walking up and down). So ! you were employed in writing ; 
 and now, of course, you are going to your lawyer's. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 23 
 
 Lucy. No ; it's too late now. I shall go to-morrow. I shall not go 
 out to-day. 
 
 Hasty. Well, then, I'll remain. (A pause). But I'm in your way, 
 perhaps ? 
 
 Lucy. Have I ever given you reason to believe that your presence 
 was not agreeable to me ? 
 
 Hasty (bitterly). Oh! of course— never— never. 
 
 Lucy. Then why those angry looks — your tone of vexation ? You 
 evidently harbor some unkind thought towards me. Explain. 
 
 Hasty. Since you demand an explanation you shall have one. Your 
 business at your lawyer's was only a pretext. 
 
 Lucy. Ah, Harry! 
 
 Hasty. You always get rid of me at certain hours upon some pre- 
 text or other. 
 
 Lucy (confused, looking l. with fear). But what purpose should I 
 have? 
 
 Hasty. Can I account for your strange conduct. You persist in 
 putting off our marriage from month to month. 
 
 Lucy. Harry ! I have done all I could to remove the obstacles, 
 which still exist, to our union. 
 
 Hasty. What obstacles ? You are alone in the world — free to marry 
 whom or where you please. If obstacles there be, they must be of 
 your own creation. What are they ? Speak! 
 
 Lucy. You shall know by-and-by ; but not now — not now. 
 
 Hasty. You bid me trust in you, while you repose no trust in me. 
 Lucy! Lucy! I can bear this no longer. You do not love me. 
 
 Lucy. Harry! You are cruel and unkind. 
 
 Hasty. Oh, yes! (ironically) and you the most injured of women! 
 But how can I do otherwise than doubt, when you refuse to bind your- 
 self more nearly to me by a step as innocent as simple ? 
 
 Lucy. What do you mean ? 
 
 Hasty. Though I have written to you a hundred times, you have 
 never chosen to give me the happiness of one line from your hand in 
 answer. But a coquette knows better than to write. A letter is a 
 standing witness — a witness of treachery and deceit sometimes. 
 
 Lucy. Harry, Harry! You shock me by this outburst. 
 
 Hasty (continuing). But I know you now. I know with whom I 
 have to deal. And you have seen me for the last time. (Going to the 
 door.) For the last time. (Exit violently, c. D. F.) 
 
 Lucy. Harry! Harry! He is gone! Never, never to return, he 
 said. Oh! that cannot, must not be. A letter! a letter, it seems, 
 would pacify him. Since there is no other means, so be it, then. For 
 he must not abandon me. No, no, he must and shall return. (Exit, 
 unlocking the door L, and then closing it cautiously behind her.) 
 
 Hasty (re-appearing c. d. f.) For the last time, I say! and do not 
 suppose that I ever mean to come back again. She's not there ! She's 
 gone! Very calm and happy doubtless, caring little for my misery! 
 And shall I still love her? No, no. I detest — I despise her. (Sits 
 down.) I'll not remain another instant in her house. I'll go. I'll go 
 anywhere, so as never to see her again. 
 
 Enter Mary, c. d. f. 
 Hasty. Ah! You are there, are you? Come here, Miss Mary, and 
 
24 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 speak the truth if you can. {Springs up.) Are you aware that your 
 mistress is making game of me ? 
 
 Mary. You don't say so ! 
 
 Hasty. That she treats me as her dupe? 
 
 Mary. Well ! I never. 
 
 Hasty. That she plays me false ? 
 
 Mary. Lor! Who would have thought of it? 
 
 Hasty. But what do you think ? Speak! 
 
 Mary. Think, sir ? t think that if my mistress deceived you, she 
 would'nt tell you. Has she told you she did? 
 
 Hasty. Wretched young woman, you are laughing at nite, too. 
 
 Mary. I laugh, sir! I! incapable, sir! I never laugh! — or if I 
 laugh, it is because you fancy I laugh. Such a droll idea! 
 
 Hasty (apart). I am deceived, cheated, despised, and this malicious 
 little minx knows it. But I will be revenged. Ah ! that back stair- 
 case, of which I did not \ now the existence! If there is anyone in 
 the house, he shall not leave it without my knowledge. I'll answer 
 for it. {Exit hastily by door R. ) 
 
 Mary (laughing). Hallo! where are you going, sir? That's not the 
 way out. My mistress allows no one to go that way. (Calling after 
 Mm. ) Come back, sir ; come back. 
 
 Hasty (re-entering). Well, you needn't scream so. (Aside). No 
 one now can leave the house otherwise than by the front door (show's 
 a key, which he puts in his pocket), and there I'll post myself on the 
 watch, even if I do sentry-duty to eternity. (Aloud). Good-bye, Mary. 
 {Exit c. D. F.) 
 
 Mary (alone). It is very evident he begins to suspect. I suppose 
 he must have heard my mistress and this Mr. Peregrine. What can 
 they be talking about \ I might get another lesson if I were to listen. 
 Here goes ! (Listening, L.) What's that my mistress says ? 'My dear 
 good friend.' Her dear good friend: I thought as much. (Listening). 
 'I love you — you alone.' Well, if that isn't clear, I don't know what 
 is. I wouldn't be a man to be made a fool of — a man ! no, not for all 
 that I could see. The women have always the best of it: and a 
 wonderful woman my young mistress is — that I must say. 
 
 Enter Lucy, l. d., with a letter. 
 
 Lucy. Ah I you are there, Mary. Take this letter to Mr. Hasty as 
 quickly as you can. 
 
 Mary (going, aside). When the intended grows suspicious, the plan 
 is to send him a billet-doux, and lure him back. Oh ! she i$ an expert 
 young woman. Exit c. d. f. 
 
 Lucy, (opening the door, l.) Come out now; my maid is gone, and 
 the coast is clear. 
 
 Enter Peregrine, l. d. 
 
 Pere. I'm glad of it ; for it's so warm in that room. I'm all ia a 
 sudorific vapor — to speak delicately. (Fans himself with his hat). 
 
 Lucy. Quick! by the back staircase. Good-bye! 
 
 Pere. To-morrow you will expect me again ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, yes. 
 
 Pere. At the same hour ? 
 
 Lucy. At the same hour. 
 
 Pere. Good-bye ! (Aside). I'm not sorry to be out of this— or rather 
 to mizzle unseen. (Exit R. D.) 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 25 
 
 Enter Hasty c. d. f. 
 
 Lucy (aside). Oh! There was not a moment to be lost. 
 
 Hasty. Lucy, you have made me the happiest of beings. 
 
 Lucy (smiling). So! there you are, naughty man. (Mimicking). 
 " You have seen me for the last time, madam. I will never enter this 
 house again ! ' Fie ! fie ! 
 
 Hasty. Forgive me, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. Spoiled child that you are ! pouting for a nothing — appeased 
 by a mere trifle. 
 
 Hasty. Oh! do not call this dear, precious letter, (shoivs it) with 
 which you lured back your truant, a trifle. Your maid had not far to 
 go with it. She found me close by your door 
 
 Lucy (uneasily). Watching as a spy — oh! Harry! 
 
 Hasty. Walking up and down before it, like a madman, elbowing 
 all the old women in my rage, kicking all the little dogs in my way, 
 knocking aside all the umbrellas, and tripping myself up over a per- 
 ambulator. I could not tear myself from the spot. 
 
 Lucy (aside). Poor Harry ! 
 
 flASTY. What was my joy, then, my delirious joy, when Mary put 
 into my hand that letter. I could have kissed her in the street, spite 
 of the drivers of cabs and omnibuses who drew up to stare at me. I 
 could have embraced all the world — drivers, horses, and all the pas- 
 sengers inside and out, in my excess of joy. 
 
 Lucy. Harry. 
 
 Hasty. Oh! you were wrong not to grant me sooner this precious 
 boon, which I thus place upon my heart, in order that it may be close 
 to its address. 
 
 Lucy (embarrassed). No more, Harry. 
 
 Hasty. Yes ! let me kiss a thousand times the charming characters 
 traced here 
 
 He is about to kiss the letter. Lucy stops Mm. 
 
 Lucy. No, no. I beg of you. 
 
 Hasty. Wny restrain me"? Yes, true ! rather let me kiss the hand 
 that traced the lines. (Kisses her hand.) 
 
 Lucy (aside). He really pains me with a feeling of remorse. 
 
 Sasty. And could I suspect you— could I accuse you, Lucy? For 
 in my blind jealousy I did accuse you. Oh ! I was a fool— an insen- 
 sate fool. 
 
 Lucy. You were unjust, no more. 
 
 Hasty. In my folly I even went so far as to imagine you received 
 some mysterious rival in my absence. 
 
 Lucy. But that is past now. (Aside.) How fortunate that he was 
 able to get away. 
 
 Hasty. Yes, and I abjure all my suspicions forever— forever. I 
 swear it to you. (Takes her hand.) 
 
 Peregrine here opens the door r. a?id tools in. 
 
 Pere. Some one with her! The devil! (Closes the door hastily and 
 disappears. 
 Hasty (icho has seen him). Ah! 
 Lucy. What? 
 Hasty. Eh? 
 
26 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Lucy. You said i ' Ah ! " 
 
 Hasty. Lid I? 
 
 Lucy. And you now look so strange again. 
 
 Hasty. Fancy. 
 
 Lucy. No. What is the matter ? 
 
 Hasty. Nothing— nothing whatever. {Aside.) He is still there. 
 
 Lucy. All your doubts are gone, then? 
 
 Hasty. Ah, oh ! Quite, I assure you. 
 
 Enter Mary Marvel, c. d. p. 
 
 Mary. Your dressmaker is there, ma'am. 
 
 Lucy. Ah! that is an important affair. You will not be vexed that 
 I should quit you for a few minutes, Harry. 
 
 Hasty. No, no. Go by all means. (Aside.) Lucky chance. 
 
 Lucy (waving her hand to Hasty). The important business shall be 
 dispatched as quickly as possible. 
 
 Hasty. Oh ! don't hurry yourself . (Aside.) Cockatrice! 
 
 Lucy. Come, Mary! (Exit with Mary, c. d. f.) 
 
 Hasty (alone). At last ! Now I hold my mysterious rival within 
 my grasp ! He shall not escape me ! But I will be calm ; and my 
 vengeance shall be all the deeper. (Opening the doom.) Come forth, 
 sir — come forth I say. 
 
 Enter Peregrine. 
 
 Pere. The very thing of all others I most wished to do, sir. I am 
 much obliged to you, sir, and have the honor of wishing you a very 
 good morning. (He endeavors to go off by back. ) 
 
 Hasty (pulling him back). I beg your pardon. There is time for 
 that. 
 
 Pere. You may have time, I dare say, sir; but I happen to be re- 
 markably and urgently pressed. (Going.) 
 
 Hasty (pulling him back). A moment, if you please. You must 
 have been rather astonished to find the door leading into the garden 
 locked. 
 
 Pere. Both surprised and annoyed, sir ; for as I happen to be re- 
 markably and urgently pressed (going). 
 
 Hasty (pulling him back). You shall not go until I have had a few 
 minutes' conversation with you. You are acquainted with the lady 
 of this house ? 
 
 Pere. I have that honor. 
 
 Hasty. And you admire her ? 
 
 Pere. And you, sir ? 
 
 Hasty. That's not the point, sir. Answer me, I beg. 
 
 Pere. I have the usual visionary organs, sir — to speak delicately; 
 and I am accustomed to use them for the purpose to which they are 
 destined by nature (walking off hurriedly). 
 
 Hasty (running after him and pulling him back). Stop, sir. 
 
 Pere. You'll exasperate me at last, sir. By what right do you ar- 
 rest a free-born citizen ? Are you a bailiff, sir ? or a detective, police, 
 special, or otherwise, sir ? I demand my habeas eorpus. 
 
 Hasty. As soon as you have answered a few questions, you shall 
 be at liberty. 
 
 Pere. Questions! Are you a magistrate — and is this the bench f 
 But never mind — speak, sir. I listen. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 27 
 
 Hasty. Do you know how to write, sir ? 
 
 Pere. I ! write ! The probabilities are most decidedly in favor of 
 my being a proficient in caligraphic art. 
 
 Hasty. Then, sir, you will have the kindness to sit down here and 
 write at my dictation. 
 
 Pere. I am not in the habit, sir — without certain preliminary ar- 
 rangements — and, I have the honor of wishing you a very good morn- 
 ing . ( A ttemp ts to go.) 
 
 Hasty {pulling him back). Ah ! you refuse ? Then I must have re- 
 course to other means. {Seizes his hand.) 
 
 Pere. I say! enough of that — you grip like a vise — you paralyze 
 my digital organs — to speak delicately ; and how am I to hold a pen 
 after that ? {Shakes his hand with pain.) 
 
 Hasty. You consent then ? 
 
 Pere {aside). If it's the only way to get quit of this maniac. 
 (Aloud.) I consent, sir. 
 
 Hasty. At last ! Are you ready, sir ? 
 
 Pere. {seating himself at the table). Quite, sir. 
 
 Hasty (taking up a pen). Here's a pen. (Tries to put it into the hand 
 of Peregrine.) 
 
 Pere. ( screa min g ). *Hands off! no more of that! I've still got the 
 cramp in my fingers. 
 
 Hasty. Quick, sir; write! 
 
 Pere. (taking the pen). My autograph, perhaps — come that's 
 flattering. 
 
 Hasty. No, sir — as follows — (dictating) ' Madam.' 
 
 Pere. (writing). ' Madam.' It's a lady we have the honor of ad- 
 dressing? 
 
 Hasty. No questions. 
 
 Pere. (aside). He wants to have them all to himself. 
 
 Hasty (dictating). 'I have never really loved you.' 
 
 Pere. Ho ! Ho ! it's a rupture. 
 
 Hasty. I intend it should be, sir. Have you written T 
 
 Pere. (writing) — ' never really loved you.' 
 
 Hasty (dictating). ' It is your fortune alone that is the attraction — ' 
 
 Pere. Allow me, sir; such things do happen; but ordinarily they 
 are not avowed. 
 
 Hasty. A truce to your observations, sir — write what I said ! 
 
 Pere. (writing) — 'fortune alone that was the attraction.' (Aside.) 
 Well ! it is the oddest thing for a man to write to a lady ! 
 
 Ha&TY (dictating). 'For me you have jilted and deceived a man 
 who loved you to distraction ' 
 
 Pere. No, you don't say so ? You think she jilted 
 
 Hasty. Will you write, sir! (Goes to grasp his hayid.) 
 
 Pere. Anything you please, sir; but hands off! (Writing) — 'loved 
 you to distraction.' 
 
 Hasty (dictating). "But now I despise you, as he must and does 
 despise you ' 
 
 Pere. Now really, sir, to a lady, there is in these words a crudity 
 of expression — to speak delicately; but if you think it becoming — 
 (writing) — 'must and does despise you.' 
 
 Hasty. Is it written ? 
 
 Pere. It is, sir, and in a specimen of penmanship at once masterly 
 and delicate, I flatter myself. 
 
 Hasty (looking aver him). What do I see there? No! Can it be 
 possible ? (Snatches the paper. ) 
 
.28 AMATEUR A^D PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Pere. (rising). Is there anything you find objectionable, sir? I 
 believe the 'iV are all dotted, and the 'tV all crossed, with the most 
 rigorous exactitude. 
 
 Hasty {walking up and down with agitation). I can scarcely believe 
 my eyes. It was he ! he ! And she dared to make game of me in this 
 treacherous fashion . Oh ! both shall smart for this cruel derision ! 
 (Placing himself before Peregrine with rage). So you love me, then? 
 
 Pere. Love you. I don't see that you have given me the slightest 
 reason— — 
 
 Hasty. You love me — me alone ! 
 
 Pere (aside). If any body would but tell me where his keeper is. 
 
 Hasty. Bo you mean to deny your own writing, sir ? 
 
 Pere. Never, sir, never. That is a point of honor. 
 
 Hasty (showing the letter he has received). You traced these lines, 
 sir ! It's no use denying. She used you as her amanuensis, sir. 
 
 Pere. Certainly, sir; just as you have done me the honor to do 
 yourself. 
 
 Hasty. And I covered the letter with kisses. It is infamous ! 
 
 Pere. Infamous! now come. Permit me to remark that the 'iV 
 and the <tV 
 
 Hasty. No more foolery, sir. I will endure this insulting irony no 
 longer. You come here every day — — 
 
 Pere. Except Sundays. 
 
 Hasty. By that back staircase (pointing r. ) 
 
 Pere. To arrive at a first-floor a staircase is generally considered 
 a necessary convenience, sir. 
 
 Hasty (furious). But not to leave it, sir; for you shall go out of 
 the window. 
 
 Pere (getting away). Thank you; I had rather not 
 
 Hasty (advancing). I shall not consult your inclination, sir; for 
 out of it you shall go. 
 
 Pere. (getting round the stage). Stand off, monster! Are you going 
 to destroy me ? 
 
 Hasty (pursuing him). Have you not destroyed the happiness of 
 , my life? And shall I leave you unpunished? (Hunting liim into a 
 corner and seizing him by the collar). No! 
 
 Pere. (screaming). Help! help! police! murder! a strait jacket! 
 two straitjackets ! a whole bedlam-store of strait jackets! Help! help ! 
 
 Enter Lucy hastily, c. r>. p., followed by Mary. 
 
 Lucy. What is the meaning of these cries ? (Seeing Peregrine 
 confused.) Ah! he there? 
 
 Hasty. Come, madam, come ! Your presence alone was necessary 
 to complete the scene. 
 
 Mary (aside). The two lovers at loggerheads ! What will she do 
 now? 
 
 Pere. My dear madam, is the gentleman often thus 1 J'ou had 
 better speak to his friends. 
 
 Lucy. Harry ! Harry ! Such conduct is unworthy of yon ! It is that 
 of a madman. 
 
 Hastx". A madman! Yes, I was mad to love you — mad to believe 
 your word — mad to trust to your pretended love. 
 
 Lucy. Harry ! I entreat you 
 
 Hasty, And then you must add sarcasm and irony to your perfidy, 
 
. AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 29 
 
 "by causing this man to trace those lines, in which I thought to find a 
 guarantee of your affection. 
 
 Mary, (aside.) Well! that was clever ! She is a wonderful young 
 woman. 
 
 Lucy, (with an effort). Harry! I beseech you to calm yourself. You 
 force me now to blush bef ore you ! 
 
 Hasty. (You should blush — if you could. Can you deny that you 
 sent me this letter f 
 
 Lucy, No. 
 
 Hasty. Dare you aflirm that you yourself have written it ? 
 
 Lucy (with shame). No. 
 
 Hasty. Can you pretend that it was not written by that man ? 
 
 Lucy (in the greatest agitation). But, Harry ! Harry ! if I don't 
 know how to write myself 
 
 Hasty. What do I hear ? 
 
 Lucy. Cruel man. This is the secret I desired to conceal from you. 
 Ashamed of my ignorance, I put off the moment of our union until I 
 should be more worthy of you. I struggled to remedy the deficien- 
 cies of my education in early life for your sake ; and then you accuse 
 —insult me. (Weeps.)' 
 
 Hasty. Lucy ! Is it possible ? And this man 
 
 Pere. (presenting his card.) My name, sir, is Peregrine Plume, 
 Professor of the Caligraphic Science — to speak delicately, and inven- 
 tor by patent of the art of teaching penmanship in its highest 
 branches in twenty-four hours — one hour twice a week. (Aside.) That 
 makes just three months. 
 
 Mary (aside.) It's all a sham, I'm convinced. But she has got out 
 of it. She is a wonderful young woman ! 
 
 Hasty. Pardon a guilty and repentant wretch, Lucy. Oh, pardon 
 me. Let my jealousy be considered as a proof of my o'erwhelming 
 love. (Lucy smiles and gives her hand.) And now I in future will be 
 your only master. 
 
 Pere. Sir, you rob me of my pupil ! 
 
 Lucy. I think I shall learn more quickly with him. 
 
 Pere. More quickly than f our-and-twenty Jiours ? 
 
 Lucy. Which have now lasted more than two months. 
 
 Pere. But you already make the most beautiful "O's." Oh! my 
 pupil! Oh! what "Os" you make. True circles of beauty — to 
 speak delicately. 
 
 Hasty. What pleasure I shall have in being your professor ! Suc- 
 cess, I trust, will crown our mutual efforts ; and may good fortune 
 attend us ! 
 
 Mary. And me, too, I hope, sir. 
 
 Hasty. You, too, and also in his future career (pointing to Pere- 
 grine) " My Mysterious Rival !" 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
30 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 DON'T BE TOO QUICK TO CRY WOLF. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 GuyGilbart, l , . , 
 
 Geraldine Gilbart, J a ne wly-marned couple, 
 Captain George. 
 
 SCENE.— Morning Boom in Guy Gilb art's Country House. Mid-day. 
 Guy and Geraldine discovered. He is seated absorbed in a booh. 
 She is engaged arranging flowers at a table. 
 
 Geraldine (after once or twice endeavoring fruitlessly by signs to at- 
 tract his attention. ) Guy ! 
 
 Guy (makes a sign as though he had heard her f but does not speak.) 
 
 Ger. Guy! 
 
 Guy. (Business as before.) 
 
 Ger. Guy! 
 
 Guy (without taking his eyes off the book.) Well, dear T 
 
 Ger. I do wish you would attend to what I have to say. 
 
 Guy (looking up.) Well, I am attending. 
 
 Ger. What a beautiful morning it is. 
 
 Guy. Now, my dear child, you have called me three times, and 
 distracted my attention from a most interesting part of the book 
 which I am trying to read, to say it's a beautiful morning. Why, 
 we agreed upon that subject two hours ago. 
 
 Ger. I don't think it matters to you whether the morning is beau- 
 tiful or not ; you don't appreciate it. 
 
 Guy. Dearest wife, I do appreciate it ; I am appreciating it. It is 
 a delicious morning. (Continues to read.) 
 
 Ger. Ah, no ! You do not appreciate it: you cannot appreciate it 
 or you would not be sitting there reading. (Pauses. Guy continues 
 to read.) 
 
 Ger (impatiently) Guy! 
 
 Guy (collecting himself) I beg your pardon. 
 
 Ger. Why don't you talk ? 
 
 Guy. Talk, eh ? Oh, yes, to be sure. What a beautiful morning. 
 
 Ger. Don't mock me in that way, Guy ; please don't. You may 
 think it funny, but it wounds me. Oh, you can't think how it wounds 
 me. 
 
 Guy. Mock you, my darling — wound you ? What do you mean ? 
 What have I said ? 
 
 Ger. Why you just said it was a beautiful morning. 
 
 GUY. Well, it is j is it not ? 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 31 
 
 Ger. 1 had just said that. 
 
 Guy. Upon my life I didn't hear you. {Resumes his booh She goes 
 on petulantly arranging flowers.) 
 
 Ger. {after a pause.) Do you know what I am doing ? 
 
 Guy. {without looking up.) Eh? 
 
 Ger. Will you kindly look at what I am doing ? 
 
 Guy. {looking at her.) Oh, yes; I see. Making [a nosegay. Very 
 pretty : very charming. 
 
 Ger. I was not making a nosegay just then ; I was doing this. 
 {Pulls a piece of grass to pieces.) 
 
 Guy. What on earth are you doing that fort Rather wasteful, 
 isn't it ? and rather calculated to make a mess in the room, and, as 
 you are very fond of putting it, "to make work for the servants ?" 
 
 Ger. {petulantly.) You never understand me. I was doing what I 
 often used to do when I was a foolish young^girl 
 
 Guy {interrupting.) And before you had servants! 
 
 Ger. Yes, before I was married, which means the same thing. 
 {Goes on pulling grass.) " He loves me/' "He loves me not," "He 
 loves me" 
 
 Guy. Oh, I know now. Well, of course it comes right each time. 
 
 Ger. Indeed, it doesn't. I've tried five times, and it's always 
 wrong. Every thing is wrong now. 
 
 Guy. What rubbish. 
 
 Ger {throwing grass on carpet.) It isn't rubbish, and you used not 
 to say it was. 
 
 Guy. But, my dear, I wasn't married then, and hadn't a carpet. 
 Rubbish ought not to be thrown there. 
 
 Ger. You've become terribly matter-of-fact. 
 
 Guy. So was the upholsterer when he sent in the bill for the car- 
 pet: but I mustn't laugh at you, little woman. I remember years 
 ago, when I was quite a boy, when I was first in love with you, ap- 
 plying the same test with — no not with grass — with, what do you 
 think ? 
 
 Ger. {interested.) With what? 
 
 Guy. With damson stones out of a damson tart. 
 
 Ger. Ah, Guy ! You liked sweets then ; you don't now. 
 
 Guy. No ; because then they were a treat, now I can always get 
 
 them. Well, the stones came wrong ; I got them all up in a corner 
 
 of my plate, and for a moment they seemed all right. "She loves 
 
 me," I cried ; when suddenly, secreted under the bowl of a deceptive 
 
 • spoon, I found another. " She loves me not!" 
 
 ' Ger. Ah ! The spoon was wrong ! 
 
 Guy. Ah, I felt it was, and being a spoon myself, what do you 
 think I did to make things square and comfortable ? 
 
 Ger. What? , 
 
 Guy. Put that miserable, untruthful damson stone out of sight by 
 — swallowing it ! * 
 
 Ger. {coming to him and kneeling by him.) Did you: Oh, my dear 
 Guy, I love to think of you doing a thing like that. How I should 
 have loved to have seen you do it ! 
 
 Guy. I don't think you would. It went down, or rather didnH go 
 down, the wrong way, and I was ignominiously ordered to leave the 
 room ; and, moreover, I was very ill. 
 
 Ger. {rising. Ah, Guy, better ill than indifferent. In those days 
 you used to like to talk to me, you used to like to sing with me, you 
 
32 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 used to like to read with me, you used to like, oh, you used to love, to 
 dance with me ; now at the ball last night you didn't dance with me 
 once, and every one noticed it. 
 
 Guy. Now, Geraldine, upon my life this is inconsistent. Before 
 we were engaged, and when I wanted to dance with you all night 
 long, you wouldn't let me, " because people would notice it ;" now, 
 when the position of things is reversed, you say the same thing. 
 
 Gee. But why don't you ask me to dance ? 
 
 Guy. Because I don't want to dance any longer. My dancing was 
 a means to an end. 
 
 Ger. And am I the end ? 
 
 Guy. Undoubtedly, and I have attained it. (Goes on reading.) 
 
 Ger. (after ajpause.) I wish you would attain the end of that hor- 
 rid book. 
 
 Guy. But if I did I should only begin another. 
 
 Ger. And so it would be with me. Oh, Guy ! 
 
 Guy. (rousing himself. ) My dear Geraldine, what nonsense you are 
 talking. You are always tormenting yourself with these foolish fan- 
 cies. What would you have me do ? 
 
 Ger. Why don't you like to dance with me as you used to do ? 
 
 Guy. Oh/ if that is all, I will dance with you at once. Let us clear 
 the room. "May I have the pleasure of the next "round?" If so 
 we can start at once. If, on the contrary, you prefer a "square," 
 let us ring the bell and have up the cook and coachman for our vis-a- 
 vis. Will you oblige me with your programme ? May I have the 
 pleasure of taking you to supper? Of course the first "extra" is 
 ours? 
 
 Ger. (our sting into tears.) It is ours; it always will be ours; our 
 married life is one horrible loug extra; oh, I am so unhappy. 
 
 Guy. My darling, what have I said ; what have I done ; I didn't 
 mean to be indifferent to you last night, upon my word I didn't. You 
 know I have told you over and over again that I always hated dances r 
 and only came to them because I was able to meet you. I never 
 wanted to dance with anyone else ; and now that I have you for my 
 dear life-companion, I don't — pardon me for saying so — I don't see 
 why I should waste my time in dancing with you. 
 
 Ger. (still sobbing.) Oh, there is not much fear of your wasting 
 time on me. You are too much interested in, your books. 
 
 Guy. Now, my darling, is there any great crime in being interested 
 in a book ? 
 
 Ger. No ; but, Oh, Guy, I do so feel that the whole thing has been 
 o Tmstske 
 
 Guy. The thing? What thing? 
 
 Ger. Our marriage. 
 
 Guy. (impatiently. ) Oh, Geraldine, this is childish. 
 
 Ger. No, it isn't. If we only had a child, perhaps you would 
 
 Guy. (interrupting and speaking sternly.) Geraldine, let me have no 
 more of this. Over and over again I have told you that I am more 
 than satisfied with my present life ; more, ten thousand times more 
 than satisfied with you. For the first time in an overworked life I 
 am enjoying peace and quiet, and am enabled to follow the bent of 
 a quiet inclination. If at times I am quiet, if I am absorbed in a 
 book, it is because I am happy, and my mind is at rest. You know 
 how I love and how I trust you ; you know that your love is the very 
 essence of my life. I know that your love for me is as disinterested 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 33 
 
 as is mine for you. My only trouble in life is this continued misgiv- 
 ing on your part that you do not make me happy ; your foolish feel- 
 ing that you do not possess my entire love. 
 
 Ger. Then you don't think it was a mistake ? 
 
 Guy. My wife 
 
 Ger. Dear Guy, I won't think so any more. Go on with your book, 
 and I will go and gather more flowers, (turns to go.) 
 
 Guy. Stop ; for mercy's sake don't find some new kind of vegetable, 
 or antiquated superstition connected with it, to make yourself niiser- 
 ble with. 
 
 Ger. No. If I do I'll pull the vegetable, as you call it, and the su- 
 perstition to pieces at the same time. Now, dear, I've disturbed 
 you enough. Good-bye, I have swallowed the damson stone, it's gone 
 the right way ; and I know, oh, I know well, "you love me." 
 
 Exit Geraldine. 
 
 Guy. Now, what in the world to do with this dear little wife of 
 mine I'm sure I don't know. A better wife surely never lived, and, 
 if she only knew it, no wife could make her husband happier than 
 she does ; but, the deuce of it is she ivont believe it. During the 
 twelve months which we have been married, the feeling, the absurd 
 feeling, that she does not make me happy, has grown upon her to 
 such an extent, and the notion (formed solely, I am certain, on my 
 account) that the whole thing, meaning our marriage, is, as she says, 
 " a mistake," has developed to such a degree, that as to what she 
 will do next to guage the state of my genuinely unalterable affection 
 for her, I am on continual "tenter-hooks " (whatever they may be) 
 to imagine. Day after day the cry of Wolf! Wolf! rings in my ears, 
 and as often I know that, even if there is anything in the neighbor- 
 hood in the shape of a wolf, it wears the most palpable sheep's cloth- 
 ing, and acts up to its costume. Last Christmas — shall I ever forget 
 it ? a young man appeared on the scene, a young, swarthy, objection- 
 able-looking man. The said man lurks about the house; and poor 
 Geraldine ostentatiously changes the subject when I say I have seen 
 him, and leads the conversation up to him when I happen to ignore 
 him. At length, on a certain night, when the fields and gardens are 
 snow-covered, and I am sitting in my library, I am treated to the 
 sight of my wife leaving the house with a shawl thrown over her, 
 meeting the said man immediately outside my window, and there 
 and then falling into his arms and embracing him. Bah ! as though 
 I had read Christmas stories for nothing ! I opened the window 
 at once, and quietly said — "Now, Geraldine, which of your brothers 
 is it ?" and had the pleasure of being presented to her brother 
 James, who had returned from Australia, and did me the honor of 
 staying with me for two months. She knew he was coming home, 
 she told me afterwards, and had arranged a little plot to test my 
 love for her. As though my love wanted testing. I love her 
 with my whole heart and soul, and yet she is always doubting me, 
 and devising little plans to make me jealous. Oh*! if I could only 
 be left alone for a little time, how happy I should be. (SighSj takes 
 up book, goes on reading. 
 
 Enter Geraldine, with two letters in her hand, one of which is opened. 
 
34 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Ger. Guy, oh my dear Guy ! tell me had you many shares in the 
 " Patagonian Silver Mines !" 
 
 Guy {looking tip.) Yes, dear ; I had to some extent invested in that 
 gorgeous undertaking. 
 
 Gee. Oh, my dear husband, here is a letter to say that the Compa- 
 ny is hopelessly ruined. Oh, I am so glad! 
 
 Guy. Glad ! Well, upon my soul, that's a lively way of looking at 
 it ! Are you aware that when a man holds shares in a Company, and 
 that company comes to grief, that man as a shareholder 
 
 Ger. Is ruined too. Yes, and that is why I am glad. Oh, my hus- 
 band ! now you shall see how staunch and true your weak-minded 
 wife can be. Now you will see her come out in her true colors. Now, 
 my dearest Guy, now that you are a poor man 
 
 Guy. Geraldine, Geraldine, I am ?iot a poor man. Months and 
 months ago I knew that these shares were valueless. Of course, I 
 lose by them, but, so far from ruining me, the loss will hardly affect 
 me. 
 
 Ger. Won't it ? Oh, I am so sorry. 
 
 Guy. Why ? In the name of — well, in the name of goodness, why ? 
 
 Ger. Because, Guy, I should like you to see me in my true colors. 
 Oh, I should be so brave if you were ruined. 
 
 Guy. My dear child, be brave as it is. I always do see you in your 
 true colors, and believe me they become you very well. 
 
 Ger. I'm certain you think I'm only fit to be the pampered wife of 
 a rich man — that if we became poor I should die. 
 
 Guy. What, change your colors by dyeing them ! No, little wife, 
 I'm sure you wouldn't. Your colors are fast enough, though I don't 
 believe you know it. 
 
 Ger. Fast, Guy ? I'm certain that no woman was ever more quiet- 
 ly dressed than I am at this moment ! 
 
 Guy. Oh, don't, don't; please don't. You twist every thing that I 
 say inside out. Who is that other letter from ? 
 
 Ger. I can't say, I haven't opened it ; I was too full of the mines. 
 
 Guy. I wish they had been full ■ 
 
 Ger. Go on — say it. You wish they had been full of me. In other 
 words, you wish I was buried in them. 
 
 Guy. (kissing her.) For one reason, yes — because then there would 
 have been a treasure in them. Come, give me that letter (opens let- 
 ter and reads.) Oh, here is good news. It is from George, my dear 
 old friend George. He is coming to stay with us, and will be here, 
 — why, he will be here at noon to-day. This letter must have been 
 delayed, for it is past 4hat now. I am so glad. 
 
 Ger. (coldly.) Do you refer to Captain George? 
 
 Guy. Of course I do. To what other George could I refer ? My 
 dear old friend. He may be here at any moment ; and he evidently 
 means to pay us a good long visit. 
 
 Ger. I am very sorry for it. 
 
 Guy. Sorry for it, Geraldine ! Why ? 
 
 Ger. Because I do not like him. 
 
 Guy. Not like my best and oldest friend ? 
 
 Ger. I am sorry to have to say it, but I do ?io£like him. 
 
 Guy. And may I again ask, why ? 
 
 Ger. He is a not a true friend to men ; he is not a sincere man 
 with women. He is just the man to estrange man from wife. I say 
 again I am very sorry he is coming to stay here. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. * 35 
 
 G-uy. Geraldine, you cannot understand what serious things you 
 are saying — what grave charges you are making. George is my very 
 dear and very old friend, and as such he ought to receive a hearty 
 welcome from you as from me. 
 
 Ger. And in return for it what will he do ? Induce you to go out 
 with him to hunt, to fish, and to shoot ; induce you to sit up at night 
 to smoke, to drink, and to play cards. In a word, he will do every- 
 thing to break up our quiet life, and make you dissatisfied with it and 
 with me. 
 
 Guy. He will do nothing of the sort. While he is my guest I shall, 
 as I have done before, devote a certain amount of time to him, and 
 try to make his visit a pleasant one. I shall do so, Geraldine, at the 
 risk of making you jealous of him, for it is jealousy which prompts 
 you to say all these foolish things ; and unless you join me in wel- 
 coming him I shall be terribly annoyed and hurt. Hark ! I hear the 
 sound of his carriage wheels ; I will go to him. I hate, my darling, 
 to have to speak so sternly to you, but you have brought it on your- 
 self. Pray remember what I have said. 
 
 Exit Guy. 
 
 Ger. He has left me without a kiss ! For the first time since we 
 have been married he has left me without a kiss! Oh, what can I 
 do to make him love me ? How can I render his married life a happy 
 one ? He is so good, and so tender, and yet I know he finds so much 
 wanting in me that he will soon think, as I think now, that our mar- 
 riage was a mistake. He is too satisfied, he cannot be made jealous 
 of me, and, therefore, I am convinced lie no longer loves me. Oh, if 
 I could only rouse him from this terrible state of lethargy. Stay, 
 this Captain George, a man who would fiirt with any woman who 
 would give him the least encouragement — his great friend, too — why 
 should I not avail myself of this opportunity, and once more try a 
 little innocent stratagem to regain my dear husband's waning affec- 
 tion ? The end justifies the means, and I will do it. 
 
 Re-enter Guy ivith Captain George. 
 
 Guy. Once more, dear old boy, ten thousand welcomes. I needn't 
 introduce you to Geraldine, need I? 
 
 George. And I need not ask Mrs. Gilbart how she is ? The answer 
 to that question is conveyed in her face. She never looked more 
 charming. ( Th ey sh ake h a n ds. ) 
 
 Ger. (aside.) The same as ever! I shall find a very willing accom- 
 plice in my little plot. (Aloud.) We are so glad to see you, Captain 
 George ; all the more so because you promise to pay us a long visit. 
 •You will not outstay your welcome, of that you may be sure. 
 
 Guy. Well put, little woman. That's the way in which a wife 
 should welcome her husband's friend. Eh, George ? 
 
 George. A very pleasant way, truly ; but I hope Mrs. Gilbart re- 
 gards me as a friend of her own, as well as a friend of her husband's. 
 
 Ger. Why, Captain George, of course I do. 
 
 Guy. Why, my dear boy, of course she does. Well, and now, what 
 shall be our next programme — lunch? 
 
 Ger. We breakfasted so late that I ordered lunch at two o'clock — 
 but if Captain George 
 
 George. My dear Mrs. Gilbart, I regret to say that I have not 
 
36 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 breakfasted at all — and let me see— it is now one o'clock ; the great 
 question which, occurs to me is, what can I do to get up an appetite 
 "by two o'clock. 
 
 Ger. Oh, I know ; sit in the house and drink bitters and some- 
 thing. 
 
 G.uy. I know a better way than that. "Walk through the turnips 
 with me, and get a shot at the partridges which I know to be there. 
 
 George. That sounds better. 
 
 Guy. Good. Then I'll go and get a couple of guns, put on thick 
 boots and gaiters, rig you up in ditto, ditto, for there wont be time 
 to get out your own things; and then Geraldine shall see what we 
 can do for her larder at two o'clock. I'll be back directly. 
 
 Exit Guy. 
 
 Ger. {aside.) I shall commence at once. (Aloud.) I cannot tell 
 you, Captain George, how glad we — how glad I am to see you. In 
 this quiet country house, we — or perhaps I should say I — lead such a 
 lonely, monotonous, solitary life, that any visitor is welcome ; that 
 you of all others are welcome, "goes without saying." 30UH8 
 
 George. It is very pleasant, Mrs. Gilbart, to hear you say so. Yes, 
 I can fancy that your life here, charming as the place is, is a little 
 dull. Poor Guy must get moped a good deal. 
 
 Ger. Oh, pardon me, he does not get anything of the sort. He is 
 as happy as the day is long ; he is completely wrapped up in his 
 books, and wants nothing'more. 
 
 George. So ! But you. Surely you want something beyond this 
 miserable, dull routine ? 
 
 Ger. To tell the truth, I do. Ah, Captain George, how little we 
 know ourselves. Before I was married I used to say that the very 
 height of my ambition would be to live in the quiet country 'alone 
 with my husband ; that I should need no society but his ; that out- 
 side my own little household I should neither want nor have inter- 
 ests. Now, at the end of one short year I find that all my ideas have 
 changed, and that I am dying of ennui. 
 
 George (aside.) By Jove! here is a change indeed. (Aloud.) Ah, 
 Mrs. Gilbert, I can well understand you, and knowing your nature 
 and Guy's, I always felt sure it would be so. Can you then now find 
 some excuse for those married ladies who endeavor to make life en- 
 durable by making a few pleasures for themselves, and upon whom 
 you were at one time so severe 
 
 Ger. Excuse ! Indeed I can. I tell you I have altered, and I can 
 see now that at one time I used to think and talk a great deal of 
 nonsense. Ah ! I did not know then what it was to have a neglect- 
 ful husband— what it was to Stay! what am I saying? Guy is 
 
 your friend, and you will tell him. 
 
 George. Mrs. Gilbart ! Can you think so badly of me ? Anything 
 that you say to me is in confidence, and is regarded by me as sacred. 
 
 Ger. You do not mind, then, that your friend's wife should give 
 you her confidence ? 
 
 George. Mind! I feel honored— Mrs. Gilbart, Geraldine— I may 
 call you Geraldine when we are alone, may I not ? 
 
 Ger. (Looks at him but does not answer.) 
 
 George (takes her hand and presses it.) Ah, now we understand 
 each other. Tell me all. And so Guy neglects you? 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 37 
 
 Ger. He does. And I am unhappy, and I want to ask you, I know 
 you will 
 
 George. My dearest Geraldine, I will do anything in the world for 
 you. Alas ! I always foresaw this. Guy is a good fellow, and all 
 that sort of thing, but as utterly incapable of appreciating you as he 
 is of flying, he always reminds me of a bat ; he's as blind as one, he 
 is as 
 
 Ger. Stop, you must remember that bats can fly 
 
 George. Yes, but they always fly at the most absurd hours, and 
 in the beautiful sunshine use their wings to hook themselves up to 
 unpleasant rafters in the dustiest corners of mouldy old barns. Now 
 that is exactly the case with Guy. He doesn't understand his good 
 fortune in having you for his wife, and never will. 
 
 Ger. But what am I to do ? 
 
 George. You must do, Geraldine, as many other young wives have 
 to do who find out, too late, that they have thrown themselves away. 
 You must make a life for yourself and arrange for your own pleas- 
 ures, as your husband always arranges for his. Have your own 
 friends as he has his. 
 
 Ger. Is this what other wives have to do ? 
 
 George. Of course it is : and, once having overcome their preju- 
 dices, very pleasant times they manage to have of it. Now I must 
 tell you candidly that until this moment I had very little hope for 
 you, and my heart ached for you. I always believed that you were 
 one of those absurd women who regard everything from such a seri- 
 ous point of view. That you would find out what your husband was 
 like and fall in love with some one else, I was certain 
 
 Ger. {eagerly.) Captain George, hear me 
 
 George. In a moment I will. I was going to say, that you would 
 of course fall in love with some one else ; but I thought you would 
 want the favored individual to run away with you, and so make a 
 regular scene of it, but now that I find I am mistaken I do not hesi- 
 tate, my darling Geraldine, to tell you of my love for you. Ah, do 
 not be startled. Remember, you must before all things overcome 
 your prejudices. I tell you, dearest, I love you, and, now that we 
 understand each other, what happiness may not be ours. 
 
 Again takes her hand, and is endeavoring to draw her towards him and 
 to kiss her, she resisting, when Guy is heard without. 
 
 Guy. (calling.) George, George. 
 
 George. Your husband! Be careful that he does not notice any- 
 thing. 
 
 Ger., greatly agitated, sinks into a chair. 
 
 Enter Guy. 
 
 Guy. Come along, George, and get your boots on. I'm sorry Fve 
 been so long. 
 
 George. I'm not at all sorry, for Mrs. Gilbart's society has been 
 charming. But now I'm quite ready for you. 
 
 Exit Captain George. 
 
 Guy is following Mm, when Ger. seizes him by the arm and detains him. 
 
 Ger. (still much agitated. ) Guy, stay with me. I have something 
 terrible to say to you. But I must tell you this moment, this in- 
 stant 
 
38 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Guy. Not now, little woman, after lunch, we really have so little 
 time now. 
 
 Ger. Oh, Guy, dear Guy! Don't leave me now, do, do, hear me. 
 
 Guy. Well, if it must be so, what is it ? More suspicions ? 
 
 Ger. No, oh no, would it were only a suspicion ? Guy, I have been 
 insulted, horribly, terribly insulted, and you have been most cruelly 
 wronged. 
 
 Guy. What do you mean ? 
 
 Ger. It means, it seems almost too dreadful to tell, and yet if I 
 don't tell you this moment I feel as though I should die. It means 
 that the man you call your friend — Captain George 
 
 Guy. Well, what has he been doing ? 
 
 Ger. This. He has been telling me that he loves me, Guy, that you 
 cannot appreciate me, and that he and I 
 
 Guy Oh, Geraldine, Geraldine, Wolf ! Wolf! More plots to test me ! 
 More Christmas stories raked up ! I know all about it, dear ! 
 
 Ger. No, no. Oh, Guy, do believe me pray, pray believe me. This 
 is no invention, no plot. I know I have been very foolish before, 
 but this is true, indeed, indeed, this is true. 
 
 Guy. Listen to me, for I must talk to you very seriously. You do 
 not know what you are saying, or doing, or how much mischief, if I 
 was foolish enough to believe you, you might be making. These lit- 
 tle masquerades got up with a brother at Christmas time, are, so long 
 as you do not take cold, all very well. I am sorry that you should 
 think them necessary, but I do not much mind them. In this case it 
 is very different. George is my very dear old friend, and I love and 
 trust him implicitly. Think what your story -might cause between 
 us. 
 
 Ger. He is a false and wicked friend 
 
 Guy. Hush! we will speak no more of him, for I will not wrong 
 him by another word. I come to an even more important matter — 
 yourself. No man ever dared to tell the wife of his friend that he 
 loved her unless he had received from her a very, very great amount 
 of bold encouragement. Hence it follows that before I suspect him, 
 I must suspect you. 
 
 Ger. Ah, but I did encourage him. I was foolish, and I meant no 
 harm. 
 
 Guy. Enough, Geraldine ! I will hear no more. You are my wife, 
 my dearly loved wife, and are above suspicion ; George is my old and 
 tried friend, and I have already insulted him by hearing so much. 
 
 Ger. And he will stay with us ? 
 
 Guy. Of course he will stay with us. 
 
 Ger. Oh what have I done that you will not believe me ? Oh, Guy, 
 my husband! 
 
 Guy. Hush ! he is coming. 
 
 Enter Captain George. 
 
 George. I am ready at last, Guy. I found I couldn't manage with 
 your boots so had to get my own after all. Shall we be off t 
 Guy. In one moment. Stay here, and I will be back directly. 
 
 Exit Guy. 
 
 George, {eagerly.) Did he suspect anything? 
 Ger. {quietly.) He suspects nothing. 
 
 George. Oh, my darling, what an escape we had! in future wq 
 must be more cautious — we must arrange 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 39 
 
 Ger. Stop ! and hear what I have to say. When I spoke to yon 
 a short time ago, I had some very foolish ideas in my head, and 
 said things which I not only did not believe, bnt did not even mean. 
 Those words of mine caused yon to think that yon were speaking to 
 a woman of a class among whom you, no doubt, number a large ac- 
 quaintance, and you then dared, under your own friend's roof, to 
 profess love — oh, such love ; it is profanity to use the word — to your 
 friend's wife. At the moment when I was endeavoring to make you 
 understand the mistake which you had made, he came in, and direct- 
 ly we were alone together I told him all. I told him all, and he will 
 not believe me, and he is as much your friend as ever. Well, your 
 treachery has done this amount of good ; it has at length opened my 
 eyes and enabled me to understand the beauty of my dear husband's 
 character. Where he loves he is incapable of suspicion, but were he 
 to suspect, even in the least degree, his wife, or even his friend, so 
 cruel would the blow be to him that it would break his heart. Good, 
 loving, and loyal himself, he believes others to be good, loving, and 
 loyal, ; and henceforth it shall be my care that his goodness and 
 trust shall be better rewarded than they have been in the past. He 
 shall suspect nothing — not even you. Stay your time out here, Cap- 
 tain George, and we will, for his sake, appear as friends ; but remem- 
 ber that I shall always hate and despise you. 
 
 Guy, who lias entered while she has been speaking, and has stood at 
 back, comes forward. 
 
 Guy. No, Geraldine, you will do nothing of the sort. 
 
 Ger. (rushing to him.) Oh, you have overheard us. Then now you 
 will believe me. 
 
 Guy. My dear child, I believe everything and everybody. Now I 
 must make a confession. 
 
 Ger. A confession ? You ? 
 
 Guy. Yes, I. Know then that I, too, have been plotting. In a long 
 letter which I wrote lately to my dear old friend George, I told him 
 how happy I was with a charming wife, who only had one fault. 
 
 George. A wonderful woman, indeed. 
 
 Guy. And that one fault was a silly little habit of crvim*, " Wolf ! 
 Wolf !" when there was no Wolf. When he arrived this morning I 
 told him directly that "Wolf" was being cried all over the place, 
 and he said, "Let me be a Wolf, and I'll cure her at once." 
 
 Ger. And that was what you did ? 
 
 George. Exactly. I was a Wolf all the time, and when I saw your 
 charming indignation, Mrs. Gilbart, I felt like one. 
 
 Guy. And so the story is told. 
 
 Ger. Yes and I'm glad it is only a story. Captain George, I beg 
 your pardon; I don't hate or despise you; but oh, how you must, 
 both of you, despise me. 
 
 Guy. Oh, you foolish Geraldine! There you are again— Wolf ! Wolf! 
 
 Ger. (sadly.) But I deserve to be despised. Isn't there a Wolf 
 now ? 
 
 Guy. (kissing her.) Not the ghost of one. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
40 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 NUMBER TWO. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mr. Grundlebury. 
 Mrs. Grundlebury. 
 Tom Robinson, an actor. 
 
 SCENE. — Room in Grundlebury 1 s Souse. Window in F. Entrances 
 r. and l. Tables, Chairs, Sofa, $rc. Grundlebury discovered 
 pacing the stage. 
 
 Grundlebury. Pretty pass for a man to be hectored in this way 
 by the woman he has made his wife ! If I do this, it's wrong ; If I 
 don't do it, why didn't I f — that's how she goes on from morning to 
 night. There's no pleasing her. Yet I could stand it all but for her 
 eternal praises of "her poor dear George, — her poor dear i first.'" 
 That's how she looks at us, and I daresay she's anticipating die time 
 when she can tick off the fingers of one hand to Christian names. No. 
 1, George ; No. 2, that's me, and if this kind of thing continues, 
 there'll soon be a vacancy for No. 3. (Bell rings.) Who's that ? 
 
 ( Voice without, R. ) In here, do you say ? Never mind, I'll make my 
 way. Here we are. 
 
 Enter Robinson, r. 
 
 Grun. Tom! 
 
 Rob. Yes, old boy, and as hearty as ever; how's yourself? (Shak- 
 ing hands. ) 
 
 Grun. Don't ask me. Can't you see a sonata of compounded mis- 
 ery in the lines of my face ? 
 
 Rob. Well, I can't say I can — but I was never much of a musician, 
 so you'll have to spin out the yarn yourself, if you want me to know 
 what you mean. 
 
 Grun. Ah! it's a miserable tale, Tom, and I daresay I look miser- 
 able enough too, only you don't like to say it. 
 
 Rob. Well, you do look a miserable object, if you want me to say 
 it ; but as to reading the lines on your face, I might as well try to 
 decipher the hieroglyphics on Cleopatra's Needle. 
 
 Grun. Ah ! you actors are always looking after the points — ha, ha, 
 ha! 
 
 Rob. There ! There's the man that wants to make me believe he's 
 miserable. Why the only thing that I see miserable about you is 
 your attempt at a joke. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 41 
 
 Grun. Ah ! Tom, I can't help it. Ycu bring to my mind the old 
 happy days of puns and punch and deviltry. 
 
 Rob. Well, let me hear the story : perhaps a little puns and punch 
 and deviltry might get rid of your misery for you. 
 
 Grun. It's more serious than that, Tom. 
 
 Rob. What is it, then ? Have you fallen out with your old aunt 
 "who's got a fortune to leave ? 
 
 Grun. No. 
 
 Rob. Well, what then ? 
 
 Grun. I've married. 
 
 Rob. The Devil ! 
 
 Grun. No ; a widow. 
 
 Rob. Ha, ha, ha ! Well that's a good hit. 
 
 Grun. (Angrily.) Glad you think so. Thank you. 
 
 Rob. Come, Harry, old fellow, don't get vexed. I didn't mean any- 
 thing. Let's know all about it, and I'll see what can be done. 
 
 Grun. If you see anything that can be undone, I'll be mightily 
 obliged to you. 
 
 Rob. Of course I can. You just let me know your grievance, and 
 I'll set it right in a jihy. 
 
 Grun. I thought her a paragon, Tom, of all the womanly virtues, 
 and when she told me she never knew what love was till she met me, 
 I couldn't resist her, but just kissed her, and asked her to be my \#fe. 
 
 Rob. Well. 
 
 Grun. Weil, she consented, and in the first quarter of the honey- 
 moon began finding fault with everything I did, and quoted her first 
 husband as a model of perfection. 
 
 Rob. Ah ! I know her. 
 
 Grun. Do you, indeed ? 
 
 Rob. That is, I know lots of women like her. And now I've got 
 your case in a nutshell. You've married a widow, and she so praises 
 her first husband, in and out of season, that you wish the poor man 
 had never died. 
 
 Grun. Now you've got it. 
 
 Rob. You don't know the sex ; this is a sign that she loves you as 
 dearly as it's possible for a woman to love a man. 
 
 Grun. You don't say so ? 
 
 Rob. Fact— can prove it. She is so afraid that you wont love her 
 enough, that she thinks the best way to increase your love is by im- 
 pressing on you your own unworthiness. This she tries to do by con- 
 tinually reminding you that a much better man than you can ever 
 hope to be, viz: her first husband, loved her to distraction, and 
 therefore, you ought to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. 
 
 Grun. Well, that's a very good idea, but I don't see much comfort 
 in it. 
 
 Rob. I told you I'd help you out of the difficulty. 
 
 Grun. You did, but 
 
 Bob. "But me no buts," as I daresay Shakespeare has said some- 
 where ; I have said I will help you out of your scrape. I will. I've 
 got a plan ; It's in my valise outside. 
 
 Grun. Rubbish! 
 
 Rob. Well, it isn't much more, for it's merely my theatrical ward- 
 robe. Trade's bad just now, and I'm giving entertainments ; " Peo- 
 ple About Town," and all that kind of thing. Now, when did your 
 — your predecessor die ? 
 
42 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Grot. During the time Perkins and Gordon were leaders in the 
 Chinese war. 
 
 Rob. Good. Where is he buried ? 
 
 Grun. Somewhere out under the Bohea bushes. He left no money, 
 so they planted him where he'd do the most good. 
 
 Rob. Good ! It's as clear as daylight. I'll dress up as No. 1, and if 
 I don't make it easy for you for the rest of your life, call me a dunce. 
 
 Grun. I daresay I will. 
 
 Rob. Oh! no you wont. When I frighten Mrs. Grundlebury with 
 just the possibility of her losing you, she'll be quiet for the rest of 
 her life. 
 
 Grun. She'll just laugh at you for your pains. She has plenty of 
 proof that he is dead. 
 
 Rob. What is proof to a woman ? You just give me a few partic- 
 ulars and I'll start the game. In the first place, what was her hus- 
 band's name ? 
 
 Grun. George. 
 
 Rob. Good. What was the color of his hair? 
 
 Grun. Brown. 
 
 Rob. Good. Now, what is her name ? 
 
 Grun. Jemima. 
 
 Rob. Just one thing more. Where was she living? 
 
 Grun. At Brooklyn. 
 
 Rob. Splendid. Now, you just let me have a room to rig myself 
 out in, then manage to leave her here by herself. You listen out- 
 side, and when I cough hard three times, come in. 
 
 Grun. Very well, I'm agreeable. It will be rather amusing to see 
 someone else come in for a little of the power of her tongue. 
 
 (Voice without.) Henry! Henry! 
 
 Grun. That's Mrs, Grundlebury. 
 
 Rob. I've no doubt of it. Lead on, Pll follow thee. (Exeunt L. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Grundlebury, r. 
 
 Mrs. G, Where are you ? Not here. Ran away when he heard 
 me coming. Well, I never thought I could have become such a ty- 
 rant as — well I must confess it — as I am. When George was alive, 
 I often wished for a quiet life, and to have an end of his horrid, com- 
 plaining temper ; and now that I have a quiet life and a husband 
 who would love me if I would only let him, I torment him to death. 
 I'm sorry for it, but I can't help it. Still, I must try and treat him 
 better. 
 
 Enter Grundlebury, l. 
 
 Well, Henry, have you sent James for those patterns to Smith- 
 son's ? 
 
 Grun. Patterns ! I'm blessed if I haven't quite forgotten all about 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. G. Quite forgotten all about them ! Was there ever such a 
 man ? Didn't I tell you I wanted them particularly ? How can I 
 write to Mrs. Tumbleville without them ? But you don't care. Poor 
 dear George, when he was alive, didn't want to have my wishes 
 drummed into his ears. 
 
 Grun. Neither do I. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 43 
 
 Mrs. Gr. Hold your tongue, sir. Poor George used to anticipate 
 my wishes 
 
 Grun. So will I, Madam. You'll wish me out of the room present- 
 ly. I anticipate that wish. An revoir. {Exit R.) 
 
 Mrs. Gr. I uever saw him so cool before. I'd "better be careful or 
 he'll defy me. (An uncertain stej), like that of a man with an artificial 
 leg, is heard approaching.) Good heavens ! who can this be ? 
 
 (Voice without.) In there, you say, Very well, that will do, thank 
 you. 
 
 Enter Rob., l., dressed in an old uniform. He carries his right arm in 
 a sling, and wears a patch over his right eye. His face is dark- 
 ened as though from cxpostire to the sun, and he wears long tawny 
 whiskers. He walks as though Ids right leg icas artificial, 
 
 Rob. Jemima! 
 
 Mrs. G. Sir! 
 
 Rob. (Clasping her in his left arm.) Jemima! this to me ! 
 
 Mrs. G. To you, sir ! Who are you, sir ? 
 
 Rob. Who am I, Jemima ? Oh, Jemima, think of the happy hours 
 we spent in our quiet little house at Brooklyn, and don't break my 
 heart. 
 
 Mrs. G. (Agitated.) We spent! What do you mean? 
 
 Rob. Oh ! Jemima, look in my face and see if you can't find that 
 last kiss you gave me, hiding away under the tan of an eastern sun. 
 
 Mrs. G. Kiss I gave you ! If you do not instantly tell me who you 
 are, I'll have you kicked from the house for a tramp. 
 
 Rob. I've tramped far enough to find you. Oh! Jemima do not 
 play with my feelings. Is this the reception I ought to receive after 
 my long absence and the valor I displayed under the fire of a Chinese 
 sun and a savage enemy ? 
 
 Mrs. G. Who are you ? 
 
 Rob. Who am I, Jemima ! Look at this mole on the back of my 
 neck and tell me who I am. (Mrs. G. turns away.) Bring to your 
 mind that evening when one who loved you — who loves you now, Je- 
 mima ! — brought home a bracelet to you, and you in fun turned up 
 the sleeve of his coat to try it on his arm, and there beheld a trade- 
 mark—birth-mark I mean — a strawberry with a blue stem. (Taking 
 his arm out of the sling hastily.) Look here, Jemima. Look here, Je- 
 mima. Turn up this sleeve and you will see the identical strawberry. 
 (Aside— putting his arm hastily in the sling.) It must be the other arm 
 though. (Aloud.) Who am I now, Jemima? 
 
 Mrs. G. (Agitated.) Good heavens ! You are not 
 
 Rob. I am, Jemima. Joy ! Joy ! I am your long-lost husband. 
 
 Mrs. G. Stand back, or I'll scream. 
 
 Rob. Jemima, what do you mean ? 
 
 Mrs. G. My husband didn't have a straw-colored beard. 
 
 Rob. The hot sun of China, Jemima. You know what poets say 
 about golden hair hiding all the stray sunbeams and the like. There 
 were so many knocking about out there that I daresay I haven't 
 combed them all out yet. 
 
 Mrs. G. But then your face, your voice 
 
 Rob. The sun, Jemima. 
 
 Mrs. G. Your leg ? 
 
 Rob. The enemy, Jemima. But that's no blemish, it's what many 
 a gallant man is sighing for. Splendid invention — cork leg. A reg- 
 
44 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 ular testimonial to a man's valor, and quite an additional dignity to 
 his gait. See (walking) I never could do that before. Besides it's 
 awfully handy. You can tread on the corns as much as ever you 
 like, and it's a splendid preventative of hydrophobia. It's my very 
 proudest possession, quite unique. Just run in a pin till you see. 
 'Twont hurt me in the least. Have you got one ? 
 
 Mrs. G. Ugh! 
 
 Rob. Run in a pin, you'll be quite amused. Think I'm going to 
 scream — not I. Just see. 
 
 Mrs. G. How did you escape ? 
 
 Rob. I didn't escape, and that's why I'm here. I was taken pris- 
 oner because my leg was broken and I couldn't run away. 
 
 Mrs. G. (Aside. ) Can it be true that this is my first husband ? 
 He knows me, calls me Jemima, I should not have recognized him. 
 (Alovd.) How did you know I was here ? 
 
 Rob. My heart, Jemima 
 
 Mrs. G.* Your fiddlestick ? How did you find me ? 
 
 Rob. I was walking along on the opposite side of the street, the 
 people all standing to admire my leg — I am proud of it, Jemima — run 
 in a pin, will you ? — very well, never mind — I was walking, as I said, 
 the other side of the street, and chancing to look up, I saw you, and 
 of course, / recognised you instantly. Oh ! the joy of that moment. 
 
 Mrs. G. (Aside.) *Oh! dear, what will become of me. (To Rob. 
 You wretch, why did you come here ? 
 
 Rob. Well, Jemima, there wasn't much use going to Brooklyn, 
 when you 
 
 Mrs. G. Hold your tongue, I 
 
 Rob. (In a military rage.) This to me, ma'am. I hold my tongue, 
 ma'am ! How dare you talk to your husband in that manner ? Who's 
 master, I'd like to know ? 
 
 Mrs. Gr. (Throwing herself on the sofa, crying.) Oh! dear, oh! dear, 
 what shall I do ? 
 
 Rob. What shall you do, ma'am ? Do what you ought to do. Just 
 dry your eyes, smarten yourself up, and say you are glad to see me, 
 and tell me what you've been doing while I've been away. 
 
 Mrs. G. What I've been doing ? Oh ! I can't, I can't. O ! give me 
 my hat and I will go home to my mother. I can't stop here — I will 
 never stop with you. 
 
 Rob. Not stop with me, Jemima! What do you mean? Come, 
 come, I didn't mean to be cross. We will go back, Jemima, to our 
 old house at Brooklyn, for I'm very fond of it. By Jove though, won't 
 the girls stare ? They'll shout when they see me coming — here comes 
 the— oh ! that devilish pain, I forget that this arm is in a sling till I 
 get one of those gentle reminders. But I say won't they stare when 
 they see the patch, the sling, and the leg ? But they're all on the 
 right side, eh ? Ha, ha, ha. We'll be all the rage at Brooklyn, Jemi- 
 ma ; there's nothing so popular as the military man, and when they 
 learn I've been to China, and see me w^alk — Jemima, you can't tell 
 how proud I am of this leg. Beautiful cork, light as a feather. The 
 cork has become a veritable tree — a boot-tree, ha, ha, ha. But now, 
 Jemima, let us talk sensibly, tell me all about yourself, and how 
 you've been living, or I'll start and relate my adventures. Shall I 
 tell you how I got this leg ? 
 
 Mrs. G. Don't talk of that horrid leg, I hate to hear about it. 
 
 Rob. Only for fun, vou know. 
 
 MRS. G. Ugh! Don't speak of it. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 45 
 
 Rob. Ah! I understand! sensitive feelings injured by anxiety — 
 shock to the system — all right by-and-by though, Jemima, and then 
 you'll be as proud of it as I am. 
 
 Mrs. G. Yes, yes. 
 
 Rob. Bound to. And now won't you give me one kiss ? Come, 
 that's right. 
 
 Mrs. G. Don't, don't, I can't. 
 
 Rob. Not to your husband ? Don't jump about, love, or you'll in- 
 jure my arm. Stand so. Why do you tremble. {Coughs three times.) 
 Mere nervousness, you know. (Embraces her with left arm, and lasses 
 her.) Enter Grundi*ebury, l.) Hallo! Jemima, who is this f 
 
 Grun. And, hallo, sir, who are you ? 
 
 Mrs. G. (Confused.) Henry, this — this is — my brother. 
 
 g^} Brother! 
 
 Mrs. G. (More confused.) I — I mean my cousin. 
 
 Grun. I never knew you had one. 
 
 Rob. Neither did I. 
 
 Mrs. G. (Making a warning gesture at Robinson.) I — I never spoke 
 of him. He has travelled. 
 
 Grun. Oh! Well, Jem, I hope he will stay with us awhile. (Put- 
 ting bis arm round her waist.) I have sent James for those patterns, 
 and I told him to call in at the library — — 
 
 Rob. (catching Mrs. G. by the sleeve.) Here, I say, you know 
 
 Mrs. G. Go away. Sit down. 
 
 Rob. What do you mean, ma'am ? Come and sit with me. 
 
 Grun. Your cousin is rather forward, Jemima. (Looking at Rob- 
 inson.) But even cousins should know how to respect a lady. 
 
 Rob. Respect, be hanged 
 
 Grun. Sir, do you ! 
 
 Mrs. G. (Crying.) Oh dear, they'll kill me, they'll kill me. You 
 are both bad men. 
 
 g^'- j My dear— 
 
 Grun. How dare you address my wife as "your " dear ? 
 
 Rob. You impertinent scoundrel, how dare you call my wife your 
 dear? 
 
 Grun. Your wife, sir ! Are you mad ? 
 
 Rob. You are, sir. Ask the lady if you don't believe me. Ask my 
 wife, sir. 
 
 Grun. What does it all mean, Jemima ? 
 
 Rob. Aye ! What does it all mean ? I should like to know. 
 
 Mrs. G. (Hysterical.) Oh! Henry! I— I— (Cries.) 
 
 Grun. Control yourself, dear. 
 
 Mrs. G. I — I don't know what to do. I thought I was a— a widow 
 when I married you. ( Cries. ) 
 
 Grun. Thought you w r ere a widow, Jemima! 
 
 Mrs. G. Yes— yes. But I wasn't. There— he— he is. (Cries.) 
 
 Grun. He? 
 
 Rob. Yes he. The veritable he— the hero. And do you* mean to 
 say, Jemima, that you've married this man ? 
 
 Mrs. G. Yes. I — I thought you were dead. 
 
 Grun. Oh ! darling, what shall I do ? 
 
 Mrs. G. And what shall I do ? I cannot live from you, and to go 
 to that — with — the cork leg. 
 
4:6 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Rob. Perfection, madam, simply perfection. {To Grundlebury.) 
 Just run in a pin will you ? You'll be surprised. 
 
 Grun. Darling, I often regretted marrying you, when you plagued 
 my life with your reiterated praise of your first husband, but now — 
 
 Mrs. G. Oh ! darling, I was a fool, I only did it to make you jeal- 
 ous. But I loved you better than I ever did him. 
 
 Grun. My darling! And if we were free now ? 
 
 Mrs. G. Oh ! Henry. Now that it is too late I can see my folly. 
 I would be a true and really loving wife, Henry, if only I had the 
 power. 
 
 Rob. {Pulling off his disguise.) That power, good lady, I hereby 
 bestow on you. 
 
 Mrs. G. Not my husband ! 
 
 Grun. No, Jem, but my very good friend and very good actor — 
 Tom Robinson — 
 
 Rob. Now visiting this city with an entertainment invented and 
 given entirely by himself, entitled " People About Town," w T hich has 
 not received the unqualified approval of Matthew Arnold, the Corean 
 Ambassadors, and the Queen of the Cannibal Islands, but which 
 would undoubtedly, receive the highest commendations from these 
 august personages, if they, in common with the enlightened inhabit- 
 ants of this neighborhood, had had the pleasure and opportunity of 
 witnessing 
 
 Mrs. G. {Bewildered.) But— but— 
 
 Rob. You must pardon, madam, our little ruse. Your husband told 
 me he was perfectly sick of his position as " Number Two," and sick 
 of hearing the continual praises of " Number One," and I undertook 
 to prove to him, that you love him better than all others on earth. 
 Now that you are both convinced that you were made for each other, 
 there is no earthly reason why you should not be happy as the day 
 is long, and call Tom Robinson your best friend from this time forth 
 for evermore. 
 
 Mrs. G. And believe me, Tom — shall I call you Tom? 
 
 Rob. If you want to make me the happiest mortal on earth. 
 
 Mrs. G. Believe me, Tom, I am very thankful to you, and confess 
 with all due humility, that I richly deserved the trick you played me. 
 
 Grun. I can only say, Tom, that your giving me my own little wifie 
 again, hasn't strengthened our friendship one iota, because that is 
 impossible. 
 
 Rob. You've made me as happy as you are yourselves, and in fact 
 I may say, we are a happy family. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 1 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. . 47 
 
 A FIEESIDE STOEY. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Reginald Blandford. 
 
 Harry Blandford, disguised as Stranger. 
 
 Mrs. Blandford. 
 
 Bella aud Laura. 
 
 SCENE — A drmriny-room in Mrs. Blaxdford's House : Window, c. ; 
 curtains drawn close. Fireplace, r. ; Chimney -glass, Clock, &c. 
 &c. Door, l. ; Piano, l., over tchich hangs the portrait of a 
 young man. Easy Chair, Table, &c. Bella and Laura dis- 
 covered arranging holly in some vases. 2' he candles are lighted, 
 and a bright fire is burning in the grate. 
 
 Bella. Another Christmas come again. How pretty this holly 
 makes a room look ! Nature mixes her colors so well ; these bright 
 red berries, and this lovely green, how good a contrast! Can any- 
 thing be more charming ? 
 
 Laura. No ! It is perfect. 
 
 Bella. Not a bad idea for a new dress — green, trimmed with cor- 
 al : or white, with bouquets of holly. Eh ! what a happy time is 
 Christmas ! There are few homes in our dear country that are not 
 made gayer and brighter when it comes. 
 
 Laura. True. Yet I sometimes think on these anniversaries if 
 we have a sorrow we feel it all the more. 
 
 Bella. Darling coz., I forbid your having any sorrows, any griefs 
 which I may not share, and thus lighten the burden for you. Why, 
 I am a very Atlas in strength. If the world were upon my back I 
 should still carry a light heart beneath it. 
 
 Laura. I sometimes envy you your spirits. But you see, some 
 sink while others swim. 
 
 Bella. Yes. you would have been drowned long ago but for the 
 H" mane Society of Cousin Bella. 
 
 Laura. You are of an age to which care is almost a stranger. En- 
 joy your youth, dear Bella ; mine is passed and gone. 
 
 Bella.* What at twenty-three f for I vow you are not a day older : 
 sc, at twenty-three you don Minerva's helmet, wear spectacles, and 
 set yourself up for an old maid. Ahl well, I am content with Folly's 
 cap" and I mean to make its bells jingle to a merry tune while I am 
 ycung, and can enjoy their music. 
 
 Lauka. Bow you rattle on — chirp! chirp! like some merry cricket. 
 
 Bella. A cricket! No, no— like a woman . you should have said. 
 
48 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Laura. A woman, at sixteen ? 
 
 Bella. Yes. If a train does not make a woman, I should like to 
 know what does. 
 
 Laura. The mind. 
 
 Bella. Ah ! now you're getting prosaic. You will soon be dull and 
 drowsy if you talk like that. I shall drop the argument. 
 
 Laura. Oh, you beat a retreat. 
 
 Bella. The contest is unequal : you are too clever for me. The 
 Wars of the Roses would soon have come to an end if you and I had 
 been York and Lancaster. But we must get on with our work, or 
 mamma will be here before we are ready for her. Come, here is 
 more holly to put about the room. You decorate the pictures, while 
 I do the looking-glass. (She takes some pieces of holly, and goes to 
 the chimney-glass, R.) 
 
 Laura. The pictures ! Yes, let me do the pictures. 
 
 Bella. (Looking at herself in the glass.) I wonder how I shall look 
 when I have gray hair. Powder, they say, is very becoming, then 
 why not gray hair : if they have it they seem ashamed of it, except 
 dear mamma — but then — her hair is not gray with age, but with 
 grief and sorrow, so I suppose that makes all the difference. What 
 a color I have got to be sure, and a color is very becoming to me. 
 How brightly it makes my eyes shine ! 
 
 Laura. Do you call that doing your work, pray ? 
 
 Bella. Yes, the study of womankind in that great book of nature 
 — a looking-glass. What nonsense people talk when they say a mir- 
 ror natters one. How are you getting on ? 
 
 Laura. Faster than you. I have all but finished. (She has deco- 
 rated all the pictures save the one over the piano, before which she now 
 stands gazing.) 
 
 Bella. I am glad to hear it. Many hands make light work, says 
 the proverb. 
 
 Laura (aside.) His portrait! 
 
 Bella. I have finished. (Site sees Laura in the glass, then turns 
 and looks at her for a moment, and creeps gently to her side.) His pic- 
 ture ! Darling Laura, how thoughtless of me. Forgive me. I should 
 have done this. (Kisses her.) You are crying. 
 
 Laura. Yes, darling, I cannot help it. I loved him so much. 
 
 Bella. Dear brother Harry — I loved him also, but not half as 
 much as you, I daresay. I was only his sister, you see, and a sister's 
 love doesn't go for as much as another person's. Besides, five years 
 ago I was younger than I am now ; of course I was. Is it five years, 
 Laura, since he went away I 
 
 Laura. Five long years. At first the separation, bitter as it was, 
 seemed softened by its necessity. But oh ! the weary, dreary time. 
 Bella, I sometimes think he must be dead. 
 
 Bella. No ! no ! Let us hope still. 
 
 Laura. Hope ! My heart has lived so long upon that word, and 
 now comes the dreadful time when I no longer cling to it. 
 
 Bella. Don't say so, pray don't. Think of poor mamma. 
 
 Laura. Perhaps she, like me, has ceased to hope. It is that which 
 has blanched her hair and dimmed her sight, but she bears up for all 
 our sakes. I alone read her inmost thoughts. Why should we de- 
 lude each other with hope, while despair is in our hearts ? 
 
 Bella. Well, I never will believe like you. He will return some 
 day. Was he really forced to go ? 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 49 
 
 Laura. Yes, dear child. Your father's death left your mother but 
 scantily provided. While he lived his income was a good one ; he 
 had but little proper? y to leave behind him. 
 
 Bella. I always thought that income and property were one and 
 the same thing. 
 
 Lauka. Xot exactly. Since your fathers death the Ceylon estate 
 has come into the family, but its returns were so small, owing to mis- 
 management, or some wrong-doing of the agent out there, that Harry 
 resolved to sift the business thoroughly, and if possible set matters 
 right. He went. You know the rest. 
 
 Bella. I do. I wish brother Reginald had gone, we should not 
 have missed him half as much. But that's always the way. 
 
 Laura. Hush, Bella. You must not talk thus. Reginald is a good 
 fellow after his fashion. 
 
 Bella. Well, if I must not say it I shall always think it, so it comes 
 to the same thing in the end. * Why didn't Reginald go ? With his 
 courage and his love of adventure, and all that manliness which he 
 boasts so much about : why, he was the very man to go to Ceylon, or 
 any other place. 
 
 Laura. Yes. but you see it was no question of courage or of ad- 
 venture, but one of brains. Harry was not only the elder of the two, 
 but more clever than Reginald. (Looking at the picture again.) 
 
 Bella. Now if you stand gazing at that picture you will begin to 
 cry again, and then mamma will know it, for if she cannot see your 
 tears, she will guess you have been, by your voice. 
 
 Laura. {Calmly.) We have not put the holly on his picture yet. 
 
 Bella. We will do it together. Come, sister, for you are indeed 
 my sister. (They place holly on the picture.) Hark, just in time, here 
 is mamma. (The door L. opens, Reginald appears.) No, it is Regi- 
 nald. 
 
 Reginald. Ah, Laura! by Jove, it is a cold night; the snow is 
 falling fast. Just what I like to see at Christmas. Make up the fire, 
 Bella. 
 
 Bella. Lazy fellow that you are. Just make it up yourself, while 
 I go to fetch mamma. Put on a log of wood, sweep the hearth, and 
 have all comfortable when I come back. (Exit Bella, l.) 
 
 Reg. (Aside.) I should like to tame that little Tartar. Well, 
 Laura, here we are with Christmas close upon us. Xot that I care 
 much for Christmas Day, or New Year's Day ; I am always glad when 
 they are over. What do you say ? 
 
 Laura. I don't quite agree with you, Reginald. 
 
 Reg. You never do. 
 
 Laura. Because I cannot look at things in the same light as you 
 do. 
 
 Reg. If you did we should be better friends. 
 
 Laura. Are we not friends, then? 
 
 Reg. After a fashion. I don't like the fashion. Look here, Laura, 
 you are a clever woman but clever women sometimes lack common 
 sense. 
 
 Laura. And men never do, I suppose. 
 
 Reg. Not so often. We are out in the world — you shut up at home. 
 We have the rou^h path to tread — you the smooth. We become 
 more matter-of-fact, more — what shall I say? 
 
 Laura. Hardened. 
 
 Reg. Well, if you like the word — I don't think it a pleasant one. 
 
50 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 It is rough, but I am a rough fellow, and you think so, no doubt. I 
 want polish. I know I have not got those accomplishments, those 
 soft words, those arts, which go so far to win some women ; but then 
 you are not one of those women to be taken by all that sort of non- 
 sense. I have a heart, Laura, as full of love as ever Harry had. 
 
 Laura. Had ! Why do you always speak of him as in the past. 
 He may be living yet. He may return to us — perhaps he is not dead. 
 
 Reg. Perhaps. But when a fellow goes away, and stays away five 
 years, giving no tidings, baffling all search, his existence becomes 
 rather doubtful. Now for the common sense which I mentioned just 
 now — where is it ? Is it common sense to go on for ever living on 
 his memory? Laura! one word, while we are yet alone. I love you. 
 
 Laura. Reginald! {Going.) 
 
 Reg. Nay, hear me. You shall hear me. (Taking her hand and 
 detaining her. ) For years, since Harry and I were boys together, my 
 life has been a blighted one. He, the eldest born, seemed ever to be 
 the favored one ;.in good looks he carried off the palm, at school he 
 carried off the prizes. My nature became soured at this. We grew 
 up, and the same ill luck pursued me. You came to stay with us. 
 When first I saw you, grown from a girl to womanhood, a something 
 whispered in my heart that you alone could save me, and change my 
 very nature. I loved you from that hour, but I dared not tell you so 
 — you seemed too far away from me, too great, too good. While I 
 kept silent, another spoke of love — Harry won your heart. 
 
 Laura. Let me go, Reginald. Why give yourself and me this pain ? 
 What is past is past. 
 
 Reg. But may it not be changed in the future ? Will you wear out 
 your young life thus ? Laura, let me but hope, let' me but think that I 
 may one day win your love. 
 
 Laura. Never, Reginald. Oh! why do you make this appeal to me, 
 when you must guess my answer ere you ask the question ? 
 
 Reg. You refuse to give me hope t Take care, Laura, with such 
 natures as mine, prone to strong impulses, a fellow soon runs off the 
 rail. You could save me, and change all that is hard and sour to its 
 opposite. If not love, will not pity move you. (He sinks in chair, 
 and buries his face in his hands.) 
 
 Laura. Reginald, if not Harry's wife, my heart is widowed to his 
 love. Yes, I do pity you. The hand you grasped so tightly awhile 
 ago, I offer you in friendship — as a sister — and I will save you, will 
 help to awaken a better nature in you. 
 
 Reg. Oh ! Laura, with you for my guiding star, what great things 
 I might have done. 
 
 Lacjra. And will do yet. Now leave me for awhile. Return again 
 composed, with happier thoughts, and say to me, i ' I have won the 
 battle and conquered myself." Now go. Remember, this must be a 
 happy evening— for your mother's sake. 
 
 Reg. You see how I obey. (Exit L. ) 
 
 Laura. (After a moment's pause.) For months I have felt that this 
 would one day happen. It has come, and thank heaven it is over. 
 Reginald will now rise superior to this weakness, and become a noble 
 fellow yet. (She {joes to the fireplace, leans on the chimney-piece, and 
 looks at herself in the glass.) Bella is right. The glass does not flat- 
 ter. These eyes have lost their brightness, the face itself is changed. 
 Harry would scarcely know me now. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 51 
 
 Enter Mrs. Blaxdford, l., leaning on Bella's arm, who conducts her 
 slowly to the easy chair beside the fire. 
 
 Bella. Here is mamma. 
 
 Laura. Let me place this pillow for you. (Arranging pillows.) 
 
 Mrs. B. How kind you all are to me. (Sitting in chair.) 
 
 Bella. We wont take any credit to ourselves for doing our duty, 
 dear mamma. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah ! but it is the way you do that duty, so gently, so kind- 
 ly. Where is Reginald ? 
 
 Laura. He left only a few minutes ago. 
 
 Bella. I heard the street door close just now, he must have gone 
 out. We have made the room so gay and pretty, mamma dear. I 
 wish you could see it. 
 
 Mrs. B. I do see it all, in imagination, just as I see your faces. 
 My blindness is the least of my misfortunes. I hear your voices, I 
 feel the pressure of your hands, and kisses on my cheeks, and in all 
 these things I forget that I am blind. 
 
 Bella. Now you must not talk like that. We are going to have a 
 lively, merry evening. Laura shall read some Christmas story, and 
 I will invent some fairy tale — the old ones we all know by heart. We 
 will have some music first. Shall I sing to you, mamma ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, darling. 
 
 Laura. Shall I play for you ? 
 
 Bella. Yes, do please. I always sing so much better when you 
 accompany me. (Laura and Bella go to the piano, l.) Now, shall it 
 be grave or gay ? A scene from an opera, or a simple ballad ? It is 
 all the same to me — no choice f Well then I will sing the first song 
 I take haphazard from this folio — if I can. (Site draws apiece of mu- 
 sic from the folio, loolcs at the title page and pauses.) 
 
 Laura. (Seated at the piano). Well, I am ready. 
 
 Bella (Low to Laura.) No! no! not that. 
 
 Laura. (Low to Bella.) What is it? (Bella shows the title-page.) 
 "He will Return. " (To herself.) Is this mere chance, or is it some 
 warning voice ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Now, Bella, are you going to begin ? 
 
 Bella. (Exchanging glances with Laura.) Well, mamma, I said I 
 would sing the first piece of music which came to my hand, if I could, 
 and I find now it was a vain boast. So now I shall not sing at all. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah ! capricious girl. 
 
 Laura and Bella return to the fireside. 
 
 Bella. We will suppose the overture to be over. Now, for a fairy 
 tale, or a ghost story. You tell one first, Laura, while I think of one 
 to follow. 
 
 Laura. What an attentive listener you will be. " Once upon a 
 time," 
 
 Bella. Stop, that is the way I begin. 
 
 Laura. They all commence like that. 
 
 Bella. Then mine shall not. I will be original. 
 
 Laura. " Once upon a time." 
 
 Bella. You said that before. 
 
 Laura. Yes, but you interrupted me. "Once upon a time," 
 
 Bella. Let me go on. "There was a king." 
 
52 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. ^ 
 
 Laura. That's not original. All fairy tales begin like that. 
 
 Bella. Well, but mine is not to be a fairy tale. I have changed 
 my mind. I shall call my narrative a fireside story, chapter the first. 
 " There Avas once a king who managed his kingdom so badly his sub- 
 jects rebelled, and a revolution took place. His majesty had to ske- 
 daddle " 
 
 Mrs. B. What ? 
 
 Bella. Cut — run away. Really, if I am to be interrupted in this 
 way the flow of my imagination will be sadly checked. Where was 
 I ? Oh ! his majesty bolted, and in such a hurry that he forgot to put 
 the crown jewels in his pockets. He was a surly, selfish, old fellow, 
 this king, and in his hurry to save himself, he left his only son be- 
 hind him. Years went by, the son grew up to be a man ; he had wan- 
 dered here, there, and everywhere. Fortune seemed to have fallen 
 in love with him — he was a handsome young man. Everything he 
 touched turned to gold. Having made his fortune, and got a clue as 
 to his father's whereabouts, he set off to find him. He arrived at a 
 neat dwelling house, and knocked at the door — {A knock heard at the 
 street door. ) What is that ? 
 
 Laura. Reginald come back, most probably. 
 
 Bella. Well, he knocked at the door, and asked if Mr. King was 
 home ? — that was the name the old gentleman had assumed — he was 
 a clever old fellow that. The servant — he kept one you see; oh, he 
 was pretty well off, he had not forgotten to bring away some of his 
 money — the servant, of course, asked the gentleman his name, when 
 he replied 
 
 Enter Servant, l. 
 
 Servant. A stranger 
 
 Bella. Why, that is just what I was going to say. 
 
 Mrs. B. A stranger ? 
 
 Servant. Yes, ma'am, he asked first for Mr. Reginald, then hear- 
 ing he was out, he asked who was at home. His business, he says, 
 is important. 
 
 Mrs. B. Where is he ? 
 
 Servant. On the door mat, ma'am, in the hall. 
 
 Mrs. B. Show him into the dining room. {Exit Servant, l.) 
 
 Laura. Shall I go to him, aunty ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Will you be so good? {Exit Laura, l.) 
 
 Bella. I wonder who he is, and what he is like. Did it not come 
 curiously apropos f I shall finish iny story when he is gone. What 
 can his business be ? 
 
 Mrs. B. You are full of curiosity, Bella. Patience, my child, we 
 shall know all in time. 
 
 Bella. Oh ! but I want to know all directly. Why didn't you let 
 him come up stairs at once. 
 
 Mrs. B. A stranger 
 
 Bella. So romantic — so mysterious — {Going to the piano, and play- 
 ing during the following speech.) A stranger — he ought to wear a large 
 dark cloak, a slouch hat, high boots, and he should have a thick 
 beard and large moustache, and he ought to enter to slow music. 
 {She plays "Home Sweet Home.'' After some portion of the air has 
 been played, the door l. opens, and Laura enters, followed by the stran- 
 ger — he wears a travelling cloak, beard, and moustache. 
 
AMATEUB AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 53 
 
 Laura. This is Mrs. Blandford, sir. (Aside.) Be cautions, she is 
 weak and ailing. 
 
 Stranger. Is that Mrs. Blandford ? (Bella quits the piano and 
 comes forward. ) And this is 
 
 Laura. Miss Blandford, sir, Cousin Bella. (Going to Mrs. B., while 
 Bella and the Stranger regard each other with embarrassment.) 
 Aunty, I have brought a gentleman to see you. He brings important 
 news from Ceylon ? 
 
 Mrs. B. From Ceylon ? 
 
 Laura. Calm yourself, dear aunt. May he speak with you? 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh, yes ; bring him here beside me, close beside me. 
 (Laura makes a sign and the Stranger takes a chair next to Mrs. 
 Blandford.) 
 
 Laura. (Aside to Stranger.) Pray be careful. (Aloud.) He is 
 here, aunty. 
 
 Mrs. B.'You bring news from Ceylon. Of my son, I am sure. Oh! 
 tell me is he alive ? Is he well ? Do not torture me. Suspense is 
 dreadful. I have already suffered so much. 
 
 Stranger. Your son lives. 
 
 Mrs. B. Thank heaven for that. 
 
 Bella. Dear brother Harry! 
 
 Stranger. He lives, and is on his homeward journey. He re- 
 quested me, his bosom friend, on my arrival at his home, to call on 
 you, and break the news, so that it might not come too suddenly upon 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. B. My boy, my darling boy. 
 
 Bella. But why have we never heard from him all these years ? 
 
 Stranger. It is a long story he will have to tell when he returns. 
 I can only give you the outline. On his arrival at Ceylon, I think 
 he wrote to you? 
 
 Mrs. B. He did. It was the only letter we ever received from him. 
 
 Stranger. Treachery — base, black, and cruel treachery — was set 
 on foot to prevent all intercourse. The estate was prosperous, flour- 
 ishing : your son soon saw this. On inspection of the books, he 
 found all the returns had been falsified. Instead of bringing the vil- 
 lain before a tribunal, where he would have met with a just punish- 
 ment, your son gave him a few days' notice to quit. Mistaken clem- 
 ency. When the day arrived for the agent's departure, he requested 
 to see your son in his office. Scarcely had he entered, when two 
 hirelings, in this villain's pay, rushed on him, and pinioned him. The 
 word was given to convey him to a room barricaded like a prison. 
 Here for years he lingered on, until the sudden death of the principal 
 of the foul outrage, and the repentance of one of the participants 
 released him. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh! horror! My poor boy. 
 
 Bella. The wicked wretches! 
 
 Mrs. B. And he is coming home ? When may we expect him ? 
 
 Stranger. Soon — very soon. You are sure you have the strength 
 to bear this meeting when he comes ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh, yes. 
 
 Stranger. When he takes your hand, as I do now ; when he 
 kneels at your feet and looks into that face ; when he utters the word 
 mother 
 
 Mrs. B. What is this ? Your hand trembles as it grasps mine — 
 your voice falters. It is you who are weak, I am strong. 
 
54 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Steanger. Mother, it is Harry who speaks to you, who clasps you 
 in his arms once more. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! my son, my darling boy. 
 
 Bella. Harry, my brother Harry. (About to go to him.) 
 
 Laura. Hush! One moment I beg. (Mrs. B. and Harry embrace. 
 Laura and Bella grouping themselves on either side and pause. Enter 
 Reginald, l. 
 
 Bella. Oh, Reginald, such news. (She runs to meet him and turns 
 him round so that he has his back to Harry.) Who do you think has 
 come home? You'll never guess. Harry — and there he is. (Turns 
 Mm round.) 
 
 Reginald. Harry! 
 
 Harry. (Coming towards him.) Reginald? 
 
 Bella. (Coming between them.) Oh, stop, stop. I have not had my 
 recognition yet. (She Msses Harry several times.) Then there is 
 Laura. (Laura turns aivay, Bella goes to her). Ah, you sly one, that 
 is all over is it ? 
 
 Harry. By and by, Reginald, you shall hear all I have to tell. 
 (Going to Mrs. B., and sitting doicn again by her side.) 
 
 Reginald. (Low to Laura). Laura, you were right— a new life 
 begins to dawn upon me. 
 
 Bella. (At the fire-place.) Come, Laura, sit next to Harry, and you, 
 Reginald between us. (They take their seats as directed.) What a 
 family party, and what a happy Christmas Eve. Now, shall I go on 
 with my tale ? No ! It is ended. I shall add Harry's adventures to 
 what I had begun to relate, and then, many a time to come, I shall 
 hope to tell my Fireside Story. 
 
 CUM TAIN. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 55 
 
 A CLOUD IS THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Themistocles Twiddle. 
 Susanna Twiddle, his wife. 
 
 SCENE— -A simply furnished Room. Door, r. Screen, l., supposed to 
 hide a Door. A Window, in flat, c. A small Bound Table, with 
 Candlestick, etc.,R. C; Chairs, etc. 
 
 Enter Twiddle, r., with an umbrella under his arm. 
 
 Twiddle. Nonsense, Twiddle! you are a fool, sir! Think the mat- 
 ter over deliberately and maturely. Twiddle, as becomes a man and 
 a teacher. It is scarcely a month since you married a charming lit- 
 tle woman, who has lived in the genteelest society, and travelled 
 abroad with very distinguished people, as companion. At half-past 
 seven this morning you leave her in the arms of Morpheus— greatly 
 envying that rascal Morpheus — axd go to knock Latin into the little 
 boys' heads, by the application of a cane, in a situation precisely the 
 reverse. You return a little earlier than usual to breakfast — that 
 same application having been uncommonly expeditiously applied ; 
 and as you approach your house you see, or you faucy you see, a hat 
 with pink feather, and an ulster, and a smart figure, which your arm 
 has encircled in moments of honeymoon affection, and a foot and an- 
 kle, which has caused you many a sigh when you were a bachelor, 
 all tripping along the street quietly, stealthily, close to the wall, as 
 if afraid of observation. A queer feeling — a sort of no-how-ish-ness 
 — runs all up and down your back ; you turn and follow. The afore- 
 said feather, ulster, figure, and foot and ankle disappear round the 
 corner; you mizzle round the same : and the vision is gone ! But was 
 it a vision? Were your senses deluded, Twiddle! Or was it in 
 truth the partneT of your bosom, who should be at home making your 
 toast. Twiddle? That's what you ask yourself. Fie! Twiddle, fie! 
 for shame, sir. Are there not other pink feathers in the world and 
 other ulsters, and other smart figures and other feet and ankles 
 which cause you to sigh ' No! I don't mean that ! but are you not a 
 consummate fool, sir. to suppose that the aforesaid partner of your 
 bosom could be running out at early hours of the morning in a secret 
 and clandestine manner when the aforesaid partner of your bosom is 
 certainly employed in making toast for your breakfast there? (Opens 
 door, R.) No ; she isn't. Then, she assuredly is in the arms of Mor- 
 
56 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. .^ 
 
 pheus, or doing: up her back hair in the bedroom. {Peeps behind 
 screen.) No; she isn't. Then, without the shadow of a doubt, she is 
 in the house somewhere. Remember, Twiddle, remember, that being 
 naturally of a jealous temperament, you swore, when you married, 
 upon the still smouldering ashes of your bachelorship to abjure that 
 failing, and to have implicit trust and confidence in the partner of 
 your bosom, even should your own eyes — 
 
 Enter Mrs. Twiddle, hastily, r. d., dressed precisely as described by 
 
 Twiddle. 
 
 Mrs. T. Home again ! 
 
 Twid. {Turning.) Eh? 
 
 Mrs. T. {Seeing him). Ah ! 
 
 Twid. Oh! you have been out, it seems. 
 
 Mrs. T. Of course, since ycu see I have come in. 
 
 Twid. The very same pink feather, the very same ulster, the very 
 same foot and ankle. 
 
 Mrs. T. What's that you say ? 
 
 Twid. Just look the other way, my love. 
 
 Mrs. T. {Going up to take off her ulster.) What do you mean? 
 
 Twid. And the very same et cetera. 
 
 Mrs. T. Are you long home from the School ? 
 
 Twid. Just this moment returned? {Sitting down, aside.) The no- 
 how-ishness is running all up and down my back again. 
 
 Mrs. T. {Occupied at back.) Your breakfast shall be ready directly, 
 ducky. 
 
 Twid. {Preoccupied.) The same pink feather, and the same et 
 cetera. 
 
 Mrs. T. I've got some watercresses for you ; I know 'you like a 
 little green — 
 
 Twid. {Starting from his reverie.) Who's a little green? What's a 
 little green ? 
 
 Mrs. T. {Laughing.) Why! what are you dreaming about? 
 
 Twid. {Rising.) Nothing — a mere colorless nothing {aside.) What 
 the deuce does she mean by a little green? {Taking her hand solemn- 
 ly, with the rhythm of the well-known song,) "O, Susanna." {Changing 
 tone.) I'm not in the slighest degree curious; but I should like to 
 know what you went out this morning for, when baker, grocer, and 
 milkman bring all the necessaries of life to the door. 
 
 Mrs. T. Oh, there are a thousand and one things a young house- 
 keeper is forced to buy herself. 
 
 Twid. Now, as I said before, I am not curious ; but I should like to 
 know the one of the one thousand and one you have been buying 
 this morning. 
 
 Mrs. T. Oh ! I just went out for some needles I want to use. 
 
 Twid. Which way? 
 
 Mrs. T. {Laughing.) The usual one, by putting the thread at one 
 end and sewing with the other. 
 
 Twid. Which way did you go ? 
 
 Mrs. T. (Oh, I — {with more constrained laughing). Why, one would 
 think you were examining your boys. 
 
 Twid. The fact is I thought I saw your pink feather, et cetera, 
 going— 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 57 
 
 Mrs. T. Where? (aside.) Can lie suspect ? 
 
 Twid. Down the next street. 
 
 Mrs. T. That's the way to my fancy store. 
 
 Twid. Which, if I remember, lies in the opposite direction. 
 
 Mrs. T. Oh ! One takes the longest way sometimes, for a little air. 
 
 Twid. (Aside.) A little air! ihat's an empty reason. (Aloud.) 
 Show me your needles, my love. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Embarrassed.) My needles! Oh! I couldn't exactly get 
 my number. 
 
 Twid. You wanted a great quantity, then? 
 
 Mrs. T. I mean my size. 
 
 Twid. (Solemnly.) "O Susanna!" (She looks at him, lie is embar- 
 rassed and coughs.) Hem! Hem! 
 
 Mrs. T. Well ? 
 
 Twid. (Quickly changing his tone.) I don't like your going out in 
 that way, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. T. What do you mean? 
 
 Twid. (Embarrassed.) In fact — in short; I don't think it at all 
 proper that a charming young female, with such a foot and ankle, 
 and such an — et cetera, should be in the street alone. 
 
 Mrs. T. Now be reasonable, Themistocles. You know that we are 
 forced to be economical. We can't afford to keep a servant. You 
 are obliged to be out almost all day. 
 
 Twid. Alas ! as Virgil says, you remind me of my misfortune. 
 
 Mrs. T. Then we must conform ourselves, like a good little new- 
 married couple, to our limited means. I am sure I try to be as eco- 
 nomical as I can ; and you know how I complain of your extravagan- 
 ces for me, all because you love me so well. You are always want- 
 ing to get something for your dear little Susanna, you naughty man ; 
 and yet you deprive yourself of all your bachelor luxuries. 
 
 Twid. Because I think it just, Mrs. T. ; and I only wish I had had 
 any little faulty excesses, in which bachelor gents are wont to in- 
 dulge, in order that I might have laid the sacrifice of them at your 
 pretty feet — to say nothing of the ankles. But I had none : I was 
 never given to the indulgence of sherry cobblers, nor of gin slings, 
 nor of tobaccos. I never touched a cigar in my life, and if there's 
 anything I hate, it's a cigar. Oh ! pah ! a cigar : I execrate a cigar. 
 The very thought of a cigar gives me a no-how-ish-ness. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Caressingly patting his cheeks.) Well, then, my Themis- 
 tocles shall have his other little indulgences ; a sweetbread, for din- 
 ner sometimes, with crumbs, eh ? and the family circle at the thea- 
 tre ; a good cry at a domestic drama, now and then, hey ? (As if 
 talking to a child) : There's a goody, goody, goody. 
 
 Twid. (Completely mollified, aside.) Now, I can't stand the "Goody, 
 goody, goody." Twiddle, I repeat it, you were a consummate fool to 
 to have had the slightest suspicion. 
 
 Mrs. T. ( Who has gone up to set out a table.) And it shall have its 
 breakfast directly, if it's a good boy ; and I'll get its toast ready, 
 nicely browned, as it likes it, and a good cup of tea ; and I'll be its 
 only servant to wait on it. There ! 
 
 Twid. (Enchanted.) And I'll pay the wages. There! (Kisses 
 her.) 
 Mrs. Naughty, naughty, be quiet! 
 
 Twid. (Still holding her, aside.) I renew my conviction that Twid- 
 dle was a foot 
 
58 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Aside.) Thank goodness, he suspects nothing. 
 
 Twid. That's what I call nice. 
 
 Mrs. T. To be so happy together. 
 
 Twid. All alone. 
 
 Mrs. T. Without any one to watch and spy. 
 
 Twid. (Letting her go ivith sudden suspicion again.) Hey! What 
 did you say ? 
 
 Mrs. T. Without any one to prevent our being as gay as crickets. 
 
 Twid. (Approaching again.) Oh! 
 
 Mrs. T. And having a little private polka or schottische to amuse 
 ourselves sometimes. 
 
 Twid. (Encircling her waist again.) Yes. Getting up a little do- 
 mestic Casino of our own ; for I have never indulged in any other, 
 Mrs. T. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Humming a polka or schottische.) Yes; so, la, la, la! 
 
 Twid. (Humming and dancing.) La, la, la. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Dancing.) That's it. La, la, la ! 
 
 Twid. (Dancing.) La, la, la! 
 
 Mrs. T. (As before.) Oh, Themistocles, I wish — La, la, la! * 
 
 Twid. (As before.) What, my dear? La, la, la! 
 
 Mrs. T. You had some little fault— la, la, la! 
 
 Twid. A fault, why ? La, la, la ! 
 
 Mrs. T. Because — La, la, la! 
 
 Twid. Because? La, la, la! 
 
 Mrs. T. Fll tell you another time. (Stopping out of breath.) Only, 
 I can't stir another step. I'm choking. (Falls back in his arms.) 
 
 Twid. Hand round the refreshments. (Kisses her.) 
 
 Mrs. T. (Springing up.) We can manage to keep ourselves happy, 
 you see. 
 
 Twid. Oh, yes. 
 
 Mrs. T. In mutual affection. 
 
 Twid. And mutual confidence. (Looking sharply at her.) Never 
 having any secrets one from the other, hey ? Never ! 
 
 Mrs. T. (Turning the conversation.) Hush! I think the kettle's 
 boiling over. 
 
 Twid. I'll go and put on my dressing gown to be all comforta- 
 ble. 
 
 Mrs. T. Do, deary. 
 
 Twid. Adoo, ducky. 
 
 Exit Twid., r., behind screen, taking hat and umbrella with him, 
 
 Mrs, T. (Going l., stops.) No secrets one from the other! Poor 
 dear hubby, if he knew that I kept a secret from him— an awful se- 
 cret ! To think now that he might have followed me— seen me go 
 into— oh, the very thought gives me the shivers all over. To say the 
 truth, a secret passion is a frightful thing, when, do what you will, 
 you can't root it out. Ah ! men are happy creatures ; they can do 
 what they like ; but they never allow us poor women, any little 
 amusements. Oh, if Themistocles knew that, when he is absent all 
 day, I had a faithful friend to brighten my dull hours of solitude, 
 wouldn't he be in a boiling rage? (Listening.) Now, though, it is 
 the kettle. (Buns hastily into door, R.) 
 
 At the moment she goes out Twid. rushes in, l. , pale and in a state of 
 great agitation. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 59 
 
 Twid. (Sniffing,) There's no doubt! it's smoke! tobacco smoke! 
 frightful tobacco smoke! A man has been here! a wretched male 
 being has been blowing a cloud in our nuptial apartment. Horror! 
 a cloud — and in our honeymoon too — a cloud of tobacco smoke. Pah! 
 I'm half-choked with rage, and t'other thing. A man, a smoker! who 
 can he be ? Ah! I recollect. I've several times seen a big- whiskered 
 and frightfully moustached individual prowling about the house, al- 
 ways smoking a cigar — and a big one too — Oh ! wasn't it a big one ? 
 Horror! And when I looked at him, so, (Puts on a comical air of in- 
 dignation,) he laughed in my face ; he positively laughed in my face 
 — I ask any unprejudiced person if there is anything to laugh at in 
 my face — and walked off, the sneak. It must have been this wretch- 
 ed being with the whiskers and the very big cigar. He's always about 
 here, near the house. O, Susanna ! to think that you — with your 
 sweet caressing voice, and your " goody, goody, goody," could be so 
 deceitful, receive a man in secret, with a very big cigar, who turns 
 our nuptial apartment into a filthy pothouse. Pah ! Oh Susanna : 
 could I have thought it of you? (Almost crying,) you, who call me 
 ducky and you fancied I could see nothing ; but you forgot that I 
 could smell. Yes, unhappy woman, if Twiddle has no eyes, he's got 
 a nose, and a good one, too. If I catch him — him and his big cigar — 
 I'll give it to him. So, and so, and so! (As he speaks Twid. kicks 
 chairs and table, and upsets all the furniture. 
 
 Enter Mrs. T., with breakfast on tray. 
 
 Mrs. T. Good gracious ! What are you up to ? 
 
 Twid. Mrs. T. (PicJcs up the chairs, £e., ashamed.) 
 
 Mrs. T. If that's the way you help me in my domestic arrange- 
 ments 
 
 Twid. There seem to be some domestic arrangements in which 
 you consider my help unnecessary, Mrs. T. 
 
 Mrs. T. Why, bless us, what ails the man? (She is arranging the 
 breakfast at the table.) 
 
 Twid. (Aside.) Command yourself, Twiddle! The hour of ven- 
 geance is not yet come! (Aloud!) What ails me? Hunger ails me — 
 thirsts ails me — everything ails me. (Aside.) My calm is wonder- 
 ful. 
 
 Mrs. T. (at table.) I never knew you so impatient before. One 
 would think you were in a hurry to*go. Now, come ! breakfast is 
 ready. 
 
 Twid. (Sulkily.) Thank ye ; don't want any ; aint hungry. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Cajoling.) What! is it out of temper now, because it has 
 been waiting? Come! (Looking at him.) Good gracious ! What's 
 the matter with you ? You are all yellow and green. 
 
 Twid. Shouldn't wonder — green in the eve. 
 
 Mrs. T. What is it, tell me, Themistocles ? Misty, Misty! 
 
 Twid. Yes, Madam, it is misty, confoundedly misty, and cloudy 
 too. 
 
 Mrs. T. It's very often so, hereabouts. 
 
 Twid. It is, is it? (Ferociously.) Oh Susanna! 
 
 Mrs. T. You alarm me ; I don't understand. 
 
 Twid. (As before.) You don't understand? (Changing tone and 
 manner.) Pour me out my tea. 
 
 MRS. T. (Bursting out laughing .) Ha! ha! ha! how droll you are. 
 
60 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Twid. (Laughing also, fiendishly.) Ha! ha! ha! So, Fin droll. 
 You think so ? (Sits at table. ) 
 
 Mrs. T. Come, eat your breakfast. 
 
 Twid. (Aside.) I will; I'll dissemble ; Fll eat like an ogre. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Pouring out tea.) You like it strong? 
 Twid. (Aside.) You seem to draw it pretty strong, Mrs. T., 
 certainly. (Smelling.) I can smell the monster's odor here. 
 
 Mrs. T. Well ? 
 
 Twid. (Still aside. ) Yes ; that's it. Fee-f o-fum. I smell— 
 
 Mrs. T. (Louder ivaiting.) Well? 
 
 Twid. (Starting and shouting.) What? 
 
 Mrs. T. Louder.) I asked whether you liked it strong? 
 
 Twid. (As before.) Well, and I answered, you seem to draw it. 
 No, not that. (She stops.) Strong; yes. (She pours out.) No, no! 
 
 Mrs. T. You should make up your mind. There it is now. ( Gives 
 cup.) And I hope it will make you a little more loveable. 
 
 Twid. Oh Susanna ! Then, you don't think me loveable ? (Almost 
 crying.) Perhaps you have seen some one (aside) with moustaches 
 (aloud) somewhere in the world (aside) just before the door (aloud) 
 more to your mind than me (aside) with a very big cigar. 
 
 Mrs. T. What folly! 
 
 Twid. (Getting pathetic.) Tell me, then, oh tell me, that you love 
 no one — no one at all, in the least, but your own Themistocles, your 
 Misty, your ducky, your "goody, goody, goody." You don't, do you? 
 (Takes hold of her hand pulling her slightly towards him.) 
 
 Mrs. T. There's an idea to get into your head, Themistocles! I 
 hope you are not jealous. 
 
 Twid. Jealous ! I. Oh, no, no, no, never. You know that is a de- 
 fect I don't possess. 
 
 Mrs. T. No nor any other. (Aside). I wish you did. 
 
 Twid. Oh Susanna. (He has been holding and fondling her hand, 
 goes to kiss it, and starts back with a loud cry). Ha ! 
 
 Mrs. T. (Starting). What's the matter again, now ? 
 
 Twid. (Aside, jumping up). Her very dress smells of the horrid 
 tobacco smoke. (Aloud). Mrs. T. : There are in the world creatures 
 — monsters of iniquity — degraded beings, who commit excesses, 
 criminal excesses, and smoke cigars, Mrs. T. (Aside.) She's con- 
 fused. (Aloud.) I speak of smoking, as I should speak of anything 
 else, Mrs. T., because I hate it, and because I have sworn that lips 
 lied by Cheroots or Cubas should never approach yours, Mrs. T. 
 (Aside.) She starts! She colors. Twiddle, you're a lost man! Lips 
 sullied by Cheroots and Cubas have — (staggers back. ) Oh ! 
 
 Mrs. T. (Coyifused). Now, Themistocles, you know I love you 
 dearly, but if I had a partiality for — I say, if I had. 
 
 Twid. If ! madam ? My convictions go beyond those two very un- 
 comfortable letters of the alphabet. 
 
 Mrs. T. Well, then— 
 
 Twid. (Aside, overwhelmed.) Now it's coming. Twiddle, l3e firm! 
 
 Mrs. T. (With hesitation.) I have! 
 
 Twid. (Starting back.) Oh! 
 
 Mrs. T. But, I can't help it ; indeed, I can't ; it's too strong for me 
 to resist. 
 
 Twid. Wretched woman ! 
 
 Mrs. T. But, you'll pardon me : I'm sure you will. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 61 
 
 TwiD. I! pardon you! (Laughing wildly.) Ha! ha! ha! (Changing 
 tone.) Never! 
 
 Mrs. T. After all it's only a fancy. 
 
 Twid. Oh. you call it a fancy, do you? Oh, sophistry of women! 
 
 Mrs. T. And you are all the day at the school; and when I'm all 
 alone I want some object to console me ; and then I dream ; tis you 
 are by my side. 
 
 Twid. 'Well ! that I admit is a fancy ! Horrible idea ! 
 
 Mrs. T. There ! don't put yourself in a passion. 
 Twid. I'll trample the object to dust beneath my indignant feet. 
 
 Mrs. T. Ah! but I'll hide the object out of sight. 
 
 Twid. But my outraged feelings will discover the object, and fling 
 the object out of the window. (Seizing her arm.) And you too, 
 Madam, and you, too. 
 
 Mrs. T. Gracious ! you hurt me. 
 
 Twid. And I'll send for your mother, your poor old virtuous moth- 
 er ; and I'll say to her with dignity : " Take back your daughter, I'll 
 have nothing more to say to her." There! (Strikes an attitude.) 
 
 Mrs. T. 'Tis abominable! You men think you are to have all the 
 little pleasures of life to yourselves, and never permit poor women 
 the least comfort and consolation in your absence. But 'tis enough 
 to make a revolution. You are nothing but tyrants, and we'll emanci- 
 pate ourselves in spite of you. That we will ! (Exit l.) 
 
 Twid. She'll emancipate herself ! Mysterious and awful word! She'll 
 — Oh ! 'tis enough to drive one mad ! And she puts on an air of inno- 
 cent simplicity, and avows her partiality, as if there was no harm in 
 it, and calls me a tyrant, when I'm choking with jealousy and rage ; 
 and she swears she'll — Oh ! but I'll discover her wretched accomplice. 
 I'll watch him — his big cigar and all — and then I'll surprise him — his 
 big cigar and all — and he shall find I've smoked him — his big cigar 
 and all. But how — when — what — where ? (Looks around as if for the 
 means of concealment.) 
 
 Enter Mrs. T., l., with Twid.'s hat and umbrella. 
 
 Mrs. T. Come, if you are very good, I'll forgive and forget. 
 
 Twid. She says she'll — she! she! 
 
 Mrs. T. Come, here's your hat and your umbrella. 
 
 Twid. (With a sombre manner.) What for ? 
 
 Mrs. T. What do you mean, what for ? Isn't it time for you to go 
 back to the school ? Y^ou know you must be punctual. 
 
 Twid. Yes, yes. (Aside.) She's regularly turning me out of the 
 house. 
 
 Mrs. T. And you might lose your place. Think! the only means 
 we have to depend upon. (Cajoling Jiim.) Come, come! it musn't 
 look so cross at its Susamja. 
 
 Twid. (Aside.) She's trying on the goodies again. Cockatrice ! 
 
 Mrs. T. Come, kiss and make up. What! is it sulky? Come, that's 
 a defect at last, and I am glad to find that you have one too. Now, 
 come! be a goody, goody, goody. (Kisses him.) 
 
 Twid. (Aside.) There, I said so ! serpent ! 
 
 Mrs. T. But now you must be off as quickly as you can. 
 
 Twid. (Aside.) 'tis clear, she wants to get rid of me. 
 
 Mrs. T. What do you say? 
 
 Twtd. I say, I say that — that I'm going — it is the hour. (Aside.) 
 
62 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. , 
 
 Yes, evidently the hour she expects the horrid fellow with his mous- 
 taches, and, all the rest. But, I wont go far — 
 
 Mrs. T. (Offering his hat, ivhich she has been brushing after putting 
 the umbrella by the window.) Now, go. Here are your gloves, too. 
 ( Gives them. ) Don't be too late for dinner. And mind, when you come 
 back, knock hard, for I may be occupied. 
 
 Twid. Ah, you wish to be aware that I — 
 
 Mrs. T. Of course. What does the man mean ? 
 
 Twid. (Solemnly.) Oh Susanna. (Takes her hand, then changing his 
 mind, flings it from him.) Good bye. (Exit rapidly, r. d.) 
 
 Mrs. T. It is very evident he has some notion of the truth. I was so 
 confused I scarcely dared look him in the face. What with his fancies 
 and suspicions, and questionings and delays, I thought he'd never go ; 
 and I never longed more to be alone and indulge in my little weakness. 
 But now I'm free ! I'll take care not to be caught in the act though. 
 (She locks the door R.) Come forth little companion of my solitude. 
 (Looks around her.) Come, my friend, and solace my lonely hours. 
 Come, fellow-accomplice, come ! (She puts her hand iu her pocket and 
 ■pulls out a cigar, ivhich she holds up in triumph.) Ah! there you are, 
 my treasure, my beauty! How can anybody call my little darling 
 nasty ? Now to profit by my solitude to enjoy it. (Looking round for 
 a match.) Where are the matches ? (finds them.) Ah! I tremble still, 
 for when I think that my husband has sworn to throw us both out of 
 the window. Ah, bah! I'll risk it. Lights a candle and then the 
 cigar.) That's it; it's alight: how nice! (Puffs. A knocking at the 
 door.) Oh! what's that? Somebody knocks. (Knocking again.) 
 Who's there ? (She trembles with agitation.) 
 
 Twid. (Without.) <Tis I. 
 
 Mrs. T. Ah, my husband! (Puts away the candle without extinguish- 
 ing it.) 
 
 Twid. (Knocking.) Open the door! open the door! 
 
 Mrs. T. (Trying to extinguish the cigar.) I'm coming, I'm coming. 
 (Aside.) Oh ! where shall I hide it ? what shall I do ? 
 
 Twid. Why don't you open the door, Mrs.T. ? 
 
 Mrs. T. Coming. (Putting her eigar in her pocket.) 'Tis still 
 alight ; I shall certainly blow myself up. Well, that's better than 
 being blown up by him. 
 
 Twid. (Knocking louder.) What the devil are you up to, Mrs. T. ? 
 
 Mrs. T. (Going up to open the door.) Well! well! don't be so im- 
 patient. 
 
 Twid. (Bushing in with disturbed mien.) You've been a deuced long 
 time with your " coming," Mrs. T. You don't seem to know exactly 
 the meaning of the word, Mrs. T. (Looking around him with suspicion.) 
 
 Mrs. T. What, what are you looking for ? 
 
 Twid. ( With an expression of rage!) Looking for ! She asks me 
 what I am looking for. ( With a change of tone ironically.) My um- 
 brella, deary, which I left behind. ( With a sudden exclamation.) Ah, 
 in that room, that room! (Crosses and enters precipitately the room be- 
 hind the screen.) 
 
 Mrs.T. (Laughing.) Oh, only his umbrella ! 
 
 Twid. (lie-entering, aside.) Not there! Yet I saw the fellow go 
 round the corner, big cigar and all. He can only have come in here, 
 big cigar and all (smelling]) and, as I said before, it is a decided case 
 of Fee— fo — fum, 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 63 
 
 Mrs. T. (Laughing.) Now, if you would trouble yourself to look 
 round, you might find — 
 
 Twid. Find ! where ? 
 
 Mrs. T. There ! 
 
 Twid. (Twisting round.) Where, there? 
 
 Mrs. T. By the window. 
 
 Twid. (Turning suddenly.) By the window! ah, yes, my umbrella. 
 
 Mrs. T. Didn't you say. your umbrella? 
 
 Twid. Yes, to be sure ; I want it when clouds are coming up in this 
 way. (Snuffing.) There's sure to be a storm. (Turns and sees ^Lrs. 
 T. occupied in putting to rights, and quickly undoes the hasp of the win- 
 dow.) 
 
 Mrs. T. That's why you are so nervous and agitated, I suppose. 
 
 Twid. Nervous ; yes, my nerves are all of a quiver. They can't 
 abide clouds, Mrs. T. (Aside, brandishing his umbrella.) And won't 
 there be a storm. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Occupied, without tooling at him.) You'll be too late for 
 the school hour. 
 
 Twid. We'll I'm going; I'm going; you see I'm going. (Does not 
 stir but still continues looking around under table and chairs, <$x.) 
 
 Mrs. T. You call that going, do you ? 
 
 Twid. (Ashamed to be caught brandishing his umbrella, with dignity.) 
 Mrs. T. : I know how to decline the verb " go " without your teaching ; 
 and I decline also any interference in my grammatical functions. 
 (Going, aside.) Oh, won't there be a storm! (Brandishes umbrella, 
 then turns, regards Mrs. T. with severe dignity, and exit, c.) 
 
 Mrs. T. (Watches him out, locks the door c. again, and then proceeds 
 to re-light her cigar, talking and singing all the while.) Ah! how he 
 frightened me with his umbrella. What did he want to come and 
 disturb me at the critical moment for ? (Smoking.) Oh ! how good it 
 is! That is true enjoyment! (Throws herself into an arm-chair.) 
 How the smoke mounts, mounts in the air in pretty little spirals. 
 (Smelling.) It's a regular nosegay! Ah, with eyes half-closed, gazing 
 through a film at the cloud of smoke, I feel wafted upwards towards 
 the sky along with it, and dream such pleasant dreams, in the midst 
 of which looms forth the face of my husband, calm, serene, beautiful 
 in expression. (As she speaks the window is opened softly and the head. 
 of Twiddle appears from without making a horrible grimace.) Ah! I 
 could dream on thus for hours ! What a short-lived pleasure it is after 
 all ! And they grumble at it. 
 
 Twid. (Getting in at the window.) The storm is coming down upon 
 their heads. (Half -choking.) Oh, pah, there's that horrible Fe — fo 
 — fum again! It half chokes me. Oh. (Begins to cough, spite his 
 efforts to restrain himself, stumbles in by the window, and lets fall his 
 umbrella.) 
 
 Mrs. T. (Alarmed at the noise.) Ah! (Turns, sees Twiddle, jumps 
 up hastily and springs towards the screen, with a scream.) 
 
 Twid. (Getting up.) Oh Susanna ! 
 
 Mrs. T. (Hiding her cigar behind her.) Themistocles ! 
 
 Twid. Yes, madam, your Themistocles, your injured Themistocles, 
 {Bubs his legs.) Your Misty, who means to clear up, your horrible 
 doings, madam! 
 
 Mrs. T. (Trembling.) How can you frighten one so, coming in at 
 the window in that way ? 
 
 Twid. Oh, yes, it's abominable, I dare say, madam! It gives you 
 no warning, madam — leaves the wretch no time to escape, madam. 
 
 Mrs. T.'What wretch? 
 
64 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Twid. The infamous villain whom you receive in my absence, 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. T.I? 
 
 Twid. Where is he ? Mrs. T. Who ? 
 
 Twid. (Shouting.) He! 
 
 Mrs. T. Who ? 
 
 Twid. (With indignation.) Madam, the reiteration of those evas- 
 ive forms of interrogation won't serve your turn. {Solemnly.) You 
 see that I know all. 
 
 Mrs. T. All what? 
 
 Twid. Another note of interrogation ! (With reproach.) Oh Susanna! 
 (Shouting again.) The whole place stinks of tobacco smoke. 
 
 Mrs. T. Well, now you say so, I fancy — perhaps there may be a 
 slight odor — of some kind of smoke. 
 
 Twid. Shade of Mrs Bouncer! She'll want to persuade me next it 
 is the chimney. (Advancing upon her.) Oh Susanna ! (Seizing her 
 right hand, which she holds behind her.) Oh Susanna! (Screaming.) 
 O! I've burned my fingers. 
 
 Mrs. T. I thought you would, going on in that way. 
 
 Twid. You thought I would. What have you got ? (Seizing her 
 hand again and holding it up.) What's that ? 
 
 Mrs. T. Now don't be angry. 
 
 Twid. A cigar ? 
 
 Mrs. T. Yes, I went to buy it this morning. I can't help it. It's a 
 habit accquired when I travelled with a lady in Spain. 
 
 Twid. Oh ! what doesn't one acquire in genteel society ? 
 
 Mrs. T. It's grown to be a passion, Twiddy ; but it is my only one, 
 except my love for you : an old habit I can't get rid of ; but you said 
 you had such a horror of smoking, that, that — 
 
 Twid. You smoke? Susanna smokes! I smoke too, now — ah! 
 
 Mrs. T. {Kneeling.) Don't be angry. Themistocles, pardon me. 
 
 Twid. No, no, poor dear little wife : it is I who am to blame. I 
 was a fool. Jealous ! I fancied you received, in my absence, a smoker 
 — a horrid fellow, with moustaches, and all the rest. 
 
 Mrs.T. Jealous! Then you have a fault too. 
 
 Twid. I have ; now don't be angry, Susanna, pardon me ! (Kneels 
 down before her.) 
 
 Mrs. T. We'll pardon each other — there! (They embrace on their 
 knees.) And, if you like, ducky, I'll try and not smoke any more. 
 
 Twid. No, no deary, I'll try and smoke with you. 
 
 Mrs. T. (Half-ashamed, pulling another cigar ont of her pocket.) 
 Will you, though ? There ! ( Gives cigar. ) 
 
 Twid. Why, she keeps a Co-operative store ! Oh Susanna! Well, give 
 it here ! (He lights his cigar at hers ; both still kneeling.) How droll ! I 
 never could abide it ; but, 'tisn't so bad. 
 
 Mrs. T. You'll learn to find it very nice. Puff away ! 
 
 Twid. I'm puffing! (Smokes and begins to cough.) Ough, ough ! 
 
 Mrs. It's nothing when you get used to it. And we'll always 
 smoke together. And the clouds we blow shall be such pleasant ones, 
 now that other horrid cloud is blown over. 
 
 Twid. What cloud ? 
 
 Mrs. T. The Cloud in the Honeymoon. 
 
 They salute the audience, still on their knees, Twid. holding Mrs. 
 T. round the waist, both smoking, 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 65 
 
 LOVED AND LOST. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Henbv Aston. 
 Haboud Gwynne. 
 E; LEN Marston. 
 
 SCENE. —A well-furnished Apartment. Entrances R. and L. Windoxo 
 in flat. 
 
 Ellen seated at work at table ; Haeold standing near. 
 
 Harold. I have lived a very lonely, weary life, Ellen. I long for 
 peace and quiet. Will you cruelly turn me out into the noisy, quarrel- 
 some world again ? Oh, I promise to love you sincerely and truly as 
 long as I live. I will myself be your servant, and save you from the 
 slightest trouble, if you will only give me the light of your presence. 
 Do not deny me hastily, for my whole future depends on your 
 answer. 
 
 Ellen. I am very sorry for this. Very sorry, Harold, because I 
 had hoped that you would ever be my best and truest friend, but I 
 am afraid that I shall now be deserted by you. 
 
 Harold. What must you turn me away because I dreamed of a 
 happiness so great as that of being your husband ? 
 
 Ellen. It cannot be. It cannot be. I am sorry that I cannot an- 
 swer as you would wish,but it is not through selfishness or a disregard 
 for your feelings : it is as much for your sake as for my own that I 
 answer you — no. 
 
 Harold. Then it is mistaken kindness. Whether is it better, to re- 
 main for ever by your side, with the right to be there, or to go now 
 heartbroken and cheerless into a desolate world ? Oh ! Ellen, some 
 devil has tempted you to my disadvantage with a false conclusion. 
 Let truth and love avert its influence. Tell me what were these 
 whisperings, and I will prove that they are as false and hollow as 
 their source. 
 
 Ellen. Alas, Harold, my conclusion is founded on hard, stern fact 
 --fact that I cannot forget while I have this bitter aching heart that 
 continually reminds me of it. If I have to give you a cruel answer, 
 it is in true kindness, and believe me I can pity you, for I have borne 
 such a blow myself. 
 
 Harold. You? 
 
 Ellen. Aye. I have loved — and this is my answer to you — I love 
 another. 
 
 Harold. And you will marry him ? I wish you joy. 
 
 Ellen. Joy ! The world is more black, and cheerless, and weari- 
 some to me than, I pray, it will ever be to you. I love another, but 
 
66 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 my love is lost — wasted : bestowed on one who has forgotten the gift. 
 
 Harold. The scoundrel 
 
 Ellen. Nay, I love him still. 
 
 Harold Pardon me. 
 
 Ellen. Oh, Harold, I would that you had loved some innocent girl 
 that would have been like a sister to me as you have been like a bro- 
 ther. How dearly I would love her. You have seen me too frequent- 
 ly. If you travelled you might soon forget. New faces 
 
 Harold. No, no ; my experience of the world was not acquired 
 yesterday. My heart has made its choice — it is your decision that 
 will either give it new life or make it desolate. 
 
 Ellen. Have I not already decided ? Have I not told you I love 
 another ? 
 
 Harold. But will your life be wasted for him ? Is he true ? Come, 
 tell me your story. By renewing your memory, you will be best able 
 to gauge the respective merits of your misplaced affection, and the 
 true, honest love I offer you. 
 
 Ellen. I am afraid it will not alter my mind. My story is very 
 simple. When my father died, he left us in such poor circumstances, 
 that I was obliged to take a situation as governess. Then by chance 
 I made the acquaintance of a gentleman — 
 
 Harold. (Aside. ) A scoundrel ! 
 
 Ellen. Who was on a visit. His name was Henry Aston. We 
 frequently met. He won my love, and I consented to marry him. 
 When he left, he said he would immediately get his father's consent to 
 our marriage, and that his mother would come and see me. Instead of 
 that, scarcely a week after he left I received a letter from his mother, 
 to inform me that her son wished to have no further communication 
 with me, and enclosed were two or three cuttings from local papers, 
 which spoke of the contemplated match between Henry Aston, Esq,, 
 of Aston Towers, and the Lady Alicia — something — I forget what now. 
 At all events, he never wrote to me, he never came to see me, 
 and soon after I was peremptorily deprived of my situation, through, 
 I have no doubt, the influence of his family, and turned adrift ; I have 
 never seen or heard of him since. He is happy I suppose with his 
 titled wife, and never thinks of me. Even if I had the opportunity, 
 I am too proud to let him know I think of him. 
 
 Harold. And. because of this wretched piece of deception, are 
 you going to waste all your life for such a heartless, worthless fellow? 
 
 Ellen. Because you are willing to spoil your future, is that any 
 reason why I, who love you as as a dear brother, should consent to 
 help you? 
 
 Harold. How ? 
 
 Ellen. By marrying you when I do not love you. 
 
 Harold. You will learn in time to do so. 
 
 Ellen. If I thought so I would consent, but I know I shall love 
 Henry while I live. I care too sincerely for you to risk your happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Harold. Honestly now, and putting all sentiment on one side, 
 you never hope to marry this Aston ? 
 
 Ellen. No. In fact I believe he is married. 
 
 Harold. Then you will never be aware of the death of the old 
 passion till a new one is born. I am sure if you only rightly under- 
 stood your heart, you would find you do not care for him at all. But 
 you will surely awake to that fact some day, and then I shall be an 
 
AMATEUK AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 67 
 
 old man. grey-headed and broken down, not worth your slightest re- 
 gard. Oh, Ellen, do not waste your life and mine on an altar of fool- 
 ish sentimentalism. Soar above the promptings of a blighted heart, 
 and listen to the dictates of your womanhood and good sense. Am I 
 not a man you can trust ? 
 
 Ellen. With my life. I honor you, I respect you, I trust you — 
 everything short of love. 
 
 Harold. Well then, I ask you earnestly and solemnly to become 
 my wife, and I will require no more of you than your respect and 
 confidence. I have too great a trust in you to fear that your mis- 
 taken love for this man will ever tempt you to wrong. 
 
 Ellen. (Tremulous.) Oh! Harold, do not act rashly. If I consent, 
 you will be responsible for my happiness. 
 
 Harold. I have no fear for that. You can ever trust me. Your 
 love is dead, and that being gone, what higher feelings are there than 
 respect and reverence ? I have no fear for the future, and I am very 
 hopeful, for interest, regard, and love are but steps. I believe in the 
 golden time of peace that is coming. 
 
 Ellen. May heaven grant it. (They embrace.) Leave me now, 
 Harold, a little while. (Re kisses her fondly. Exit L.) 
 
 Ellen. Of his love there is no doubt ; but oh ! how different is the 
 
 feeling with which I view my future now, to that but away ! I • 
 
 will not think such things ; let me rather convince myself that fate 
 has conspired to make me happy. 
 
 (Enter Henry, r. He looks beicildered.) 
 
 If I cannot love my husband, at least I can respect him ; I will be 
 
 proud of him, and if ever I meet — him, I will try . Yes, I think I 
 
 could meet him now as if he were a stranger. 
 
 Henry. Ellen! 
 
 Ellen. Henry ! (She rushes into his arms, and then retires to extreme 
 
 L.) 
 
 Henry. What is the meaning of this ? 
 
 Ellen. (Agitated.) I beg your pardon, Mr. Aston, for my extraord- 
 inary conduct ; but if your memory is not surprisingly defective, let 
 it remind you of what took place about three years ago, 
 
 Henry. Nothing can account to me for your manner. Perhaps you 
 will explain why you never wrote to me during those three years. 
 
 Ellen. I did not think the Lady Alicia would approve of such a 
 correspondent. 
 
 Henry. The Lady Alicia be hanged. How did you get hold of that 
 cock-and-a-bull story ? But come, Nell, you owe me an explanation. 
 You, my promised wife, ran away from the only address I knew, and 
 (eft not a trace behind. 
 
 Ellen. I did not leave, I was dismissed. 
 
 Henry. Dismissed ! Did you get my letter ? 
 
 Ellen. The only letter I got was from your mother. 
 
 Henry. Ah! that beautiful epistle. But did'nt you get my letter? 
 
 Ellen. I only got your mother's. I did not think you would write 
 when, as I understood from that letter, you were busy in preparations 
 for your marriage. 
 
 Henry. That you of course believed ? 
 
 Ellen. Yes. 
 
68 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Henry. What, my marriage ? 
 
 Ellen. Yes, with the Lady Alicia. 
 
 Henry. The Lady Fiddlesticks. How could you believe me so 
 false ? 
 
 Ellen. And — and are you not married? 
 
 Henry. Married! Married! Come, did you think I was f 
 
 Ellen. Yes. 
 
 Henry. Then that's the secret. And did the goosey run away be- 
 cause people chose to tell lies ? 
 
 Ellen. I did not rely solely on newspapers ; I gave up all thoughts 
 of you on receipt of this letter. (Handing letter to him, which she 
 takes from work-basket.) 
 
 Henry. From my mother. (Beading.) l My son wishes me to in- 
 form you that his marriage with the Lady Alicia Fulsomehigh, which 
 has long been in contemplation, and is entirely consonant to the 
 wishes of his family, will shortly be solemnized. ^Under these cir- 
 cumstances, Madam, I trust you will see the propriety — for your own 
 sake — of forgetting whatever he may have said to you when in your 
 company/ Oh ! mother, how could you be so wickedly cruel ? 
 
 Ellen. I did not answer this letter, but I trust your mother had no 
 reason to complain of my obedience. 
 
 * Henry. Ellen, do not let us misunderstand each other. This letter 
 was written entirely without my knowledge. I have never been false 
 to you once in word or deed. When I left you, I lost no time in ask- 
 ing my father's consent to our union, but I was laughed at. When I 
 persisted, I was threatened. Father and mother, everybody, tried to 
 force me into this match with Lady Alicia Fulsomehigh, but I 
 never gave the slightest encouragement. I braved it out for a week, 
 hoping against hope that something might influence my father to 
 change his mind. I wrote to you, assuring you of my constancy, but 
 you did not get the letter; then I wrote another, which I know you 
 did not get, for it is in my hands now. Here it is, let it be my wit- 
 ness that I speak the truth. (Handing letter.) 
 
 Ellen. It is dated three years ago. 
 
 Henry. And was written and posted then. 
 
 Ellen. (Beading.) i Dearest Nell, — I cannot gain my father's con- 
 sent, he is altogether against us ; but I am determined to win. Will 
 you, darling, trust yourself to me, poor and penniless as I offer myself ? 
 If you will, happiness is in store for us, and a willing heart and a 
 strong arm will always keep the wolf from the door. Meet me at 
 London Bridge Station next Wednesday, at 12 o'clock, and we will 
 commence our battle against the world. May God keep you, my own 
 little wife that will be. — Henry Aston.' And did you intend this for 
 me? 
 
 Henry. That is the second letter I sent you. Of course I thought 
 you received them both. I waited at the station for you, and you 
 never came. Then I went to enquire for you where you had been 
 employed, but you had gone, and not a trace was left forme to follow. 
 You had disappeared as though you wanted to run away from me. 
 
 Ellen. Oh ! how terribly we have both been mistaken. 
 
 Henry. But, Ellen, you still love me ? 
 
 Ellen. And shall while I live. 
 
 Henry. (Embracing her.) My darling. 
 
 Ellen. (Disengaging herself .) Bat how was this letter delayed ? It 
 is dated Tuesday, and I did not leave until the following Saturday. 
 
AMATEUE AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 69 
 
 Henry. It reached me a week ago through the Returned Letter 
 Office. It appears that in the Post Office it accidentally slipped inside 
 the cover of a large trade circular, where it lay concealed and unnoticed. 
 When this circular reached its destination, the gentleman to whom it 
 was addressed threw it carelessly in a drawer, unopened, where it lay 
 till about ten days ago, when chancing to see it, he tore it open, and 
 discovered the letter. He immediately enclosed it, with a letter of 
 explanation, in another envelope, and forwarded it ; but, as you had 
 then left that address, it was returned to me, and it was only a few 
 days ago that I received it. I then learned for the first time that you 
 had not wantonly disregarded my offer. 
 
 Ellen. Oh, cruel, cruel letter, what misery you have brought! 
 
 Henry. Nay, perhaps it was providential. If I had married you 
 then, I might be fighting for bread — perhaps unsuccessfully — now. 
 But a change has taken place : I can marry you now without fear of 
 opposition. I am my own master — my father is dead. You can and 
 must come now and reign in my heart and my home. 
 
 Ellen. No, no, I cannot — I cannot. Oh, this is the very cruelty 
 of fate. It is too late, too late ! 
 
 Henry. Too late ! Good heavens, Ellen, am I dreaming, or are you 
 mad? 
 
 Ellen. Neither. We have made a dreadful mistake, but we must 
 abide by it. 
 
 Henry. A mistake ! Was I mistaken three years ago when I 
 thought you laid your head on this breast, and promised to be my 
 wife ! Was I mistaken when I thought I heard you say you loved me ? 
 Good heavens, did I not hear you say just now that you love me still ? 
 
 Ellen. You did, for I do — I do. 
 
 Henry. Then what is the mistake ? You will be my wife. 
 
 Ellen. I cannot. 
 
 Henry. How is this ? You love me . Oh, Ellen, It cannot be 
 
 . Blind heaven, grant it is not that ! You have not, believing 
 
 me false, married another ? 
 
 Enter Harold, l. 
 
 Ellen. No, no— but almost. I have promised to marry another. 
 
 Henry. Thank heaven, then it is not too late. 
 
 Ellen. Alas, it is — it is. If I break my promise, I break an honest 
 man's heart. He loves me so dearly. 
 
 Henry. He cannot love you as I do. 
 
 Ellen. Nor do I love him as I do you ; but he has been so kind, so 
 good, so true a friend. 
 
 Henry. And is there no thought for me, who spent three years in 
 care and bitterness through love for you ? What will my life be with- 
 out you ? 
 
 Ellen. Do not forget I love you. Then think of my life. I must 
 not think of it ; I must not think of you ; I must do my duty. 
 
 Henry. Our duty is to do what is right in the sight of God, and 
 God never inflicted misery. 
 
 Ellen. But duty has before now been a trial. 
 
 Henry. Which led to happiness. We have had our trials, God 
 knows, and now should be the time of happiness. Oh, come to me, 
 Ellen, have pity on me. He never — he could not love you as I do. 
 
 Harold. ; Tis false; I love her as truly and entirely as God hag 
 
70 AMATEUR AND PARLOR. THEATRICALS. 
 
 placed it in the power of man to love. You may love her as well — 
 you can never love her more than I do. Aye, 'tis true, and I can 
 prove how deep that love is : let this be my witness in the sight of 
 man. (Rejoins Ellen's and .Henry's hands together.) May God bless 
 you both ! Do not speak to me, Ellen, I have heard all. True love 
 is not selfish, and true love teaches me that for your happiness I can 
 make the sacrifice of my own. (He sinks into chair by table, cover- 
 ing his face with his hands; Ellen and Henry on either side of him.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 71 
 
 TRUE. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Ernest Wilding (aged 20), a fast young man. 
 Fred Hawthorne (aged 25), an engineer. 
 Mb. Careful (aged 60), a lawyer. 
 Mrs. Fairfax (aged 50), a widow. 
 Alice Fairfax (aged 22), her daughter. 
 
 Scene. — Morning Boom of Mrs. Fairfax's House at Brighton. 
 French windows j a, in bock, opening on to balcony. View of sea and sky 
 beyond. Doors R. u. E. and L. u. E. Fireplace R. 2 E. Modestly fur- 
 nished in modem style. Alice discovered seated by fireplace at work. 
 
 Alice. Another weary day to get through, with its heavy burden 
 of suspense. Each morning I await the postman with renewed hope, 
 only to be disappointed. I must be very foolish; but my heart grows 
 faint with this sickening alternation of feverish expectation and ter- 
 rible despair. I cannot fix my mind upon anything. (Puts her work 
 on the table). Not a line comes to cheer my heart under its load of 
 solitude and persecution. Does love make one selfish, I wonder ? If 
 Fred only knew what I suffer. Yet of course he cannot know; he may 
 be suffering himself, poor fellow. He may be sick or shipwrecked. 
 It is the suspense which is so unendurable. He always used to write 
 so regularly. Here I have the last letter I received from him six 
 months ago : — "My own love, you cannot conceive what a comfort the 
 knowledge of your pure affection is to me in this strange country. 
 Although I am too hardworked to have time to feel dull, still if I had 
 not the thought of your love to sustain me, I feel I should not have 
 the spirit and heart in my labors which I have now. The scenery of 
 this country is singularly impressive, though I have few opportunities. 
 of exploration. All my thoughts are bent upon giving satisfaction to 
 my employers, and so securing for myself the means by which I may 
 hope to maintain you ever near me. This object once attained, I shall 
 possess as high and perfect a happiness as a man may hope for in this 
 life." What a manly letter, and how proud I am to have the love of 
 such a man! My most precious possession is this miniature which he 
 gave me. That frank open face, with its firm and even grave ex- 
 pression, appeals to my heart irresistibly. I cannot doubt him: never 
 as long as I live can I question his love or his faith, the clear, piercing 
 look of his honest eyes when he plighted his troth to me, can never 
 fade from my memory. Still I do long for some news of him. (Takes 
 up her work again). 
 
 Enter Mrs. Fairfax r. u. e. 
 
 . What! 
 for work. 
 
 Mrs. F. WTiat ! still sitting moping over that miserable pretence 
 or work. Why don't you set about something useful ? Or better 
 
72 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 still, why don't you go out for a walk, and get some natural color back 
 to your pale cheeks ? Why don't you take your mother's advice ? Don't 
 you think I have your truest interests at heart? I only wish to settle 
 you comfortably in life. What's the good of your pining and fretting 
 after a harum-scarum young fellow, who evidently cares very little 
 about you, and who at any rate can do nothing for you except smother 
 your beauty in shabby gentility ? 
 
 Alice. Dear mother, why will you say these things to me? You 
 were not always so bitter against poor Fred. It is hard to turn upon 
 him in his absence; besides, he loves me, and 1 cannot but be true 
 to him. 
 
 Mrs. F. Fiddlestick! loves you? How long does a man's love last 
 after marriage, especially if he have to work for his own living and 
 yours? Nothing hardens the heart and cools the affections like an 
 ever yawning purse, or diurnal repetitions of cold mutton or hash. 
 Why are you so sentimental ? Once secure comfort and money, and 
 you'll soon find you can shift without love. 
 
 Alice. I am not sentimental, mother. I know one cannot live with- 
 out money, I am sure one can never be happy without love. Fred is 
 not a poor man, mamma ; he will have enough for us to live upon. 
 
 Mrs. F. Live, you call it? I call it vegetating. Why marry such 
 a prospect when there's a man to your hand who would give you $5000 
 a year, and the best of everything? (Crosses to l). 
 
 Alice (r. c.) Because I am not in love with luxuries. The large 
 majority in the world must ever be content to " vegetate " as you call 
 it. Why should I be blamed if, finding enough to live upon, I prefer 
 those luxuries which never pale — love and cheerfulness in the home. 
 
 Mrs. F. You are an incorrigible girl. This Quixotic humor of yours 
 is simply obstinacy. Mr. Hawthorne has been absent a whole year, 
 and for the last six months you have heard nothing of him, and yet 
 you elect to throw away such a chance as few girls obtain. Mr. 
 Wilding is a man of wealth and position. I have consulted our friend 
 Mr. Careful, and he admits that you could make no better match. 
 
 Alice (warmly). Then Mr. Careful is very false, he always pro- 
 fessed to be Fred's friend before he left us ; but he is a lawyer, and so 
 I suppose favors the client who can give the largest fee. 
 
 Mrs. F. Now, now, child, if you are going to lose your temper, you 
 had better retire to your room. (Servant appears, R. u. e., and an- 
 nounces Mr. Careful). Show him in at once. Now, Alice, leava us 
 together, for I wish to have a few words with our friend in private. 
 
 Alice (going l. u. e.) After what you have just told me, I have no 
 wish to meet him (returning). But, mamma dear,I wish you would not 
 trouble yourself about my marriage. I would rather not marry.. Why 
 may I not continue to live with you happily, as we have always done. 
 
 Mrs. F. Tush! child— go— no more words. It is my duty to try 
 and secure for you some social position, and, notwithstanding your 
 ingratitude, I will do my duty. (Exit Alice sadly, l. u. e.) 
 
 Enter r. u. e., Mr. Careful. 
 
 Mr. Careful. My dear Mrs. Fairfax, I hope my visit is not in- 
 opportune. Ahem! I never do anything rash. Ahem! I hope I was 
 mistaken, but did not somebody leave the room as I entered? Excuse 
 me, but I fear I interrupted a family confidence. I have so much re- 
 spect for family confidences, you know. Mere force of habit, my dear 
 madame, mere force of habit of course, since my retirement from pro- 
 fessional pursuits. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 73 
 
 Mrs. F. My dear old friend, I wish you to have more than a pass- 
 ing interest in our family confidences. You know I have always con- 
 suited you. I wish nothing concealed from you. I want all the help 
 which your wise and cautious head can give me. I am in a sad 
 difficulty about my girl. You know, that little affair with young 
 Hawthorne. 
 
 Mr. C. Steady, steady, my dear madame. " Little affair ? " I under- 
 stood it to be a serious and binding engagement. 
 
 Mrs. P. Indeed, I assure you nothing but a foolish proceeding. I 
 was wrong to let matters run on as far as they appear to have reached. 
 Unfortunately my dear Alice has worked herself into a most Quixotic 
 and romantic humor over this decidedly handsome, but sadly impe- 
 cunious young man. 
 
 Mr. C. Steady, steady, my dear madame. It appeared to me that 
 you yourself were very favorably disposed toward the young man, and 
 did he not go abroad to cure his chronic impecuniosity, and to make 
 his fortune. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, my dear sir, that is so extremely problematical. Long 
 engagements are not healthy for young girls. Then you know an en- 
 gineer's wife — Fve seen the young man covered with smoke and black 
 — such a dirty business. 
 
 Mr. C. My dear madame, there's dirty business in every profession, 
 not even the law excepted. Mr. Hawthorne has acquired a practical 
 knowledge of mining operations. All the dirt in his business will 
 ivash off] ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. F. But he may be seven years before he returns. I think it 
 is high time my dear Alice was comfortably provided for. She has 
 met with a chance which few girls obtain. Mr. Ernest Wilding, a 
 gentleman of means, is sincerely in love with her, and prepared to 
 lay his hand and fortune at her feet. Ought I, as a prudent mother, 
 to allow her to throw away such a certainty for the sake of a chimera 
 — a mere infatuation? 
 
 Mr. C. My dear madame, I make it a rule never to commit myself 
 to an opinion on the spur of the moment. It is a very nice arrange- 
 ment as it stands; there's only one trifling obstacle in the way, and 
 that is, the state of the young lady's heart. From the little I know 
 of her, I believe her to be an exceptional young lady, as the sex goes 
 in this material age. She possesses two unpractical failings— womanly 
 affections, and a sensitive organization. Her friends in society com- 
 plain that she has no aesthetic tastes, and I have observed that she 
 has not a keen eye for business— an indispensable qualification for a 
 woman of the Nineteenth Century. 
 
 Mrs. F. {offended). Then I am to understand that you favor her 
 view of the matter? 
 
 Mr. 0. Bv no means, my dear Mrs. Fairfax. I only endorse your 
 admirably keen insight as to her failings, though I will own I feel 
 sorry for poor Mr. Hawthorne, as I always entertained a lively ad- 
 miration for that young gentleman's character. 
 
 Mrs. F. But surely I have the right to dispose of my daughter's 
 hand as I think proper ? 
 
 Mr. C. Indisputably, dear madame. You have authority on your 
 side. 
 
 Servant entcrsu. u. e., and announces Mr. Wilding. 
 Mrs. F. Most opportune. Show him up instantly. Now, Mr. Care- 
 
74 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 ful, you shall judge for yourself whether I am capable of choosing my 
 son-in-law. 
 
 Mr. C. Dear madame, I never doubted your judgment, it was your 
 daughter's I ventured to question. 
 
 Enter r. u. e., Ernest Wilding, spruce and handsome, 
 
 "Wilding. My dear Mrs. Fairfax, I hope this morning call is not 
 inconvenient, but I have something important to communicate. (Bow- 
 ing to Mr. Careful). I perceive you already have a visitor, though 
 I hoped to find you alone. 
 
 Mr. Careful boivs, and eomes down right corner. 
 
 Mrs. F. This is Mr. Careful. Pray speak unreservedly before him, 
 he is my oldest friend, and entirely in my confidence. Pray be seated. 
 
 Wilding. That alters the case. You know, my dear madame, the 
 one interest I have nearest to my heart. 
 
 Mr. C. (aside). He's too cool. He'll overreach himself. These 
 clever men generally do. 
 
 Mrs. F. It would be ungrateful in me to pretend to misunderstand 
 you, sir. 
 
 WiLDinG. My whole future happiness depends upon my obtaining 
 your daughter's consent to be my wife. 
 
 Mr. C. {aside). Nice confession from the man that Fred Hawthorne 
 calls his dearest friend. I must be extremely cautious. 
 
 Wilding. You have hitherto most kindly favored me ; but Alice, I 
 regret to say, still appears to entertain a rooted aversion to me. 
 
 Mrs. F. Believe me, Mr. Wilding, her obstinacy in this matter oc- 
 casions me the deepest distress. 
 
 Mr. C. Excuse me. From what Mrs. Fairfax has been so good as 
 to tell me, I think obstinacy is hardly the word. I am given to under- 
 stand that the young lady's affections are already engaged. 
 
 Wilding. I am aware, sir, that I have a rival, and it is a painful 
 matter to me that the rival in question is my oldest friend (with energy). 
 But sir, love is invincible, and — 
 
 Mr. C. My dear sir, I can say no more. It is not my place to cross- 
 examine you (with meaning). (Then aside). Dear me! he's a nice 
 aesthetic looking specimen of the old-fashioned article, hypocrite. 
 (Goes tip R.) 
 
 Wilding (aside). I don't like this old gentleman's manner (to Mrs. 
 F. ) I cannot subdue my love for your daughter, madame. 
 
 Mrs. F. (sotto vote). My old friend, it appears, was much taken 
 with poor infatuated Mr. Hawthorne ; but you, as his oldest friend, 
 must know that he is not in a position to maintain a wife. 
 
 Wilding. My dear Mrs. Farifax, that's just it. I feel Alice could 
 never be happy with him. Fred has to work so hard, he ought not to 
 think of marriage, it will ruin his prospects. He's coo young, and the 
 probability is that he will find some girl abroad more to his taste. 
 
 Mrs. F, So I think. And indeed I believe it is always best for a 
 girl to marry a man some years her senior. 
 
 Mr. C. (aside). A very pretty theory. They little think I'm " watch- 
 ing the case" for young Hawthorne. He, he, he. (Chuckling). 
 
 Mrs. F. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Careful? 
 
 Mr. C. My dear madame, I can only hope Mr. Wilding fully ap- 
 preciates the excellent wisdom of his future mother-in-law. I am only 
 wondering if Miss Alice will rightly appreciate the earnest forethought 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS, 75 
 
 being exercised on behalf of her future happiness. Her case is in 
 such excellent hands, that I feel any advice on my part would be 
 superfluous aud impertinent. Au revoir, my dear Mrs. Fairfax. I will 
 look in later to learn the result of our consultation. Good-bye, Mr. 
 Wilding. Allow me to congratulate you on your chances of obtaining 
 so pretty a wife, and so excellent a mother-in-law. (Bowing politely). 
 
 Wilding (aside). This old gentleman makes me nervous. Pah ! 
 He's only in his dotage. (Mrs. Fairfax rings the bell. Wilding 
 talks apart to her). 
 
 Mr. C. (aside, going r. 3 e). Now, I wonder if that girl will have 
 the pluck to hold out ? If not, all my caution goes for nothing. If 
 she loves young Hawthorne as much as I believe she does, I've nothing 
 to fear. This double-faced plutocrat has prepared some ruse which I 
 fancy I cau fathom. At any rate, I've a little dynamic power in 
 preparation for him, which will give him a shock like an ' ' infernal 
 machine." (Exitn. u. E.) 
 
 Mrs. F I fully appreciate your motives of delicacy for the reputa- 
 tion of your friend. I wish for no particulars. I trust you implicitly. 
 I will send Alice to you. I hope you may prevail with her. It is my 
 most earnest desire that she should be your wife. She knows my 
 wishes in the matter. Do your best to win her consent; show her the 
 folly of her infatuation. Depend upon it she will be grateful to us 
 both one day. I am sure no woman could fail to be happy in the posi- 
 tion which you can secure for her. (Exit R. u. E. ) 
 
 Wilding (opening the door and bowing her out). At last. Once your 
 daughter my wife,old lady, you' shall have your conge — there's nothing 
 like an imposing appearance to befool these vain old harridans. I do 
 love the girl honestly, better than I ever loved any woman before. 
 She will open a new life for me. That is my only excuse. My love 
 carries me on. I dare not think of what I am doing, for I feel then 
 what a villain I am making of myself. Yet Fred was a fool to impose 
 such a trust in me. If he really loved her he might have known that 
 no mortal man could resist her exquisite charms. It's a desperate 
 game I'm playing. Luckily I was able to persuade her mother to as- 
 sist me by intercepting his letters. Yet it is very strange that there 
 was only one letter to intercept after we arranged the plan. Why did 
 Fred cease writing ? that seems unaccountable to me. However, it 
 helps to bear out the little fiction I have here (tapping his breast 
 pocket) prepared to subdue the unwilling object of my passion. I don't 
 like that old gentleman — I remember Fred was precious thick with 
 him before he left. Is it possible that the same mistrust of the mother, 
 which prevailed upon him to confide so much to me, can have induced 
 him to place the old boy on guard too ? Pah! I've gone too far to re- 
 cede. I care for nothing if I only win her. What if Fred have been 
 warned? Even then there's time. If only I can work on her spirit, 
 she'll marry me off hand out of pique. Then I'll carry her off amid 
 scenes where she'll forget the past and learn to love me as if her old 
 flame had never existed. 
 
 (This soliloquy must be spoken reflectively, but dramatically, and not to 
 the audience — the actor must pace the stage restlessly.) 
 
 Enter Alice firmly, r. u. e. Down l. 
 
 Alice (up R. aside). My mother insists upon my hearing what this 
 hateful man has to say. (Aloud). Mr. Wilding, my mother has eon* 
 
76, AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 manded me to undergo an interview with you here. I will be candid 
 at once and confess that this meeting is exceedingly painful to me. I 
 hope you will have the kindness to cut it as short as possible. 
 
 Wilding. Miss Fairfax, your words afford me little encouragement 
 enough, but I cannot forego this last opportunity of pleading with 
 you. I believe you can have no conception of the depth and sincerity 
 of my love for you. In consequence of your unconcealed dislike for 
 me I have endeavored to stifle the passion which consumes me, but 
 without avail, i cannot persuade myself but that your aversion for 
 me will be short-lived. Surely, seeing that I have your mother's 
 favor, I can be no bad match for you. I am fortunate in being able 
 to offer you a comfortable and even luxurious home, a good social 
 position, and with these a life which shall be devoted to obeying your 
 slightest wish. What is it that you see in me which leads you to 
 imagine that anything but happiness could come of our union? 
 
 Alice. Mr. Wilding, as I have before informed you, my heart is 
 irrevocably given to another, and that other a man whose friend you 
 once professed yourself to be. Yet to satisfy your own selfish passion 
 you have not scrupled to use the influence, which by reason of your su- 
 perior wealth and position, you have gained over my poor mother's too 
 worldly mind, to induce me to play false to the man I love during his 
 absence. You insult me by thinking me capable of such unwomanly 
 baseness. Ask yourself, sir, what your love can be worth which would 
 lead you to marry and profess to respect a woman who could be 
 capable of such despicable weakness. Not content yourself with being 
 a traitorous friend you would prevail upon me to play the traitor to 
 the man whose wife I have pledged myself to be. 
 
 Wilding. These are cruel words. Miss Fairfax. They evidently 
 spring from your infatuation for an absent man, of whose prospeets 
 you have no definite assurance and of whose fidelity even you can 
 have no adequate proof. No wonder your mother is anxious lest your 
 future happiness should be hopelessly wrecked. 
 
 Alice {contemptuously). I do not wonder, sir, that with your ideas 
 of love and honor, you should utterly fail to conceive the existence of 
 such virtues as faith and trust. 
 
 Wilding. Some degree of conviction at least is necessary to sustain 
 one's faith. What if I could prove to you that the object of your de- 
 votion, the idol of your silent adoration, is quite unworthy of the 
 precious sacrifices you are preparing to offer? the hero of a woman's 
 imagination is generally very poor flesh and blood to the clear-sighted 
 eyes of the world at large. 
 
 Alice. It is a poor love that runs no risks. If the man I love should 
 prove unworthy of my affections, it is for me to make the discovery 
 to my own satisfaction. I can owe nothing to malicious tale-bearing 
 or unmanly back-biting. 
 
 Wilding. And this mistaken heroism leads you to believe only in 
 the sincerity of one. You will wait until it is too late. Women early 
 realize the fact that marriage at the best is but a comedy in prose — 
 generally very dull prose, though it is preceded by a prologue in very 
 pretty verse called courtship; dazzled by its poetic glamor, they rush 
 eagerly into the first act of the comedy only to discover that as the 
 play proceeds its tone changes. Instead of mirth and laughter they 
 find dispelled illusions, blighted hopes— ending perhaps in a wretched 
 tragedy of broken hearts. 
 
 Alice (a little hysterical). Aha — your words, sir, would be ridiculous 
 if they were not so deeply offensive. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 77 
 
 Wilding (forcibly). Offensive, because they proceed from the lips 
 of one who loves you, though he finds no favor in your eyes. I had 
 hoped to spare you pain ; but I find you obdurate — deaf to reason — 
 insensible even of justice. I have a letter here from the man you love. 
 (Producing it). The man who was my friend till the moment I read 
 this. Till the moment I read this miserable apology (with shame in 
 being its recipient) I was prepared to crush down the great passion of 
 my life. But afterwards I felt that my duty at the least was to try 
 and save you. Read, and when you see how all your hopes are 
 wrecked — when you are cast adrift and drowning in despair — perhaps 
 you will deign to snatch the straw 1 offer you to save your honor. 
 (Gives her the letter, and turns L. Aside). Not a bad bit of bombast 
 that. Rather overdone, I'm afraid, like my imitation of his writing. 
 Hope she won't detect the difference. 
 
 Alice (frightened, trying to read letter. Goes R. ) " Lisbon, Dec. 
 3rd, 1881." That's the place his last letter to me was dated from. "My 
 dear Ernest, — I am afraid you will think I am neglecting you. I have 
 been very busy ; though I am not progressing so well as I anticipated. 
 But I have delayed writing, because I have a rather delicate matter 
 to break to you. I almost despair of ever being able to raise enough 
 money to satisfy the greedy claims of that worldly-minded Mrs. Fair- 
 fax. Poor little Alice" — he speaks of me with contempt — "I almost 
 wish I had not proceeded so far in that affair — I was too hasty. I may 
 have to remain out here for years. I doubt if Alice be strong enough 
 to share my hard life. If I see no better prospect of realizing a for- 
 tune, I shall not return to my home at all, but settle down here. I hope 
 Alice will forget me. I am not worthy of her. I could not bear to 
 make her miserable. I see no prospect in returning — while here, I may 
 tell you in confidence, that I have attracted the favorable attention 
 of a young and pretty Spanish girl, whose father has means, and who 
 appears to regard me with especial favor. I shall esteem it a great 
 proof of your friendship if you would gently, in due time, break it to 
 Alice that I am not likely to return home at all. If the girl (as is 
 very probable) has some of her mother's nature in her, she won't break 
 her heart over such an unlucky dog as yours faithfully, Fred. Haw- 
 thorne." Great Heaven! Can he have written this heartless letter? 
 If I can believe my eyes this is his writing. (Secretly pulling out her 
 own letter, and comparing the writing). The hand I loved so dearly. 
 Oh! how everything seems passing away — there is nothing but pain. 
 But this man here — he shall not see what I suffer. Base, cruel Fred. 
 (Humbly, but firmly). Mr. Wilding, I have read this 1 — letter. As you 
 said just now, my hopes are wrecked, but I do not despair. I — (sobs 
 convulsively) — I — I beg you to leave me — leave me at once. 
 
 Wilding. I will not leave you till you give me some hope for the 
 future. I have loved you so long and so dearly that I have a right to 
 be heard. You are brave now ; but you know you will suffer from the 
 treatment of this weak and worthless man. Alice, if you have a spark 
 of spirit in you, be no longer unhappy; but turn to one who is ready 
 to devote his life to you, and to wait patiently for that love which you 
 now withhold from him. 
 
 Alice. Sir, I have no lack of pride. Believe me, from this moment 
 Mr. Hawthorne will have no place in my heart, nor in my thoughts. 
 But because the man I trusted with my earliest love has proved false 
 and worthless, seems to me no reason that I should ally myself to one 
 whom I loathe and despise. 
 
 Wilding. You are heated, Miss Fairfax. You will repent your words 
 
78 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 when you have to meet the sneers of the world for a jilted girl, and 
 the reproaches of a kind mother, whose heart you will have broken. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Fairfax r. u. e. 
 
 Alice {firmly). Mr. Wilding, how dare you speak to me in this man- 
 ner. You are a shallow schemer. I see through your plan. You hope 
 to lead me to marry you out of pique. I have heard of girls selling 
 themselves to appease their outraged vanity. Such girls may have a 
 proper pride, though they have no self-respect. I am not one of these. 
 I wish for no more words on this hateful subject. You have made a 
 mistake, Mr. Wilding, and I leave you to reflect upon it. ( Going, meets 
 Mrs. F. up r. c. Wilding down l. c.) 
 
 Mrs. F. {regarding her sternly). Did I hear you rightly, Alice? I 
 am amazed that you should dare to insult a gentleman of Mr. Wild- 
 ing's position with such reckless talk. You must be clean out of your 
 senses. {Down R. 1. E. 
 
 Alice {on her knees). Mother, dear, don't be hard upon me. We 
 may be so happy together if you will only not be hard upon me. This 
 man has shown me reasons why Fred. — Mr. Hawthorne can never be 
 anything to me now. Let me live happily with you, mother dear; but 
 do not ask me to marry. I do not wish to be married. 
 
 Mrs. F. This is simply folly, child. You cannot remain single all 
 your life. You cannot be happy with me, for I cannot forgive your 
 gross insult to Mr. Wilding, who loves you sincerely, and is ready to 
 sacrifice himself and to give you a home and position such as any girl 
 in her senses would be deeply grateful for. 
 
 Mr. Careful enters quietly, r. u. e., Ms face expresses satisfaction. 
 
 Alice {rising). If it is your wish, mother, I will marry by-and-by — 
 but at least allow me to select a man whom I can respect. 
 
 Mrs. F. {angrily). Alice! — Mr. Wilding, permit me to apologize for 
 my daughter's unpardonable conduct. 
 
 Mr. C. walks to window and gazes on the sea view. 
 
 Wilding. Pray don't mention it. Under the circumstances it is 
 natural that her feelings should run away with her. But perhaps I 
 may be permitted to ask the young lady why she denies me her re- 
 spect? {Bowing to Alice). 
 
 Alice {firing up). Because I despise any man who attempts to buy 
 a girl with his money, or attempts to entrap her into marrying him 
 by underhand means. Because I believe a man, who is disloyal to his 
 best friend, to be incapable of bestowing happiness upon the woman 
 he would marry. Because the evidence he has given me of my be- 
 trothed husband's infidelity, is insufficient in my eyes to convict him. 
 How do I know but what this vile letter may be a wicked forgery ? 
 Such a thing is not impossible. Mr. Hawthorne is far away, and un- 
 able to answer for himself. If he be capable of jilting me, and is base 
 enough to do so, I will accept his renunciation only from his own lips. 
 But no charges brought against his honor by interested people in his 
 absence, shall ever persuade me to break ray faith with him- 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 79 
 
 Wilding (losing his temper). Insult is all I might have expected 
 from — 
 
 Mrs. F. (hotly). Alice, your brazen impudence astonishes me. 
 
 Mr. C. (coming down c.) Steady, steady, good people. The young 
 lady is bound to defend her own case. 
 
 Mrs. F. Mr. Careful, you have no right to interfere between me 
 and my child. 
 
 Mr. C. Excuse me, madame, but I have voluntarily undertaken to 
 watch the case for the defendant, and I move for a fair hearing. 
 
 Alice (moving towards Mr. C.) Oh! sir, have I not done right, have 
 I not done right ? 
 
 Mr. C. My dear, you have made out an excellent case. 
 
 Mrs. F. So, sir, you think fit to encourage my daughter in her re- 
 bellion against my will ? 
 
 Mr. C. Not exactly, madame. My chief motive is to gain time. To 
 my legal eye it appears that the court is unduly prejudiced against 
 the defendant. Seeing this, I have thought fit to call an important 
 witness in this case, whose arrival I anticipate every moment. 
 
 Wilding (aside). A witness ? what the deuce is he driving at? 
 
 Mrs. F. Then, sir, you have abused the confidence I unwisely re- 
 posed in you. 
 
 Loud knocking, as at front door. Alice and Wilding doth start. 
 
 Mrs. F. Who on earth is that ? 
 
 Mr. C. Don't be alarmed. It's only my witness, he is probably 
 rather excited. Naturally so in my opinion. 
 Alice (sotto voce). Who is it, Mr. Careful? (The others intent). 
 
 Servant enters R. u. e., and announces Mr. Hawthorne. 
 
 Enter Fred rapidly, R. u. e. 
 
 Alice (with a cry, running to him — her arms round him). It is he! 
 Oh! Fred, Fred (Mrs. F. seems dumbfounded, up l. c. Wilding looks 
 ashamed, down L. a), say it is all false. Say you are true to me. 
 
 Fred (kissing her). My darling. (Then fixing his eyes on Wilding). 
 Ernest Wilding. It is not diflicult for you to guess how I have heard 
 of your despicable conduct. You have attempted to do me an injury 
 which I can never forget. An injury, which, had it been accomplished, 
 I could never forgive. You remember when we were boys at school 
 together, how we settled our disputes. We will find a fitting spot, 
 sir, and try conclusions over this matter, if you have any manhood 
 left in you. 
 
 Mr. C. Steady, steady, my boy, there are ladies present. 
 
 Fred. I can't be polite over such a business as this. 
 
 Wilding (crossing to r. u. e.) I will not fail you, Mr. Hawthorne. 
 You have beaten me already ; but if love has made a coward of me, 
 you shall find I am no cur. (To Alice). Miss Fairfax, for the sake 
 of a hopeless love, I have sacrificed my friend. At least, do me the 
 justice to believe now that I loved you earnestly. (Exit R. u. e.) 
 
 Fred. He was just like that at school. 
 
 Mr. C. Ah ! more pluck than principle. Let us hope this will be a 
 lesson to hira. 
 
80 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Fred. Alice, we owe all to Mr. Careful; it was through his interest 
 in yon that I was informed of all that was going on. It was he who 
 advised me to cease writing to you, that he might judge how far that 
 young villain would dare to go. It wa*s he who advised me to come 
 back. 
 
 Me. C. Ah? but she was true. I knew she would be. Come, Mrs. 
 Fairfax, take my advice, make the best of a good son-in-law. His 
 prospects are none so bad, after all. 
 
 Fred (coldly to Mrs. F.) I think even you, madame, will be satis- 
 fied when I tell you that I have secured a berth worth $1500 a-year, 
 with sure promotion to the post of Chief Engineer at $5000. 
 
 Mr. C. (aside to Fred). Lucky dog, you've an excuse for "cutting 
 your mother-in-law." Goes up and coaxes Mrs. Fairfax). 
 
 Fred. You never doubted me, darling? 
 
 Alice. Never in my heart. It was hard to bear when you did not 
 write, dear. But I could almost forgive Mr. Wilding for enabling me 
 to prove how truly I love you. (Embrace, and slight pause). 
 
 Fred (looks at her tenderly). The noblest quality of Love is to be 
 true; for only the faithful sweetheart makes the faithful wife. (Em- 
 brace. Bing). 
 
 Mr. C. showing picture to Mrs. F. 
 [Curtain Quick.] 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS 81 
 
 PICKING UP THE PIECES. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Lord Dawxjsh. a middle-aged nobleman. 
 Mbs. Melton, a widow, no longer young. 
 
 SCENE. — Mrs. Melton's apartment in Florence. All the furniture is 
 gathered into the middle of the room, and covered with a sheet. Mrs, 
 Melton is a icidow and no longer young. Lord Dawlish, who 
 tomes to make a morning call, has also forgotten his youth. 
 
 Dawlish. Good morning, Mrs, Melton. I hope — Holloa ! There is 
 nobody here. What is all this about ? 
 
 {After some consideration he proceeds to investigate the extraordinary 
 erection with the point of his stick. After convincing himself of its nature 
 he lifts a side of the sheet, ptdls out an easy-chair , inspects it, and finally 
 sits on it.) 
 
 She is an extraordinary woman. I don't know why I like her. I 
 don't know why she likes me. I suppose that she does like me. If 
 not, what a bore I must be ! I come here every day — and stay. I 
 suspect that I am an awful fellow to stay. I suppose I ought to go 
 now. This furniture trophy don't look like being at home to callers. 
 But perhaps she is out : and then I can go on sitting here. I must 
 sit somewhere. May I smoke ? I daresay: thank ye, I will. Smoke? 
 Smoke. There is a proverb about smoke. I wonder how I came to 
 know so many proverbs ? I don't know much. " There is no smoke 
 without fire." Yes, that's it. There is uncommon little fire in a 
 cigarette. Little fire and much smoke. Yes, that's like this — I 
 mean — Let me — what d'ye call it? — review my position. Here I 
 sit. Here I sit every day. That is, smoke, I suppose — plenty of 
 smoke. Is there any fire ? That is the question. I wish people 
 would mind there own business. It is trouble enough to mind one's 
 own business, I should think. But yet there are people — there's that 
 
 Flitterly, for instance — d d little snob. Flitterly makes it the 
 
 business of his life to go about saying that I am going to be married ; 
 and all because here is a woman who is not such an intolerable bore 
 as — as other people. Flitterly is the sort of man who says that there 
 there is no smoke without fire. What is this ? That is what I want 
 to know. Is this business of mine all smoke, all cigarette and soda, 
 or — confound Flitterly ! I wonder if I ought to pull his nose f I am 
 
82 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 afraid that that sort of thing is out of date. I don't think I could 
 pull a nose, unless somebody showed me how. Perhaps if somebody 
 held him steady, I might. I don't think I could do it. He has got 
 such a ridiculous little nose ! I wonder if I ought to give up coming 
 here ? I don't know where I should go to. I wonder if I am bound 
 in honor, and all that ? Perhaps that is out of date too. I sometimes 
 think that I am out of date myself. 
 
 {After this he fishes under the sheet with his stick, and brings to light 
 a photograph-book , which he studies as he continues to meditate.) 
 
 I wonder if she would take me if I asked her ? I don't believe she 
 would : she is a most extraordinary woman. Who is this, I wonder ? 
 I never saw this book before. I suppose that this is the sort of man 
 women admire. He would know how to pull a nose. I dare say he 
 has pulled lots of noses in his day. I>oes it for exercise. Suburban 
 cad. A kind of little tooting lady-killer. I wonder she puts such a 
 fellow in her book. Why, here he is again, twice as big and fiercer. 
 Here is another — and another ! Hang him he is all over the book ! 
 
 (He pitches the book under the sheet. Then Mrs. Melton comes in 
 Hearing a large apron, and armed with duster avd feather-brush.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Lord Dawlish ! What are you doing here ? 
 
 D. Nothing. 
 
 Mrs. M. How well you do it ! 
 
 D. Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. M But you are doing something : you are smoking. 
 
 D. Am I ? I beg your pardon. 
 
 Mrs. M. And you shall do more : you shall help me. I have been 
 up to my eyes in work since seven o'clock. 
 
 D. Seven ! Why don't you make somebody else do it ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Because I do it so well. I have a genius for dusting, and 
 Italian servants have not. In this old city they have an unfeigned 
 respect for the dust of ages. 
 
 D. Have they ? How funny ! But they might help you, I should 
 think. Where are they ? There was nobody to let me in. Where 
 are your servants ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Gone. 
 
 D. Gone! 
 
 Mrs. M. Gone and left me free. I packed them all off — man and 
 maid, bag and baggage. 
 
 D. But who will look after you ? 
 
 Mrs. M. I. I am fully equal to the task. But come, be useful. 
 You shall help me to rearrange the furniture. 
 
 D. Help! I! 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, help ! You ! I am not quite sure that you can't. 
 
 (As he proceeds to brush the back of a chair with a feather-brush, it 
 occurs to him to apologize for his intrusion.) 
 
 D. I suppose I ought to apologize for coming so early. Somehow 
 I found myself in the Palazzo — and the door of your apartments was 
 open, arid so I came in. I took the liberty of an old friend. 
 
 Mrs. M. I believe we have been acquainted for at least a month. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 83 
 
 D. Only a month ! It is not possible. It must be more than a 
 month. 
 
 Mrs. M. Apparently our precious friendship has not made the time 
 pass quickly. 
 
 D. No. I mean that it never does pass quickly. 
 
 Mrs. M. Work, work, work! It's work that makes the day go 
 quick. I am busy from morning till night, and time flies with me. 
 
 D. Then you shorten your life. 
 
 Mrs. M. And keep it bright. Better one hour of life than a century 
 of existence! Dear, dear! how did my best photograph-book get 
 knocked down here ? 
 
 D. I am afraid that that was my awkwardness. I was looking at 
 it, and it — it went down there. 
 
 Mrs. M. Don't let it break from you again. Here, take it, and sit 
 down and be good. You have no genius for dusting. 
 
 D. Nobody ever called me a genius. I have been called all sorts 
 of names ; but nobody ever went so far as to call me a genius. 
 
 Mrs. M. And yet you ain't stupid. I always maintain that you are 
 not really stupid. 
 
 D. Ain't I ? Thank you. Who is this man — this fine-looking man 
 with the frown and whiskers ? 
 
 Mrs. M. He is handsome, isn't he ? 
 
 D. I don't know. I am not a judge of male beauty. 
 
 Mrs. M. Men never admire each other. They are too envious and 
 too vain. 
 
 D. Are they ? And women ? What are women ? 
 
 Mrs. M. What are women? What are they not? Oh, for one 
 word to comprehend the sex ! Women are — yes, women are womanly. 
 
 D. That sounds true. And women are effeminate. 
 
 Mrs. M. Only females are effeminate. 
 
 D. Oh ! I wonder what that means ? 
 
 Mrs. M. But John is handsome. Ask any woman. 
 
 D. John! 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, that's John — my cousin. 
 
 D. I hate cousins. They are so familiar and so personal. 
 
 Mrs. M. I like them. They are so — so — 
 
 D. Cousinly. 
 
 Mrs. M. Precisely. 
 
 D. Cousins are cousinly. Does he dye his whiskers ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Dye ! Never. He has too much to do. John is a great 
 man — a man of will, a man of force, a man of iron. That's what I 
 call a man. 
 
 D. Do you? I don't call an iron man a man. 
 
 Mrs. M. He is the first of American engineers. 
 
 D. A Yankee stoker. 
 
 Mrs. M. Dear John ! He is a good fellow. He gave me that little 
 jar by your hand. 
 
 D. Dear John is not a judge of china. I always hated that little 
 jar. I shall break it some day. 
 
 Mrs. M. If you do, I'll neve*r speak to you again. 
 
 D. Please do. Tell me some more about John. Has not he got a 
 fault, not even a little one ? 
 
 Mrs. M. He has the fault of all men — vanity. He knows that he is 
 handsome. 
 
 D. I thought he dyed his whiskers. 
 
84 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Mrs. M. He does not dye his whiskers. 
 
 D. You seem very keen about the whiskers. Here they are in all 
 sizes, and from all over the world — carte-de-visite whiskers, cabinet 
 whiskers, Rembrandt-effect whiskers, whiskers from Naples, from 
 New York, from Baker Street. You must like them very much. 
 
 Mrs. M. I like the man. I like self-respect, bravery, and per- 
 severance. I like honest work. O Lord Dawlish, what a* shame it is 
 that you don't do something ! 
 
 D. Do something? I? I do do something. I — well, I go about. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh ! you go about. 
 
 D. Yes — with a dog in England ; without a dog abroad. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh ! abroad without a dog. I regret that I shall never 
 have the pleasure of receiving the cur. 
 
 D. The cur's a collie. 
 
 Mrs. M And so you think that man fulfills his destiny by going 
 about. 
 
 D. Somebody must go about, you know. 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, a squirrel in a cage. What you want is work. You 
 ought to take a line. 
 
 D. Go fishing ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Be serious, and listen to me. Here you are in Florence. 
 
 D. I believe I am. 
 
 Mrs. M. You are in the midst of priceless treasures. The finest 
 works of art are all around you. 
 
 D. I believe they are. 
 
 Mrs. M. Take a line : take up something, for instance the Greek 
 statues. 
 
 D. Ain't I rather old to play with marbles ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Not a bit. Nobody is old who isn't old on purpose. Com- 
 pare, classify, and make a book, or even a pamphlet. 
 
 D. I hate pamphlets. They are always coming by the post. 
 
 Mrs. M. I suppose it's not the thing for a man in your position to 
 turn author. 
 
 D. I don't think I ever did hear one of our lot writing books. But 
 that doesn't much matter. I should like to to take a line, or a course 
 or a — I took a course of waters once at Homburg,- or Kissingen, or 
 somewhere ; but they came to an end, like all other things. 
 
 Mrs. M. Lord Dawlish, are you joking ? 
 
 D. No. 
 
 Mrs. M. Then be serious: take up a subject; set to work; produce 
 your pamphlet — at least a pamphlet. It might grow into a book. 
 
 D. Heaven forbid ! I could not do it. 
 
 Mrs. M. Why not ? 
 
 D. Writing a book is so infernally public. I should be talked about. 
 
 Mrs. M. How dreadful ! The owl, who is modesty withal, and 
 shrinks from notoriety, remains at home until sunset. 
 
 D. You called me a squirrel before. Are you going through all the 
 zoological what-d'ye-call-'em ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Perhaps even I shall be talked about before long. 
 
 D. I should not wonder if you were. 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, even I, humble individual as I am, may perhaps be 
 talked about when I set up my studio. 
 
 D. Your what? 
 
 Mrs. M. My studio. Yes, I've quite made up my mind. There 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 85 
 
 are many worse painters in Florence than myself. I mean to be a 
 real painter, and no longer play with color. 
 
 D. And sell your piccures ! 
 
 Mrs. M. For the largest possible prices. 
 
 D. Is not that an odd sort of thing for a lady ? 
 
 Mrs. M. No. We have changed all that. Many women paint now- 
 adays. 
 
 D. I have heard so. 
 
 Mrs. M. I believe that you are making jokes this morning. 
 
 D. I don't think so. I don't like jokes ; they are very fatiguing. 
 It's John's fault. 
 
 Mrs. M. What's John's fault ? 
 
 D. No man likes to have another crammed down his throat — unless 
 he is a confounded cannibal. 
 
 Mrs. M. Very well. I will refrain from cramming anybody down 
 your throat. But I won't let you off. I feel that I have a mission. 
 
 D. Good Heavens ! 
 
 Mrs. M. I have a mission to reform you. 
 
 D. Please don't do it. 
 
 Mrs. M. I must. Why don't you do your proper work? Why not 
 go back to England and take care of your property ? 
 
 D. Because my agent takes care of it so much better than I could. 
 I inherited my place, and I can't get rid of it. But, luckily, land 
 can't follow me about. That is why I come abroad. 
 
 Mrs. M. Without the dog. 
 
 D. He stays with the land. He likes it. He hates travelling. 
 
 Mrs. M. So would you if you travelled in a dog-box. 
 
 D. I wisli you would not talk about me. I am so tired of myself. 
 
 Mrs. M. But you interest me. 
 
 D. Thank you. That is gratifying. Don't let us pursue the subject 
 further. 
 
 Mrs. M. I must. It's my mission. I picture the pleasures of an 
 English country life. You build cottages ; you drain fields ; you 
 carry flannel to the old women. 
 
 D. No ; I could not do it. I don't think I could carry flannel to an 
 old woman. 
 
 Mrs. M. So much for duties. Then for amusement. Are you fond 
 of shooting? 
 
 D. Pheasants are all so much alike. I gave up shooting when my 
 sister took to it. 
 
 Mrs. M. Your sister! 
 
 D. She is a keen sportsman — awfully keen. I went out with her 
 once. I feel them still sometimes in my back when it's cold weather. 
 
 Mrs. M. You like hunting better? In this country thev shoot the 
 fox. 
 
 D. Do they ? That must be curious. I wonder if I could bring my- 
 self to try that. I almost think that — 
 
 Mrs. M. Go home and hunt. 
 
 D. I have given up hunting. Rather rough on Teddie, don't you 
 think ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Who's Teddie ? 
 
 D. Don't you knaw Teddie ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Is he the dog ? 
 
 D. No; he is my brother. I thought that everybody knew Teddie. 
 Teddie knows everybody. Teddie likes me to hunt. He is always 
 
86 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 bothering me to buy horses — with tricks. Or to go by excursion train s. 
 Or to shoot lions in Abyssinia. He is an awfully ambitious fellow, 
 Teddie. Dont you think we might change the subject? 
 
 Mrs. M. Not yet. I have not done my duty yet. Politics ! Oh, 
 for political influence ! Oh, for power ! Why, you must be — of course 
 you are a — thingummy what's-his-name. 
 
 D. Very likely, if you say so. 
 
 Mrs. M. An hereditary legislator. Think of that. Think of your 
 influence in the country ; of the power you might wield. Go in for 
 politics. 
 
 D. Well, you know, I — I inherited my politics with my place, and 
 I can't get rid of them. But Teddie does them for me. He was al- 
 ways rather a muff, Teddie was ; and so they put him into politics. 
 
 Mrs. M. Are there muffs in your family ? But don't interrupt me. 
 I must have the last word. Anything else I will give up, but the last 
 word — never. In your position you must sway something. If you 
 won't sway the country, sway the county ; if you won't sway the 
 county, sway a vestry, a workhouse, a something, or anything. Only 
 do something. You would be a great deal happier, and — I don't 
 know why I should be afraid to say — a great deal better, if you would 
 only do something. 
 
 D. You forget that I am delicate. The doctors say I am delicate, 
 and that is why I come abroad. I do wish you would change the sub- 
 ject. It is a delicate subject, you know. 
 
 Mrs. M. Again! You have only one malady — idleness. 
 
 D. No, no, no ! All the doctors — 
 
 Mrs. M. Quacks ! 
 
 D. As you please. But I have not the rude health of some strong- 
 minded women. 
 
 Mrs. M. Nor I the rude manners of some weak-minded men. But 
 I beg your pardon ; I won't be rude. 
 
 D. Was I rude ? I am awfully sorry. I beg your pardon. But I 
 am so tired of myself. 
 
 Mrs. M. Then work — work and be cured. Do something — anything. 
 A stitch in time saves nine. 
 
 D. Oh, if you come to proverbs — look before you leap. 
 
 Mrs. M. Procrastination is the thief of time. 
 
 D. More haste less speed. If one does nothing, at least one does 
 no harm. 
 
 Mrs. M. Nor does a stuffed poodle. 
 
 D. Another beast ! I have been a squirrel and an owl. And, after 
 all, I did not come here to talk about myself, nor poodles. 
 
 Mrs. M. Did you come to speak of the weather? 
 
 D. I wanted to speak about you. 
 
 Mrs. M. About me ! Here's a turning of the tables. 
 
 D. May I? 
 
 Mrs. M. If you have energy for so lively a topic. 
 
 D. May I speak plainly as an old friend ? 
 
 Mrs. M. As a month-old friend. Speak plainly by all means. Pve 
 a passion for plain speaking. 
 
 D. It is an uncommonly disagreeable subject. 
 
 Mrs. M. Thank you. You were going to talk about me. 
 
 D. I don't mean that ; of course not. It does not matter whether I 
 talk about you or not. But there are other people here who talk 
 about you. _ r. - .- 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 87 
 
 Mrs. M. Talk about me ! What do they say ? 
 
 D. They say things I don't like ; so I thought that I — 
 
 Mrs. M. Thauk you, Lord Dawlish ; but I can take very good care 
 of myself. 
 
 D. Very well. 
 
 Mrs. M. Why should I care what this Anglo-Florentine society say 
 of me ? It doesn't hurt me ; I don't care what they say of me ; I am 
 entirely indifferent ; I am — Oh, do not stand there like a stick, but 
 tell me what these people say about me ! 
 
 D. I — I — It is so awkward for me to tell you. You know Flitterly ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Flitterly ! A sparrow ! 
 
 D. Oh, he is a sparrow ! What is to be done to the sparrow 1 
 
 Mrs. M. Nothing. He is beneath punishment — beneath contempt. 
 A little chattering, intrusive, cruel — I suppose it would not do for 
 me to horsewhip Flitterly ? 
 
 D. It would be better for me to do that. I thought of pulling his 
 nose ; it is a little one ; but I might do it with time. I think I should 
 enjoy it. 
 
 Mrs. M. It's too bad ? It's too bad that a woman of my age should 
 not be safe from these wretches — from the tongues of these malicious 
 chatterers ! The cowards to attack a woman ! 
 
 D. I was afraid that you would feel it. 
 
 Mrs. M. I don't feel it. Why should I ? Why should I feel it * 
 But, good gracious ! is the man going to stand there all day, and 
 never tell what this — what that — pha ! what he says of me ? 
 
 D. I don't like to tell you. 
 
 Mrs. M. Do you take me for a fool, Lord Dawlish T 
 
 D. No ; for a woman. 
 
 Mrs. M. What does he say ? 
 
 D. If you will know, you must. He says — he says that you and I 
 are going to get married. 
 
 Mrs. M. Married ! You and I ! Well at least he might have invent- 
 ed something less preposterous. 
 
 D. Preposterous ! 
 
 Mrs. M. You and I ! 
 
 D. I don't see anything preposterous in it. Why should not you 
 and I be married? By George, I have made an offer! 
 
 Mrs. M. Are you mad ? You say — 
 
 D. Oh, I don't want to hurry you! Don't speak in a hurry. Think 
 it over — think it over. Take time. 
 
 Mrs. M. But do you mean — 
 
 D. Oh please, don't hurry. Think it over. Any time will do. 
 
 Mrs. M. Will it ? 
 
 D. I am not clever, nor interesting ; but if you don't mind me, I 
 will do anything I can. You shall have any sort of society you like : 
 fast or slow ; literary or swell ; or anything. Of course there would 
 be plenty of money, and jewels, and cooks, and all that. You can 
 have gowns, and check-books, and pin-money, and — 
 
 Mrs. M. And find my own washing and beer. Lord Dawlish, are 
 you offering me a situation ? 
 
 D. Yes — no — I mean that I — 
 
 Mrs. M. A thousand thanks. The wages are most tempting ; but 
 I have no thought of leaving my present place. 
 
 D. I fear that I have been offensive. I beg your pardon. I bad 
 better go. Good morning, Mrs. Melton, 
 
88 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Mrs. M. Good-by, Lord Dawlish. 
 
 (So he goes out ; straightway her mood changes, and she wislies him 
 tack again.) 
 
 Mrs. M. (sola.) He will never eome back. I can't let him go for 
 ever. I can't afford to lose a friend who makes me laugh so much. 
 Flitterly may say what he likes — a goose ! a sparrow! a grasshopper! 
 I shall call him back. 
 
 (So she calls to him down the stair; then from the window ; and as she 
 calls from the window, he comes in at the door, watches her awhile, then 
 speaks. ) 
 
 D. Did you call me, Mrs. Melton? 
 
 Mrs. M. Is the man deaf? I have been screaming like a peacock; 
 and all for your sake — all because I didn't want you to go away angry. 
 
 D. I thought it was you who were angry. 
 
 Mrs. M. No, it was you. 
 
 D. Very well. 
 
 Mrs. M. You must drop the preposterous subject for ever ; and we 
 will be good friends, as we were before. Sit down and be friendly. 
 
 D. Thank you. That is capital. We will be as we were before — 
 as we were before. 
 
 Mrs. M. You are sure you can bear the disapointment ? 
 
 D. Oh, yes. We will befriends, as we were. That is much better. 
 
 Mrs. M. Lord Dawlish, you are simply delicious ! 
 
 D. Am I ? Thank you. And I may come and sit here sometimes ? 
 
 Mrs. M. In spite of Flitterly. 
 
 D. Flitterly be hanged ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, by all means. 
 
 (Then he meditates, and after due deliberation speaks.) 
 
 D. I should like to ask you something, Mrs. Melton — something 
 personal. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ask what you like, and I will answer if I choose. 
 
 D. May I ask as a friend — only as a friend, you know — if you are 
 quite determined never to marry again ? I know that it is no business 
 of mine ; but I can't help being curious about you. I don't think I 
 am curious about anything else. But you are such an extraordinary 
 woman. 
 
 Mrs. M. Extraordinary because I have refused to be Lady Dawlish. 
 It is strange, very. Oh, don't be alarmed ; I have refused. But it is 
 strange. I am a woman, and I refuse rank and wealth. Wealth 
 means gowns and cooks from Paris, a brougham and a victoria, a 
 stepper, a tiger, and a pug : rank means walking out before other 
 women, and the envy of all my sex. I am a woman, and I refuse all 
 these luxuries. You were mad when you offered them. 
 
 D. I don't think that I could be mad. 
 
 Mrs. M. Not another word upon the subject ! 
 
 D. But won't you satisfy my curiosity ? 
 
 Mrs. M. I never knew you so persistent. 
 
 D. I never was before. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 89 
 
 Mrs. M. Such ardent curiosity, such desperate perserverance, de- 
 serve to be rewarded. I have nothing to do for the moment, and 
 there is one luxury which no woman can forego — the luxury of talk- 
 ing about herself. You needn't listen if the effort is too great : I ad- 
 dress the chair, or the universe. You will hardly believe it of me : 
 but I cherish a sentiment. There ! Years and years ago — how many, 
 I am woman enough not to specify — I lived with an aunt in Paris ; 
 you hate cousins, I am not in love with aunts : however, she was my 
 only relation ; there was no choice, and there I lived with her in Paris, 
 and was finished ; there was nothing to finish, for I knew nothing. 
 Well, it was there, in Paris — I was quite a child — it was there that I 
 one day met a bov scarcelv older than myself. I am in love with him 
 still. Quite idyllic, isn't it ? 
 
 D. Very likely. In Paris ? Paris. 
 
 Mrs. M. There never was any one in the world like him — so brave, 
 so good, so boyish: he rejoiced in life, certain of pleasure and pur- 
 posing noble work. 
 
 D. (aside.) Cousin John ! Cousin John, of course. Confound 
 Cousin John ! 
 
 Mrs. M. He fell in love with me at once, almost before I had fallen 
 in love with him. We were both so absurdly shy, so silly, and so 
 young. I can see him blush now, and I could blush then. But I shall 
 be sentimental in a minute: this is egregious folly; of course it is 
 folly, and it was folly ; of course it was merely childish fancy, boy- 
 and-girl sentiment, calf-love ; of course a week's absence would put 
 an end to it ; and of course I love him still. But forgive me, Lord 
 Dawlish. Why should I bother you with this worn-out commonplace 
 romance ? 
 
 D. I like it. It interests me. Go on, if it does not bore you. It 
 reminds me of something — of something which I had better forget. 
 
 Mrs. M. You shall hear the rest: there isn't much. He was taken 
 away, and — I suppose forgot me. I came out in Paris, went every- 
 where, was vastly gay, and terribly unhappy. My aunt was youngish, 
 and good-looking — in a way ; she was dying to be rid of me, and I 
 knew it; and so things were very uncomfortable at home, until — 
 until I married. Oh, I told him the truth, the whole truth : I told 
 him that the love of my life had gone by. I am glad I told him the 
 truth. 
 
 D. An American, was he not? 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes. I was grateful to him, and proud of him. He was so 
 good and true. But he made light of my story. He thought like the 
 rest, that it was mere girlish fancy ; that I should soon forget ; that — 
 There, you have my story ! Touching, isn't it ? 
 
 D. It is most extaordinary. 
 
 Mrs. M. What is most extraordinary ? 
 
 D. Your story is like my story. 
 
 Mrs. M. It's everybody's story. It's common as the whooping- 
 cough, and dull as the mumps. But come give me the details of your 
 case. 
 
 D. The details ! If I can remember them. 
 
 Mrs. M. If you can remember! Who would be a man? 
 
 D. It was in Paris — 
 
 Mrs. M. In Paris ? 
 
 D. It is just like your story. Suppose that we take it as told. 
 
 Mrs. M. Go on. I must hear it. 
 
90 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS.. 
 
 D. I was sent to Paris when I was a boy, with a bear-leader. 
 There I saw a girl — a little bread and butter miss — and — and I got 
 fond of her. She was the dearest little girl — the best little thing. 
 She was like — like — 
 
 Mrs. M. Go on. What happened ? 
 
 D. Nothing. 
 
 Mrs. M. Nothing! Nonsense! Something always happen3. 
 
 D. Nothing came of it. They said boy and girl, and calf-love, and 
 all that, like the people in your story : and they packed me off to 
 England. 
 
 Mrs. M. Why did yon go ? 
 
 D. I always was a fool. They said that it would try the strength 
 of her feelings ; that, if we were both of the same mind when I had 
 got my degree, the thing should be. 
 
 Mrs. M. And you never wrote ? 
 
 D. No. 
 
 Mrs. M. Nor did he — never one line. 
 
 D. They said she wished me not to write. 
 
 Mrs. M. How likely! These men, these men! They never know 
 what letters are to woman. What was the end ? 
 
 D. The usual thing. As soon as my degree was all right I made 
 for Paris. She was gone. 
 
 Mrs. M. My poor friend ! She was dead. 
 
 D. Married 
 
 Mrs. M. Married! How could she be so — 
 
 D. It is very like your story, isn't it ? Only in my story the parties 
 were not American. 
 
 Mrs. M. American ! What do you mean I I wasn't an American 
 till I married one, and Tom — 
 
 D. Then it wasn't Cousin John? 
 
 Mrs. M. John! No, no, no! Lord Dawlish! Lord Dawlish! What is 
 your family name ? 
 £ D. My family name? What on earth, my dear Mrs. Melton — 
 
 Mrs. M. Quick, quick ! What is it ? 
 
 D. Why — er — why — Dashleigh, of course. 
 
 Mrs. M. And you are Tom Dashleigh ? 
 
 (As she looks at him, the truth dawns on him.) 
 
 D. And you are little Kitty Gray ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh my bright boy lover, you are lost now indeed. 
 
 D. I think I have got a chill. 
 
 (When they have sat a little while in silence, she jumps up.) 
 
 Mrs. M. No more sentiment, no more folly ! Away with sentiment 
 for ever ! The boy and girl lovers are dead long ago f and we old folk 
 who know the world may strew flowers on their grave and be gone. 
 Look up, old friend, look up. 
 
 D. Yet you are you, and I — I suppose that I am I. 
 
 Mrs. M. Young fools ! young fools ! why should we pity them, we 
 wise old folk who know the world ? Love* is but — is but — 
 
 (And she dashes into music at the piano : soon her hands oegin to 
 fail, and she stoops over them to hide her eyes ; then she jumps up in 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 91 
 
 tears, and moving knocks over the little jar which was Cousin John's gift. 
 He would pick it up, out she stops him.) , 
 
 No, no : let it lie there. 
 
 D. Shan't I pick up the pieces ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Let them lie there. One can never pick up the pieces. 
 
 D. Why not ? I don't think I understand. But I can't bear to see 
 you cry. I thought that you could not cry ; that you were too clever 
 and strong-minded to cry. Look here ! You might have made some- 
 thing of me once. Is it too late, Mrs Melton ? 
 
 Mrs. M. The jar is broken. 
 
 D. Is it too late, Kitty ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Let us pick up the pieces together. 
 
 CUE TAIN. 
 
92 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 A LOYEB'S STRATAGEM. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 Benjamin Wilder, an eccentric old gentleman. 
 Charley } ^ is 80ns ' a » e( ^ * en an( * * we lve respectively, 
 Harry Wilder, his nephew, aged twenty, 
 Frank Smiles, comedian, personates three characters, 
 Mr. Twitch, a shoemaker. 
 Mr. Sankey, a showman. 
 Thomas, a servant. 
 Villagers, etc., without speaking parts. 
 
 SCENE— Boom in Mr. Benjamin Wilder's house. Doors R. and L. 
 Books, pictures, $c. Small table R. c. ; larger table L. c, cover- 
 ed with meehanical appliances. Curtain rises, discovering old 
 Wilder seated at table l. c, working at a small and complicat- 
 ed piece of mechanism, and Thomas placing chairs behind table, 
 R. c. 
 
 Wilder, (angrily). — The what, Thomas? 
 
 Thomas, (pointing to table l. a). — The — thingummy, sir. 
 
 Wilder. How often must I order you to call things by their right 
 names, Thomas ? This is not a thingummy ; it's a self-acting, auto- 
 matic engine, Thomas ; and I anticipate that when it is finished it 
 will electrify all the scientific world. Come and look at it, Thomas. 
 
 Thomas, (edging towards the door r.). — Fd rather not, sir — I don't 
 like being 'lectrified. 
 
 Wilder. What nonsense, Thomas ! Come here ! 
 
 Thomas. Fd rather not, sir (going ; stops.) Oh! I nearly forgot to 
 tell you, sir, Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, says the boys must take 
 their lessons in this room this morning. 
 
 Wilder. In this room ! Why so, Thomas f 
 
 Thomas. She says she's going to give the house a thorough clean. 
 
 Wilder. That woman is gone scouring mad ! I almost lose my 
 temper at her sometimes ; but being a philosopher and a man of the 
 world, of course, I know it's bootless — bootless, Thomas ! 
 
 Thomas. Yes, sir. 
 
 Wilder. By-the-way, talking of bootless, that reminds me — has 
 Patcher, the bootmaker, sent those boys' boots home ? 
 
 Thomas. No ; I think not, sir. 
 
 Wilder. Then go down as far as his shop immediately, Thomas, 
 and tell him to send those boots this morning — this morning, if he 
 means to make any more for my family. I hate a man who breaks a 
 promise ! 
 
 Thomas. Yes ; I'll go at once, sir (going l.) 
 
AMATEUR AXD PARLOR THEATRICALS. 93 
 
 Wilder. And, Thomas, tell him to bring his measure with him. 
 My daughter Grace requires new walking-boots. 
 
 Thomas. I'll not forget to remember to tell him, sir. (Exit L. 
 
 Wilder. , What a strange thing it is that Grace, who is such a sen- 
 sible girl in other respects, always laughs at my scientific researches f 
 By-the-way, I wonder where she is f 
 
 Enter Fred and Charley, r., with slates and looks. TJiey seat them- 
 selves at table R. c. 
 
 Wilder. Where is Grace? 
 
 Fred. In the garden, Pa. 
 
 Wilder. And where is Mr. Grey? Why doesn't he come to super- 
 intend lessons ? 
 
 Charley. He's in the garden, too, pa. Ha's reading poetry to Grace. 
 
 Wilder. Indeed! (aside) Highly dangerous (rises.) I'll terminate 
 their poetical proceedings with a little plain prose. What assurance 
 on the part of a poor tutor ! I suppose I'd be angry if I wasn't a phil- 
 osopher and a man of the world. (Exit R. 
 
 Fred. Lend me your knife, Charley. 
 
 Charley. What for? 
 
 Fred. Oh, never mind — lend me it. 
 
 Charley. I sha'n't without you tell me what you want it for. 
 
 Fred. Then keep it. I don't want it. It's good for nothing. I 
 know who'll buy me a new knife ; and he'll mend my fishing-rod, too. 
 
 Charley. I know who you mean. You mean Cousin Harry; I 
 heard pa say he was coming to-day. 
 
 Fred. Well, what if I do mean Cousin Harry ? He'll splice my 
 fishing-rod, for he always has a sharp knife — not like your blunt old 
 thing — and I've got lots of string (takes string from his pocket) ; and 
 Patcher's going to bring me a lump of wax when he brings my boots, 
 and 
 
 Charley. Hush! Here's Mr. Grey and father. (They bend over 
 their slates.) 
 
 Enter Wilder and Smiles, r. 
 
 Smiles. But I have an explanation to offer, sir. 
 
 Wilder. I have no time to listen to explanations now, sir. (Looks 
 off L. ) Hallo ! who's that driving up to the door ? My nephe*w Harry, 
 as I live! Sit still, boys. {Exit L. 
 
 Smiles, (aside.) — My old friend Harry Wilder! How provoking! 
 I hope he'll not recognise me just now. (Aloud.) Now, boys, pay a 
 little attention to your lessons. (Seats himself R. of boys, and bends 
 over a book.) 
 
 Enter Wilder and Harry, l. 
 
 Harry. Ah, boys! Fred, Charley, lively as ever! (Shakes hand.) 
 I musn't interrupt lessons, I suppose. 
 
 Wilder. You mustn't, indeed, Harry. Attend to your lessons, boys. 
 
 Harry. And where is Grace ? 
 
 Wilder. Never mind Grace for the present. She's busy. Come 
 and examine this wonderful automaton of mine. 
 
94 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Harry. Ah, yes ! {Looks intently at Smiles, and starts on recognising 
 him. Smiles signals Harry to maintain silence.) 
 
 Wilder. Eh ? What are you staring at, Harry ? It's only Grey 
 the tutor. m 
 
 Harry. Oh, nothing. (Aside. ) If that's not Frank Smiles I'll eat 
 my hat! (Aloud.) This what-d'ye-call-it of yours, you were saying. 
 
 Wilder. I wish you'd call things by their right names, Harry. It's 
 the motive power for an automaton violinist I am constructing, and I 
 anticipate that when it is finished it will, from the multiplicity and 
 grace of its movements, completely throw into the shade all automata 
 hitherto produced — even Kempelen's Chess Player, which is not an 
 automaton at all, according to Sir David Brewster. 
 
 Harry. I daresay not. (Yawns.) 
 
 Wilder. By-the-by, Harry, did you ever read that author's "Let- 
 ters on Natural Magic f 
 
 Harry. I can't say I ever did. 
 
 Wilder. It's lying about somewhere — a little book. No, it's not in 
 the book-case, for I was looking at it yesterday, and I never replace 
 anything. Where did I leave it ? Tut — tut! 
 
 Harry. Oh, never mind, uncle. Don't trouble. 
 
 Wilder. But I do mind. I should like you to read it above all 
 things. It discloses an imposition, and I who love truth so much, am 
 very zealous at exposing deceit . Where did I leave it ? Ah ! I remem- 
 ber — it's in the summer-house. I'll go and fetch it. (Exit R. 
 
 Smiles, (aside to Harry.) Wait a moment. (Aloud.) Now, boys, 
 you have been so attentive to-day, I shall allow you twenty minutes 
 recess. (Boys rise.) Come back at the end of that time, and con- 
 clude your lessons. 
 
 Fred. Come into the garden with us, Cousin Harry. 
 
 Charley. Oh, do ! 
 
 Harry. I'll follow directly. Away with you ! I won't be long. 
 
 (Exit boys, R, 
 
 Harry. Smiles, my dear fellow, what, in the name of mystery, is 
 this? Four months ago you were Frank Smiles, the first comedian of 
 the day, playing to crowded and admiring audiences for I don't know 
 how many pounds a night ; and now I find you as Grey the tutor, 
 grubbing away in my uncle's house. 
 
 Smiles. At a salary of £80 a year, exactly. Listen to my expla- 
 nation. Three months ago I joined the Metropolitan Comedy Com- 
 pany in a provincial tour. The sleepy town of Dulborough, about 
 half a mile from here, was by some means, entered on our way-bill. 
 There I encountered my fate in the form of a beautiful young lady. 
 I was smitten at once. By Jove, it was a regular case of love at first 
 sight. 
 
 Harry. About the fiftieth similar case you've experienced. 
 
 Smiles. Don't, Harry ; it's really a true case this time. I made in- 
 quiries, and endeavored to obtain an introduction ; without avail, for 
 my enchantress was guarded by a fatherly griffin, who claims to be a 
 philosopher and a man of the world. 
 
 Harry. I begin to see through this now. Your charmer is ? 
 
 Smiles. Your cousin Grace, and the philosopher aforesaid 
 
 Harry. My Uncle Wilder, of course. So when you couldn't get an 
 introduction, you 
 
 Smiles. Exactly. Saw an advertisement for a tutor in the " Dul- 
 borough Gazette, " applied and was successful — in more senses than 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 95 
 
 one. And when not occupied in teaching the brother to decline 
 " Amo, " I was teaching the cousin to accept my love. 
 
 Harry. With what result ? 
 
 Smiles. Magnificent! She loves me, — loves me disinterestedly, 
 too ; for she only knows me as Grey, the poor tutor. 
 
 Harry. I congratulate you, old boy! {They shake hands.) Only 
 marry my Cousin Grace, and I'm indebted to you for life ! 
 
 Smiles. How? 
 
 Harry. Oh ! it's a family matter, too tedious to enter into just now. 
 Our elders have it all arranged that Grace and I shall make a match 
 at some remote period. Now, Grace does not want me ; besides, I'm 
 engaged, sub rosa, to Clara Jones. Therefore, if you marry Grace, it 
 clears the way for Clara and I. 
 
 Smiles. Well, I'm your man, if I can only gain her father's consent; 
 and, as he is a strict lover of truth, I'll endeavor to propitiate him by 
 acknowledging everything. 
 
 Harry. I should certainly do so. 
 
 Smiles. If that fails I can turn to stratagem again, and try to ca- 
 jole a promise from him. 
 
 Harry. If we succeed in that the field is won, for he is so frantic- 
 ally rigid in such matters, that he would rather die than not fulfil a 
 promise to the letter, no matter under what circumstances it might 
 have been made. 
 
 Smiles. And yet he deceives himself into the idea that he is a 
 " philosopher, and a man of the world." Poor Wilder ! he knows as 
 little about the world as an unhatched chrysalis knows of creation ! 
 
 Harry, (looks r.). — He's coming with his blessed book! I'll avoid 
 him, and redeem my promise to the lads by slipping into the garden 
 by a roundabout way. Have at him, old boy, and luck attend you! 
 
 (Exit l. 
 
 Enter Wilder, with book, R. 
 
 Wilder. I've found it ; but it wasn't there. Where's Harry f 
 
 Smiles. He's just stepped out. 
 
 Wilder. And why are the boys not at lessons ? 
 
 Smiles. I have dismissed them for a brief recess. I really have 
 something of importance to communicate, Mr. Wilder, if you'll grant 
 me a few minutes attention. 
 
 Wilder. Indeed ! (Seats himself.) What is it ? 
 , Smiles, (aside.) — Now for it! (Aloud.) I wish to ask your per- 
 ■ mission to marry your daughter Grace. 
 
 Wilder, (rising angrily.) Goodness gracious. Marry my daughter 
 Grace? You? (Pause.) Preposterous! I won't hear of it for a 
 moment. ( Going l. 
 
 Smiles. Sir, if poverty is the only obstacle 
 
 Wilder, (turns.) Biit it is not. * (Going.) 
 
 Smiles. If it were, that is easily overcome. Hear me, sir. (Wild- 
 er pauses at door.) I am not what I appear to be. 
 
 Wilder. Then, sir, you are a hypocrite, and as such I detest you. 
 (Crosses to R. angrily.) 
 
 Smiles, (aside, clinching his fist.) No, he is her father; let me not 
 forget that. (Aloud.) Sir, I acknowledge I have deceived you in fact. 
 My name is not Grey, nor is teaching my ordinary vocation. I am 
 
96 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 an actor — not an obscure one ; as my name, Frank Smiles, will vouch 
 and by means of my profession I have acquired wealth enough to 
 
 Wilder. No more ! Your wealth shall not bribe me to overlook 
 your wickedness. You are an impostor, sir! You have crept into my 
 house, in a base disguise, to accomplish a base purpose — to steal my 
 daughter from me. (Crosses L.) 
 
 Smiles. Nay, sir ; hear me ! What you term a base disguise was 
 simply a lover's stratagem ; what 
 
 Wilder, (interrupting fiercely.) — A lover's stratagem! 'Twas a 
 hideous deceit — an acted lie! (Overcome by his anger, he sinks into a 
 chair, and buries his face in his hands. Pause.) 
 
 Smiles. Sir! 
 
 Wilder, (gently raising his head, and speaking in a subdued voice. ) 
 The wonder is how I, a calm philosopher, and a man of the world, 
 could be deceived by such a shallow pretence ! 
 
 Smiles. And you refuse your consent ? 
 
 Wilder. Most decidedly ! Now let us get to other matters. (Be- 
 fers to book on table, and commences writing.) Hum! Let me see. 
 Your quarter's stipend is due next week. 
 
 Smiles. I do not require it, sir. 
 
 Wilder. But it is yours. I shall instruct my boys myself for the 
 future. Though they have made tolerable progress under your super- 
 intendence, I must. say I disagree with your system. You endeavor 
 to teach too much before you cultivate the memory. I shall remedy 
 that by a plan of my own. Here is a check (hands slip of paper) for 
 the amount of your quarter's salary. I shall allow you half an hour 
 (looks at his watch} to pack your trunk. As soon as that is done, you 
 will quit my house. 
 
 Smiles. I shall certainly do so, sir. (Going l; turns.) I am, I 
 suppose, to regard your decision as final f You hold out no hope of 
 my ever gaining your consent ? 
 
 Wilder, (rising angrily.) If ever I give you my consent, sir, why 
 — you may have her, that's all! But (smiling) you need not imagine 
 there is any hope of that. If you are ever clever enough to deceive 
 me — a philosopher and a man of the world — thrice over, and as effect- 
 ually as you have hitherto done, I'll — hang it! I'll give you my 
 consent ! 
 
 Smiles, (aside.) A chance yet. 
 
 Wilder. That, however, is an impossibility. 
 
 Smiles. I must give up all hope. May I not see her for a moment 
 before I go ? 
 
 Wilder. Certainly not. Til see her, and lecture her severely for 
 attempting to deceive her old father. After that, I'll give my boys a 
 round of elementary education. You have had my answer. Pack up, 
 and go! (Exit R. 
 
 Enter Harry, l. 
 
 Harry. Ah, Frank! I've been waiting for the verdict. What is it, eh? 
 
 Smiles. A decided non-suit, Harry. I must be out of the house in 
 half an hour ; and, worse than that, I am not permitted to see Grace 
 again. Now, I must see her, if possible, for the purpose of breathing 
 into her ear a little hope — hope which I have gathered from an extra- 
 ordinary promise her word-keeping father vented in his anger. 
 
 Harry. Indeed ! What was it ? 
 
. AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 97 
 
 Smiles. He said if I remember (mimicking Wilder:) "If you are 
 clever enough to deceive me — me, a philosopher and a man of the 
 world — thrice over, and as effectually as you've already done, I'll — 
 haug it ! I'll consent to your marriage ! " 
 
 Harry. Ha— ha! excellent ! Well, if you fulfil those conditions, 
 I've no doubt he'll keep his words. 
 
 Smiles. I think I can manage it. I must turn my talent for mimi- 
 cry into account, and, in the first place, adopt some disguise which 
 will enable me to have an interview with Grace. That will, if suc- 
 cessful, be deception Xo.l. We'll see about the others afterwards. 
 Can you hit upon anything, Harry? 
 
 Harry. I don't know, I'm sure. Let's see. (Pause.) 
 
 Smiles, {looking l.) Ah ! who is this strange being ? 
 Enter Thomas, l., showing in Twitch, who carries a pair of boys boots 
 and a shoemakers measure. 
 
 Thomas. Step this way, Mr. Twitch. Take a chair. I'll go and 
 tell master you've come. (Exit R. 
 
 Harry. Twitch, how is it your master hasn't come ? 
 
 Twitch. Master's main bad to-day, sir, so he told me to bring 
 Master Fred's boots, and take the young lady's measure. 
 
 Smiles. What ! Miss Grace ? 
 
 Twitch. Yes, sir. 
 
 Smiles. A brilliant idea ! Off with your apron ! Quick ! Here, I'll 
 give you my coat for it ! (Takes off his coat.) 
 
 Twitch. 'What for, sir? 
 
 Smiles. Oh, it's only for a lark! Don't wait for reasons. You 
 sha'n't come to any harm by :t. Here's half a sovereign. (Harry 
 and Smiles hurriedly divest Twitch of his apron, cap, and muffler.) 
 Here, put these on. (Smiles hands Twitch his coat and hat.) Xow 
 go and sweetheart the barmaid at the u Red Lion!" (Smiles puts on 
 apron £c.) Look sharp there's a man! 
 
 Harry. Why, you're metamorphosed already. 
 
 Smiles. I've some old wigs and things in my trunk ; so. if old Wild- 
 er only gives me another half -minute, I'll be rather more so. 
 
 (Buns off L. 
 
 Twitch, (turning round. ) How grand I be ! You're sure as I won't 
 come to no harm by this, sir ? 
 
 Harry. Not you. Is it likely ? 
 Enter Smiles, l. ; red wig, cap over his eyes, and muffler up to his chin. 
 
 Harry. Ha! ha! ha! You're another man. 
 
 Smiles. The shoes! The measure! (Seizes them.) Xow be off, 
 Twitch, there's a good fellow. Keep out of the way, and I'll give you 
 a sovereign to-morrow. (Pushes hi m off. L.) He's coming! (Looks R.) 
 Xow for it! You must back me out, Harry. (Re-enter Twitch, l.) 
 
 Twitch. I forgot ; there's summat for Master Fred 
 
 Smiles, (savagely.) Get out ! 
 
 Twitch, (shouts.) It's in one o' the boots. 
 
 Harry. Be off! You'll spoil the fun. (Pushes him off.) Just in 
 time, by Jove ! 
 
 Enter Wilder and the hoys, R. The hoys sit behind table, R. c. 
 
 Smiles. If you please, squire, I ha' brought the young gent's boots. 
 
 Wilder. Oh, I suppose you're from Patcher's. Why didn't he come 
 himself ? 
 
 Smiles. Master's main bad with the duinblingo, sir. 
 
98 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Wilder. Dear me ! What's that ? 
 
 Smiles. A sort of roomatiz,I b'leeve, sir. He's so bad he can't 
 hardly walk. 
 
 Wilder. Ah! well, just wait a minute. I must attend to the tuition 
 of my boys. (Gives Fred and Charley each a small book.) Each 
 of you learn three verses. My tutor has behaved abominably, Harry, 
 so I've dismissed him. 
 
 Smiles. Then that 'ud be the gent I met in the road just now. 
 
 Wilder. Oh, he's gone, then ! A happy riddance ! 
 
 Smiles, (aside. ) Very happy. (Aloud. ) He gi'ed me half a crown, 
 an' told me to take his trunk down to th' " Red Lion" 
 
 Wilder. You'll find it in the side room, as you go out. (Points L.) 
 
 Smiles. Here's your boots, young gemman. (Aside to Fred.) It's 
 inside. (Aloud.) But about the young lady's boots? 
 
 Wilder. Oh yes. Go into the next room, and I'll send her to you. 
 (Exit Smiles, r.) Harry, oblige me by telling Grace that the boot- 
 maker has come. I'm busy now. 
 
 Harry. Oh, certainly! (ExitR. 
 
 Wilder. Now, boys, how are you getting on ? 
 
 Fred. I've learned mine already. 
 
 Charley. So have I. 
 
 Wilder. You must not scoff at the seeming simplicity of the lessons. 
 Dr. Watts' Hymms are not so difficult to learn as Latin grammar. 
 But I wish you to commit a few lines to memory every day, in order 
 to cultivate retentive mental faculties, of which you both stand in 
 need. Now give me the book. (Stands up.) Come forward, and repeat 
 the lines, Frederick. 
 
 Fred, (stands beside chair, c, on which is a loose red cushion, and 
 repeats the following lines in a slip-shod manner, meanwhile rolling in 
 his hands a piece of cobbler's wax, which he has abstracted from one of 
 the boots :) — 
 
 " How doth the little busy bee 
 Improve each shining hour ; 
 And gathers — gathers honey all the day, 
 From every opening flower. 
 " How skillfully she builds her cell, 
 How neat she spreads her wax ; 
 And — and " (Pauses) 
 
 Charley. Pa, Fred's got a lump of wax. 
 
 Fred, (puts it hastily on chair cushion.) Oh, you great story ! No, 
 I haven't. (Shows his hands.) 
 
 Wilder, (overcome with surprise, sinks into chair, sitting upon the 
 wax.) I am inexpressibly grieved, boys, to find that you — who have 
 been brought up carefully in the paths of truth — should accuse one 
 another of falsehood in this way. I cannot hear your lessons further 
 just now. I will leave you for a short time, during which you must 
 commit your tasks more firmly to memory. Let me impress upon 
 you to apply yourselves closely, and you will thereby gain what will 
 cling to you afterwards. Of the truth of these words, I, a self-taught 
 philosopher, am a remarkable example. (Rises and exit slowly L., the 
 cushion sticking to the tail of his coat* Fred and Charley exit R.) 
 
 *One of the boys, in apparently endeavoring to regain the supposed piece of wax, 
 may fix the cushion by means of a pin. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 99 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene — Same as Act 1. Harry discovered seated, reading newspaper. 
 
 Wilder, {entering L.) Now, boys Hallo, Harry! where are the 
 
 boys? 
 
 Harry. I saw them going into the orchard some time since. 
 
 Wilder. Dear me ! And I distinctly ordered them to remain and 
 learn that hymn perfectly. But perhaps they had done so previous 
 to their departure. About how long is it since they went ? 
 
 Harry, {looking at his watch.) I don't know exactly — perhaps an 
 hour ago. It was shortly before the shoemaker left with the tutor's 
 trunk. 
 
 Wilder. Hum ! I'm afraid they have neglected their lessons, I'll 
 hunt them up. (Going.) If they can repeat the lines they may con- 
 tinue their play ; otherwise, I will bring them here, and keep them 
 until {Exit r. 
 
 Harry. Poor old Wilder ! I don't think his new educational system 
 works very well. 
 
 Enter Thomas, l., showing in Smiles, disguised as Professor 
 Jerkpoints. 
 
 Thomas. This way, sir. Take a chair, sir. Mr. Wilder will be 
 here directly. {Exit r. 
 
 Smiles. Qui; dat is I mean to say "yes. " {Sits.) The weathare 
 is ver grand to-morning, monsieur. 
 
 Harry. Very. {Aside. ) A Frenchman, evidently. I wonder what 
 he wants. 
 
 Smiles. I think I to see you before have had the honor. I remind 
 your name is Harry Wilder. 
 
 Harry, {rising.) I certainly don't remember. 
 
 Smiles, {speaking in his natural tone.) What! forget an old friend 
 so soon! ,„,, 
 
 Harry. By Jove ! Smiles, this is good ! 
 
 Smiles. Yes, this is deception No. 2. As Wilder doesn't seem to 
 be coming {looks R.)I'll explain the whole thing as concisely as I can. 
 You must know that there is a sort of itinerant show in the town — a 
 travelling museum of curiosities. 
 
 Harry. I remember ; I saw it as I drove through this morning. 
 ** Sankey's Mammoth Exhibition, " I think it's called. 
 
 Smiles. Yes, that's the title. Well, since I was here"this morning, 
 I've seen through the exhibition, and very amusing it is from one 
 point of view. Among other curiosities, there's a sort of life-size fig- 
 ure on a pedestal, which, on being wound up, went through some re- 
 markable changes of attitude. 
 
 Harry. Indeed ! That's just the sort of thing to suit Uncle Wilder. 
 
 Smiles. So I though ; but unfortunately, or fortunately, which you 
 will, the mainspring snapped as they were winding it up a second 
 tfme for my special delectation. 
 
 Harry. I should call that decidedly unfortunate. 
 
 Smiles. I think it's fortunate, because it clears the way for de- 
 ception No. 3. {Looks R.) Hallo! here's Wilder! I'll tell you the 
 
 LofC. 
 
100 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 rest afterwards. Introduce me as Professor Jerkjoints, from Sankey's 
 Mammoth Exhibition. 
 
 Enter Wilder and boys, R. 
 
 Wilder, (entering.) I insist on each of you learning that third 
 verse before you leave the room. (Boys sit at table, R. c.) Hallo! a 
 stranger! 
 
 Harry. Yes, uncle. This is Professor Jerkjoints, from Sankey's 
 Mammoth Exhibition. 
 
 Smiles. Yes, sare. I come to desire if you will be so glad as come 
 to veesit our what you call automatic feegures. I have heard you are 
 clevare — ver' clevare at such works yourself, so I shall be much hap- 
 py if you will behold what I, a Frenchman, have constructed for 
 Meester Sankey. (Rands a paper.) A programme is here of all the 
 wonders to be seen. 
 
 Wilder, (looking at bill, aside.) " Moving Figures, " " Wonderful 
 Automaton, or Mechanical Man." I wouldn't miss it for ten pounds ! 
 (Aloud.) I shall have great pleasure in visiting the collection, Pro- 
 fessor — ah 
 
 Smiles. Professare Jerkjoints, monsieur, scientific what-you-call 
 machinest to Sankey's Mammoth Exhibition. 
 
 Wilder, (to boys.) You hear, boys? If you are each able to re- 
 peat that last verse within five minutes, you shall go with me to the 
 show this afternoon. (Boys read diligently.) 
 
 Smiles. Ah ! ha ! good boys — ver ? good boys. They will to look at 
 the show be pleased. All for you look out at the exhibition this very 
 morning. Bon jour, monsieur! 
 
 Harry. I'll see him out, uncle. This way. (Exit Harry and 
 
 Smiles, l. 
 
 Wilder. Now, boys. 
 
 Fred. I've learned it, now. 
 
 Charley. So have I. 
 
 Wilder, well? 
 
 ChIrLey. \ Qogdher.) "In works— " 
 Wilder. No — one at a time. You, Fred. 
 Fred, (repeats :) — 
 
 "In works of labor, or of skill, 
 I would be busy too ; 
 For Satan finds some mischief still 
 For idle hands to do." 
 
 Wilder. That will do. Now, Charles. (Charles repeats verse 
 correctly.) Very good. You shall both go with me to the show this 
 afternoon. Now go and play. (Exeunt R. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene — A curtain drawn across back of stage. Pedestal l. c. Mr. 
 
 Sankey is talking to Smiles, who is rubbing his face and hands 
 
 with white powder. A large white sheet, and a short, curly white 
 
 wig are lying on pedestnl. 
 
 Sankey. And yon must only move when I pretends to touch the 
 
 springs, you know. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 101 
 
 Smiles. Yes ; I know. You'll remember those classical subjects I 
 told you to introduce, Mr. Sankey. 
 
 Hawkey. I has 'em here (points to his head) all right. But look 
 alive ! it's a'most time to open. 
 
 Smiles. I'm nearly ready. Where's that wig? Oh, here! (Puts 
 on wig. ) Oh, if the old gentleman we were talking of asks for Profess- 
 or Jerk joints, say he's gone — ill — anything you like ! Now the dra- 
 peries. (Envelopes himself in sheet, and gets on pedestal.) Do I look 
 statuesque, eh? (Noise without.) 
 
 Sankey. (going r. ) Wery. Are you ready ? 
 
 Smiles. Stop! Conceal me till my turn comes, by putting that 
 piece of canvas over my head. 
 
 Sankey. Yes ; perhaps it's better. 
 
 Smiles. Gently! Don't disarrange the wig, or wipe off the powder, 
 or there'll be a disclosure. 
 
 Sankey. (placing canvas.) There, that'll do. (Going R.) 
 
 Smiles. And, I say, be careful in taking it off. 
 
 Sankey. Hush ! I'm going to open. (Exit r. u. e., as if going up 
 steps. ) 
 
 Sankey. (without.) Walk up— walk up! Ladies and gentlemen, 
 walk up and see the most wonderful collection of mechanical curi- 
 osities that ever existed in this world. These unequalled figures, 
 ladies and gentlemen, are surpassed by the surprising Tommyton, or 
 mechanical man, the wonder of the collection, which has caused as- 
 tonishment and delight wherever exhibited! 
 
 Enter Wilder, Harry, Fred, and Charley, r. u. e.* They stare 
 
 about them. 
 
 Wilder. Where is the automaton, I wonder ? 
 Charley. It's a sell ! There's nothing to see. 
 
 Sankey. (without.) Remember, these wonders may be viewed for 
 the small charge of sixpence ; children half-price ! 
 
 Enter Villagers, male and female, one or two at a time ; among them 
 Twitch, still dressed in Smiles' hat and coat. Boys may be 
 dressed as women in this scene. 
 
 Sankey. (without.) Walk up— walk up ! The lecturer is just going 
 his rounds ! 
 
 Enter Sankey, with long white wand. 
 
 Sankey. This side (points r.) ladies and gentlemen. (Stands on a 
 loio step-ladder, R. u. E., and pretends to remove a blind or curtain. All 
 the spectators gaze off R.) 
 
 Villagers." E-e-e-e-h ! 
 
 Sankey. In this section of the exhibition you behold striking life- 
 size models of all the Kings and Queens of England from William the 
 Fourth down to Queen Victoria. This collection is allowed to be the 
 most beautiful and perfect now travelling. In this division further 
 to the right you behold the " Flowery Land" pirates and murderers, 
 which, lor their crimes, were, executed on the scuffle on the 30th of 
 February, eighteen-hundred and something more! Pass on to the 
 
 * All the characters in this scene enter and exit R. U. E., as though coming down 
 or going up steps. The effect may be obtained by means of a stool at the entrance. 
 
102 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 next carriage, ladies and gentlemen. {Turns and removes curtain at 
 bad: and discloses half a dozen figures, personated by boys, in fantastic 
 costumes, on a raised platform. 
 
 Vtllagres. E-e-e-e-h! 
 
 Sankey. This unequalled group represents six life-like figures, taken 
 from ancient and modern history. Here, to the left, is Napoleon 
 Boneypart, as he appeared when out at Elba ! 
 
 Villager, (to Twitch.) What did he say? 
 
 Twitch. Out at elbow. Can't you see th' hole in his sleeve ? 
 
 Villager. Oh ! Yes, I see. 
 
 Sankey. Confronting him — which is still allowed to be a remark- 
 able likeness, though the face has met with a haceident — is the Duke 
 of Wellington. 
 
 Wilder. Why, it's more like Othello. His face looks as black as if 
 it had been inked ! 
 
 Harry. Ah ! no doubt that's why he's called Well-inked-'un. 
 
 Sankey. The third figure is an exact model of Brigham Young, the 
 Mormon Chief, as he appeared at the last census, when he was inform- 
 ed that he had thirty-nine wives, and two hundred and sixty-two chil- 
 dren living. The visitors to this exhibition are allowed the privilege 
 of supposing that Mr. Young's family is outside, without hextra 
 charge. 
 
 Villagers. He ! he ! he ! 
 
 Sankey. The next figure has a peculiar happy resemblance to Pro- 
 fessor Darwin, as he appeared when he broke his watch-chain, and 
 was looking for the missing link. The last two figures in this group 
 represent Joe Smikes, the atrocious murderer, and his unfort'nit wic- 
 tim, Mary Smith, which he lured her into a lonely part of the Strand, 
 and in broad mid-day villinously stabbed her with a toothpick ; for 
 which crime he was condemned at the last assizes to transportation 
 for life, for the period of seven years. Hobserve, the deadly weapon 
 is still clutched in his right hand. I will now set the figures in motion, 
 and you will then perceive them as they appeared when they looked 
 just like this. (Puts his hands to his mouth and shouts off R. u. e.) 
 Crank ! ( The figures all at once commence to roll their eyes and jerk their 
 heads and arms in a spasmodic and unnatural manner.) Ladies and 
 gentleman, hobserve the appropriateness and naturalness of the dif- 
 ferent movements, W'hieh fills all beholders with wonder and astonish- 
 ment. (Shouts off.) That'll do, Bill ! (The figures simultaneously stop, 
 and Sankey draws the curtain.) 
 
 Wilder. But where is the " Mechanical Man, " as you call it? 
 
 Sankey. I'm just agoing to exhibit him, sir. (Places step-ladder c, 
 and removes canvas. ) Ladies and gentlemen, you here behold the won- 
 derful Tommyton, or Mechanical Man, which has been constructed at 
 the cost of ten years' labor, and an enormous sum of money. Your 
 humble servant, the present proprietor, having made a large fortune 
 by exhibiting of it, is anxious to sell this wonderful piece of mechani- 
 cal art, and retire into private life. The price is placed as ridiculous- 
 ly low as ten pounds — ten pounds, gentlemen, which it cost me ten 
 times that sum to produce it. This classical Tommyton, in its present 
 hattitude, personates Happoller. Hobserve the majesty of its form, 
 the beauty of it's contoor, and the graceful pose of the 'ead. By 
 touching this spring with the point of my w r and, the figure revolves 
 itself into the hattitude of Stonewall Jackson defying the lightning. 
 (Smiles raises his right arm in a defiant manner.) 
 
AMATEUK AND PAKLOR THEATRICALS. 103 
 
 Villagers. E-e-e-e-h! 
 
 Wilder. I suppose he means Ajax. 
 
 Sankey. The next spring on being touched, shows the character of 
 Murphy, the god asleep. (Smiles drops his arm and closes his eyes.) 
 
 Wilder. He means Morpheus, the god of sleep, Harry. 
 
 Sankey. I hear some person in the awjence passin' remarks, as if 
 he wasn't satisfied. Any person unsatisfied with the hentertainment 
 may go to the door, and ax for his money back (aside ;) and I don't 
 think he'll get it. (Aloud.) I now touch the last spring, which 
 throws the figure into the attitude of Lord Brougham driving his son. 
 (Smiles stretches his hands forward.) 
 
 Wilder. Oh dear ! He means Phaeton, driving the Chariot of the 
 Sun. 
 
 Sankey. Ladies and gentlemen, the entertainment is now conclu- 
 ded, hoping you are all satisfied, and will recommend it to your friends 
 and neighbors. (Villagers exit R. u. e.) Any person wishing to be- 
 come the owner of this wonderful Tommytonwill oblige by remaining 
 behind and the matter will be settled in private. 
 
 Wilder. I should like to buy it, if only to show my sceptical daugh- 
 ter Grace what may be done in this way by a clever mechanic. Let 
 me see how it works. Oh ! here is a spring. (Touches front of pedes- 
 tal. Smiles assumes a boxing attitude, and hits Wilder's hat smartly.) 
 Dear me ! it's very violent. 
 
 Sankey. Ha! ha! You shouldn't ha' touched that. That's the 
 spring for Bulger, the prize-fighter. 
 
 Wilder. I really think Pd better not have it. It's very violent, 
 
 Sankey. He's quiet as a lamb, sir, if you keep off that spring. 
 You'd better take him. 
 
 Wilder. What do you say, Harry ? 
 
 Harry. Oh, don't let the opportunity slip. Buy him for Grace. 
 Say she may have him. 
 
 Wilder. Ah, very well. (Takes oat purse.) Here is your ten 
 pounds, Mr. Sankey. I'll take him home for Grace. (Hands money.) 
 
 Smiles, (leaping off pedestal, and flinging aside wig, cj-c.) Thank 
 you, sir! 
 
 Wilder. Goodness gracious ! Grey — or whatever your name is — 
 what is the meaning of this ? Where is Professor Jerkjoints ? He, I 
 am sure, is no party to such a shameful swindle ! 
 
 Smiles, (changing his voice.) Professare Jerkjoints, sare, has heard 
 you are clevare — ver' clevare, and is much happy dat you have behold 
 what he constructed for Meestar Sankey. 
 
 Wilder. Gracious powers ! Another imposition ! You, then, were 
 the strange individual who called himself Professor Jerkjoints ? 
 
 Smiles. Yes; and also another strange individual who informed 
 you that (changes voice) "Maister's main bad to-day, sur. He's got 
 the dumblingo, sur; he can't walk hardly." 
 
 Wilder. The shoemaker ! Is it possible ? Surprise can go no fur- 
 ther. You are an adept at character acting, I must confess. Since this 
 morning you have personated — for what earthly purpose I cannot 
 surmise — a shoemaker, a Frenchman, an automaton, and — anything 
 else? 
 
 Smiles. Xo ; those are all, and plenty too, for they fulfil the con- 
 ditions of your challenge. 
 
 Wilder. My challenge ! What do you mean? 
 
 Smiles. Do you not remember saying to me this morning, " If you 
 
104 r AMATEUE AND PAELOE THEATEICALS. 
 
 are clever enough to deceive me effectually thrice over, HI give you 
 my daughter " ? 
 
 Wilder. Dear me ! I think I do remember saying something like 
 that; but 
 
 Smiles. No "but's, " I pray. I have fulfilled my part of the pro- 
 gramme : I call upon you to fulfil yours. Besides this, you, a few 
 minutes since, promised to take me home to Grace. 
 
 Wilder. But — hang it! I icill introduce a "but" if I like — when I 
 consider that Grace's happiness may be wrecked by the fulfilment of 
 that promise, I am more than half inclined to break it. 
 
 Smiles. Believe, me, sir, Grace's happiness lies in the other scale. 
 It is possible to keep your word, and render your daughter happy at 
 the same time. But there ! I fling aside all subterfuge ; I release you 
 from an unintentional bond, and again ask you to entrust Grace's 
 future to the keeping of Frank Smiles, an honorable member of an 
 honorable profession. 
 
 Wilder, Dear me ! that's very straightforward. I like you for that, 
 young man ! But I am not the only one who has a right to speak in 
 the matter. Harry, here, I believe, has a sort of claim. 
 
 Harry. Which I relinquish in favor of my old friend. (Shakes hands 
 with Smiles.) Not a very noble deed, considering Grace doesn't care 
 for me, and dotes on Frank. 
 
 Wilder. Well, if Grace keeps in the same mind, I suppose I mustn't 
 object. 
 
 Smiles. Thank you again. Your last speech, Mr. Wilder, strongly 
 reminds me of a sentence always spoken by the stereotyped father or 
 guardian in an old stock-farce towards the tag-end of the piece. I 
 always thought that phase of character very unnatural till now. So 
 doubtless thought the indulgent friends before us, and perhaps they 
 think so yet. (To audience.) If however, the actions of the moving 
 figures which have appeared before you, have helped to brighten a dull 
 hour, we shall never regret introducing you among the Scientific and 
 Mechanical Waxworks, Automaton, life-size pom-aits, moving figures, 
 and natural curiosities collected together in Sankey's Mammoth 
 Exhibition ! 
 
 Fred, Charley. Wilder, Smiles. Harry, Sankey. 
 
 r. c. l. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 105 
 
 MR. X. 
 
 SCENE. — A neatly furnished room in Hern's house. Table with stuffed birds 
 and animals, l. 2 e. Table with papers and books, r. 2 e. Boor leading 
 out upon steps into garden, r. u. e. 
 
 Jessie discovered reading at table, r. Mathilda, l. 
 
 Jessie {looking up from paper). Oh, I say, auntie ! (Mathilda continues 
 reading) I say, auntie. (Mathilda as before) Auntie, I say ! That's 
 three times I've said "I say," auntie. 
 
 Mathilda. Well, what is it you have to say 1 Be brief. I am deeply- 
 interested, 
 
 Jess. And so am I. A great deal deeper — auntie, I say. (aside'y 
 That's four says, (aloud) I wonder who the author of this poem is 7 
 It's beautiful! Listen. 
 
 Math. Not now, girl ; wait till I've finished what I am reading. 
 
 Jess. Oh bother your "cruelty to animals papers !" listen to this. 
 This is what I call sentiment, (Mathilda lags aside her paper unwillingly , 
 and listens.) 
 
 Jess, {reads enthusiastically). 
 
 " A beauteous rose, with lovely tint, 
 
 I see it blooming as of yore ; 
 The tales of love I once read, in't 
 
 I read once more ! I read once more !" 
 
 Isn't it lovely ? 
 
 Math, (jeeringly). Pshaw ! Who ever heard of reading tales of love 
 in a rose 1 (takes up paper agahi) Ridiculous ! 
 
 Jess. Ridiculous! 'Tisn't either ! But I can't expect you to appre- 
 ciate any tales at all, unless they are dogs' tails, or cats' tails ! 
 
 Math. Jessie ! 
 
 Jess. All I would like to know is the name of the author of these 
 lines. It's so provoking ; they're only signed with an X. 
 
 Math. Signed with a what — did you say ? 
 
 Jess. No, not signed with a what; signed with an X! 
 
 Math, {suddenly jumping up and crossing, r.). An X! is it possible? 
 Are you sure it's an X 1 where is the X ? Show me the X ! 
 
 Jess. Why, here it is. (aside) What's the matter now 1 
 
 Math, (eagerly examining the paper). Yes, it is X ! It must be the 
 same one. I'm sure it is ! Noble X ! 
 
 Jess, (aside). That X has gone to her head. 
 
 Math. We shall meet him. We must meet him ! 
 
 Jess. Oh, he's a friend of yours ? How jolly ! 
 
 Math. A friend, indeed 1 
 
 Note.— For Cast of Characters, etc., see page 120. 
 
106 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Jess. And you'll introduce him 1 
 
 Math. Don't be absurd. I don't know him. 
 
 Jess. Don't know a friend of yours ? (aside) I'm sure that X has 
 gone to her head. 
 
 Math. I have many friends whom I do not know. 
 
 Jess. You don't mean it! Why don't you get acquainted 1 Are 
 you afraid they'll stop being youi' friends when they know you % 
 
 Math, {sternly), Jessie ! 
 
 Jess, (in the same manner). Auntie ! 
 
 Math. I call the unknown hero my friend, because he is the friend 
 of all dumb animals. 
 
 Jess, {laughing). Oh, I see ! 
 
 Math. I have just been reading, in the last issue of " The Animal 
 World " of a gallant rescue of an unfortunate poodle, by a hero named 
 X! 
 
 Jess. Named X, too 1 What a singular coincidence ! 
 
 Math. Not singular in the least ! I feel assured it is the same per- 
 son. 
 
 Jess. The same person ! The poodle-man and the poet 1 
 
 Mhth. Listen, (reads pathetically) " The little playful poodle with the 
 curly tail had plunged into the surf, and was swimming along uncon- 
 scious of the peril that threatened him. In a moment the fatal under- 
 tow had seized him " 
 
 Jess. Ah! 
 
 Math. "In another moment he was hastening to his fatal doom! 
 Cries of despair " 
 
 Jess. Oh! 
 
 Math. " Rang forth from his fair owner, who, standing on the shore, 
 had riveted her weeping orbs upon the afflicted poodle, when suddenly 
 a handsome man, heedless of all danger, struck out bravely for the 
 fated animal, caught him by the curly tail on the neck — I should say 
 in the nick, of time, and brought him safely to the feet of his owner !" 
 
 Jess, (sighing relief). Ah! 
 
 Math. " The stranger's name could not be ascertained, but on the 
 body of his bathing-suit was seen in bold embroidery the letter X." 
 
 Jess. The letter X? 
 
 Math, (speaking). Yes, the initial of his name. The rescuer of the 
 poodle. 
 
 Jess. And the curly tail ! 
 
 Math. I love him for his bravery. 
 
 Jess. Whom, the poodle 1 
 
 Math, (reprovingly). X. 
 
 Jess. Yes, my X ! I'm sure it's my X ; the poet, X ! How I wish 
 1 knew him ! (rapturously.) 
 
 Enter Molly, c. 
 
 Molly. Please, mum. (holes vacantly before her,) 
 
 Math. Well? 
 
 Molly. Please, mum. 
 
 Jess. Well? 
 
 Molly. Please, mum — (after a pause) Oh — I've forgot, mum, what I 
 come in to say, mum. It was something, mum, about something, mum. 
 I'm sure it was something about something, mum. (trying to collect her 
 thoughts) But I can't think what it was, mum. 
 
 Math, (aside, to Jessie). We must do something to strengthen thai: 
 girl's memory. It's getting to be dreadful. Maybe she's heard some- 
 thing about X, and is keeping us in this terrible suspense. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 107 
 
 Jess. How annoying ! {to Molly) Can't you think ? 
 
 Molly {catching a fly from her forehead, then gleefully). Oh, now I know 
 what it was. He ! he I 
 
 Jess. ) 
 and V Well ? 
 
 Math. ) 
 
 Molly. Please, mum ; the flies, mum. 
 
 Jess, {turning from her in disgust). Pshaw! 
 
 Math. The flies ! what does she mean 1 
 
 Molly. Yes, mum — the flies. 
 
 Math. What about the flies ? 
 
 Molly. Please, mum, didn't you say as how I should never kill no 
 flies as come into the kitchen *? 
 
 Math. Weill 
 
 Molly. An' that it was wrong to harm any living things, mum 1 
 And that I was to open the window every day and let out the flies 7 
 
 Math. Yes; well? 
 
 Molly. Please, mum, I don't think it would be right to open the 
 window to-day, mum, an' let 'em out. 
 
 Math. Why not I 
 
 Molly. Cause it's going to rain, and they might catch cold in the 
 damp, mum. Cruelty to animals, mum. 
 
 Jess, {laughing — aside to Mathilda). Oh, auntie! She's got you there. 
 
 Molly. Please, mum, that's all I had. to say. 
 
 Math. Well, then, leave the room, and let the flies take care of them- 
 selves ! 
 
 Molly. I wish they would, mum. {goes to door c, and opens it, then rushes 
 back) Oh, Lor' ! Here's Mr. Henn coming down stairs in a fearful 
 temper ! Oh, my! (Henn heard without : " Most extraordinary ! most 
 extraordinary !") An' he's saying something about ex — ex — ex 
 
 Jess. ) 
 and [X] 
 
 Math. ) 
 
 Enter Henn, l., holding letter. 
 
 Henn. Traordinary. [Exit Molly, c. 
 
 Confound that Tick ! I repeat most pronouncedly and emphatically, 
 without hesitation or limitation, confound that Tick. If there were not 
 ladies present — {turns to ladies) I should say, damn that Tick ! He's a 
 fraud of a Tick ! He's only half a Tick ! I don't believe he's any Tick 
 at all, unless it be a lunatic. 
 
 Jess. > ,. , 7 v Father! 
 
 Math. | (**«««•)• Brother! 
 
 Henn. Yes, father and brother me now as much as possible ! but the 
 point still remains beyond dispute, that Tick is a confounded idiot, and 
 you know it! 
 
 Jess. Why, papa, what's the matter? 
 
 Henn. Matter ? You are the matter. 
 
 Jess. 11 
 
 Henn. Yes, you; here's this soft-headed, timid, weak-spirited Tick, 
 who is dying to marry you — who has been courting you for the past — 
 the past — I don't know how many years — and hasn't got spunk, I should 
 say nerve enough to come up to you like a man and tell you that he 
 loves you, doats on you, adores you, worships the very ground you 
 walk upon. 
 
 Math. But maybe he doesn't. 
 
 Henn {not noticing her). But writes me letters, begging me, imploring 
 
108 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 me to tell Miss Jessie that the sincere respect — sincere fiddlesticks- 
 warm affection, and all that sort of thing — and wants me, me, to do the 
 talking for him, the stupid donkey wants me to appeal in his behalf. 
 Why, I feel like 
 
 Jess But he's so bashful, father. 
 
 Henn. Bashful ! What right has he to be bashfull What right has 
 any man to be bashful ? I wasn't bashful when I wanted to marry ! I 
 wasn't bashful when I did marry ! I wasn't bashful after T was married ! 
 And I'm less bashful now than I ever wap. 
 
 Math. That's true enough. 
 
 Henn. But I've made up my mind. HV11 have to do his own talk- 
 ing, or else do without you. I don't mean to say I would like him to do 
 without you. The fact is, I'd rather do without you myself — a great 
 deal rathet. But I've got through encouraging him — if there's any 
 more encouraging to be done, you've got to do it yourself. That's all. 
 {going.) 
 
 Math. Brother! 
 
 Henn. Well, what's the matter with you 1 
 
 Math. If you can drop the present subject for a moment— 
 
 Henn. I can't drop anything. # I don't feel like dropping. 
 
 Math, (continuing). I should like to remind you of that sky-terrier 
 that you promised to have stuffed for me last week. 
 
 Henn. Stuff your own terriers — I haven't time; [Exit, l. 
 
 Math. Oh, the wretch ! (follows him angrily.) 
 
 Jess, (alone, coming down). How annoying ! I wish poor Mr. Tick 
 would have the courage to speak out. He's the shyest lover I've ever seen, 
 and as chary of his words as though they were drops of gold. I guess 
 that must be owing to his profession. He's a telegraph operator, and 
 all over ten words are charged extra ! Poor fellow ! When father 
 gets excited it nearly frightens the life out of him — all the little there's 
 in him. That's a fine way indeed to encourage the man. But I 
 can't blame father, either. Who wouldn't be worried with r woman 
 following him all round the house and talking about stuffed terriers all 
 her life 1 
 
 Enter Molly, c. d. 
 
 Molly. Please, mum. 
 
 Jess. Well, what is it? 
 
 Molly. There's a man outside. 
 
 Jess. A man ! 
 
 Molly. Yes ; a gentle man. 
 
 Jess. Who is he? 
 
 Molly. I don't know his name, miss — I never could remember nans^Sj 
 miss ; but you know his name. 
 
 Jess, (aside). It must be Mr. Tick, (aloud) What did he have to say . fl 
 
 Molly. Dunno, miss. I asked him if he had anything to say, an A 
 he said he didn't have nothing to say. 
 
 Jess. It is Mr. Tick. Didn't you say anything to him ? 
 
 Molly. I told him, miss, that you was in, and he said " Ah !" and 
 then I said you was alone, and he said " Oh !" 
 
 Jess. Why didn't you tell him to step in ? 
 
 Molly. I told him to, miss, and he said — let me think what he said— 
 11 maybe he would." (a gentle tap is heard at door, c.) 
 
 Jess. Hark I 
 
 Molly. That's him. 
 
 Jess, (loudly). Come in ! (Molly goes to the door and opens it, then exits.) 
 
 Tick (after hesitating at the door) enters , and bows* 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 109 
 
 Jess. How do you do, Mr. Tick 1 
 
 Tick. Ah — how — do, Miss Jessie 1 
 
 Jess. Won't you take a seat, Mr. Tick 1 (she moves a chair to c.) 
 
 Tick. Think — will — Miss Jessie. 
 
 Jess, (taking a chair and moving it near him). Speak out, Mr. Tick , 
 don't be afraid. 
 
 Tick. 'Fraid. I'm not 'fraid. (pause.) 
 
 Jess. Well? 
 
 Tick. Well, (taps his knees in imitation of a telegraph key J) 
 
 Jess. Do you wish to see father'? 
 
 Tick. Yes — no — I mean — (little bell rings, off l. u. e. Tick jumps up, 
 and hurries up stage.) 
 
 Jess. What's the matter 1 
 
 Tick, (coming back). Excuse me — bell — forgot — thought was tele- 
 graph. 
 
 Jess, (aside). It's dreadful ! 
 
 Tick. Your father ! Note. 
 
 Jess. If you wish to see my father I'll call him. 
 
 Tick. No — please — don't ! (they have both risen , but stand apart.) 
 
 Enter Henn, l., seeing them.. 
 
 Henn (l., aside). There he is ! The gushing lover * Just look at 
 him. (aloud) Halloa, Tick! 
 
 Tick (turning suddenly and going). Oh, sir ! 
 
 Henn. So you're here, are you? 
 
 Tick. No! 
 
 Jess, (crossing, and whispering to Henn). Don't frighten him, father. 
 He was getting on splendidly. Try him once more, just to oblige me. 
 (aloud) I'll see you again, Mr. Tick ! Father wishes to speak to you. 
 (telegraphs to him over Henn's shoulder, but Tick fails to comprehend.) 
 
 [Exit Jessie, l. 
 
 Henn (aside). I'll try to humor him a bit for her sake; but I know 
 he'll drive me wild. 
 
 Tick (gradually composing himself '). Mr. Henn ! 
 
 Henn. Sir? 
 
 Tick. Your daughter 
 
 Henn. My daughter. 
 
 Tick. And I 
 
 Henn. And vou. 
 
 Tick. We both 
 
 Henn. (becoming impatient). Well? 
 
 Tick. Sincere respect 
 
 Henn. Well? 
 
 Tick. Earnest appreciation 
 
 Henn. Well ? 
 
 Tick. My constant endeavors^— 
 
 Henn. Well? 
 
 Tick. Well — she — I — you know 
 
 Henn (with sudden vigor, which startles Tick, and makes him retreat up 
 stage). I know, do 11 You're sure I know, do 1 1 Of course I know. 
 Do you? I know everything, do 11 Exacily. You mean that aftor 
 wasting all this time in ridiculous courtship, that was no courtship at 
 all. vou are beginning to realize that it's time vou began vour courtship '( 
 
 Tick. Yes. 
 
 Henn. (continuing, violently). You are beginning to realize that my 
 daughter is a very'charmiug young lady— — 
 
110 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Tick. Yes ! 
 
 Henn {violently). That she has all the requisite attributes to make a 
 man the sweetest, clearest, brightest, and best little wife that ever trod 
 this earth ? 
 
 Tick. Yes ! 
 
 Henn {very vigorously). That you would give your bottom dollar and 
 all your worldly possessions, which are precious few, to have her ? 
 
 Tick. Yes ! 
 
 Henn {very sharply). And that, as you consider yourself fully able to 
 appreciate all her merits, you think she ought to take you, and knowing 
 that you have her father's consent, ail that you want is hers ? 
 
 Tick. Yes! 
 
 Henn {very violently). You meant all that, did you 1 (Tick nods) Then 
 you blundering old fool ! You infernal young blockhead ! You spiritless 
 imitation of a man, why didn't you say so 1 Do you think I am going 
 to put up with a milk and watery sort of a second-hand son-in-law like 
 you ? (Tick has taken his hat and is making for the door) Clear out of here, 
 and don't you ever show that infernal noddle of yours again ! Clear 
 out, sir, this instant ! or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life. 
 { Tick. Oh! {dodges out of door, c.) 
 
 Enter Jessie, l. 
 
 Jess. Great Heavens ! Father ! (Molly heard without, " Oh, my !") 
 
 Enter Molly. Henn paces the stage. 
 
 Molly. Lor' a mercy, sir ! He's nearly knocked the breath out of 
 me ! Wheugh ! Sakes alive ! What has he stolen ? Is it the sky-blue 
 terrier, miss ? I'm sure it's the sky-blue terrier ! 
 
 Jess. ( pacing stage). Molly, leave the room ! 
 
 Henn. Molly, clear out ! 
 
 Molly. Lor', sir! I came in to say something, but you've driven 
 it out of my head. 
 
 Henn. I'll drive you out with it, in a minute, {tugs at his hair, and 
 paces the stage. Xavier heard whis'ling without.) 
 
 Molly. Now I know what it is. It's a man ! another man ! My, 
 how he can talk, too ! He talks as much in a minute as t'other one 
 couldn't do in an hour, if he tried. (Xavier heard without, "Drat that 
 specimen of female species ! I wish she'd hurry !") 
 
 Jess. A strange voice ! 
 
 Henn. I can't see him ! I won't see him ! I'll leave him to you, 
 Jessie. If he wants anything you haven't got, don't give it to him;, 
 and if he doesn't, ask him why. Molly, leave the room. 
 
 [Exit Henn, l. 
 
 Molly. What a funny man he is, miss, and he wears a great big ring 
 on his little finger with a cross marked like this on it. {crosses her fingers 
 like an X.) 
 
 Jess. Great Heavens ! it's X ! 
 
 Molly {frightened). Who's X? What's X 1 
 
 Jess, (aside). I can't receive him in this dress ! (aloud) Molly, tell the 
 gentleman to walk in. Say I'll be down directly — don't forget; down 
 directly. Oh, he's come ! I must tell auntie, {hurries off, l.) 
 
 Molly {going to d(vr } a). Step this way, sir. 
 
 Enter Xavier, c. d. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. HI 
 
 Xavifr. Oh, my dear, a-lone ? Where is the gentleman? You're 
 sure you've got the name right ? Xerxes Xavier, of the Centennial Fire 
 Insurance Company, my dear? 
 
 Molly. Lor', sir, I couldn't remember all that ; an' besides, I didn't 
 have no time to tell 'em your name, they cleared out so suddenly. 
 
 Xav. They did ? Remarkable ! They must be eccentric ! I'm quite 
 certain they're eccentric. Ah ! (walks about, sees stuffed animals) A speci- 
 men of their eccentricity. Somebody evidently foud of dogs, {to Molly) 
 Capital things to insure. 
 
 Molly. Yes, sir ; she is dreadful fond of them, and no mistake ! 
 Xav. She! It's a she! A feminine dog fancier ! Capital thought! 
 I'll touch her tender chord, and insure her property ! {to Molly) Bright 
 idea, isn't it ? 
 
 Molly. What, sir? 
 
 Xav. Touching her property, and insuring her tender chord. I mean 
 insuring her tender chord, and touching her property. 
 
 Molly. Dunno what you mean, sir. {aside) What a funny man ! 
 Xav. (crossing to other table and handling papers). Ah, papers and books ! 
 Fond of literature, isn't he ? Valuable library, no doubt. Capital 
 thing to insure. 
 
 Molly. Yes, sir ; she does like poetry and sich. 
 
 Xav. She ! Another she ! What a remarkable congregation of she's ! 
 Another capital thought! I'll quote poetry and win her sympathies! 
 Molly, you could be of service to me. Would you like to be? 
 Molly. Dunno, sir. {coming down.) 
 
 Xav. Well, my dear, take a good look at me. (Molly stares at him) 
 I'm not so deucedly bad-looking, am 1 ? 
 Molly. I've seen wuss, sir — but not much. 
 
 Xav. Thank you, my dear. Now tell me, are the ladies young ? 
 Molly. One of them is young, sir — t'other is so-so ! 
 Xav. Which one is so-so? 
 Molly. The old 'un. 
 
 Xav. Of course ; but one of them is fond of literature — that must be 
 the old one — and the other is fond of animals — that's the young one. 
 Now, Molly, you can serve my purpose very much with the ladies, if you 
 were to represent me as a fascinating young fellow. Don't blush, my 
 dear. You'll only be telling the truth. 1 am fascinating. 'Pon my 
 soul 1 am. You see, there's nothing like working upon the affections of 
 your sex — they are all affection. If their shoemaker is handsome they'll 
 patronize him If the minister is good-looking they'll raise his salary. 
 If an actor is pretty, they'll rave over him. All that is necessary is an 
 ounce of their overflowing affection, and my cause is won. You un- 
 derstand me, don't you ? 
 Molly. Can't say I do, sir. 
 
 Xav. Clear case, my dear . praise my form, grace and flow of speech ! 
 Say in your opinion I've come to steal away their hearts, and so on, 
 otcetra. They'll be better prepared to receive me when they hear that. 
 See if they won't 
 
 Molly (confusedly). But, sir ! 
 
 Xav. Try it, my love. There's the garden. I'll take a stroll. Be 
 back in a minute! I know you will fix it for me. (chucking her under the 
 chin) You're a deuced fine girl ! Do you know that ? By Jove, you 
 are. 
 
 Molly. Go along, sir ! 
 
 Xav. {kissing her). 1 will — in a minute. [Exit, e. 
 
 Enter Henn — sees kisting, 
 
112 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Henn. Mercy on us ! What's that ! 
 
 Molly. Lor', Mr. Henn! 
 
 Henn. I expected to find the stranger conversing with my daughter, 
 and here he is kissing the servant. Molly, what did he want 1 
 
 Molly (aside). I've forgot what he did want, (aloud) Please, sir, he 
 said — (aside) I dunno what he did say, there was so much of it, 
 (aloud) He said — (aside) I know it was somethin' about stealin' away 
 their hearts, (aloud) He said he'd come to steal away their hearts. 
 
 Henn (striking altitude). What ! 
 
 Molly (aside). Now I've clone it. I know I was to say that to one of 
 'em, but I can't remember which. 
 
 Henn. What ! steal away iheir hearts ! The reprobate ! So he be- 
 gins by kissing you ! Just let me catch bold of him ! Which way did 
 he go 1 (going towards garden.) 
 
 Molly. No, sir, please don't hurt him ; he's nothing but a faskinatin' 
 fellow. 
 
 Henn. A fascinating fellow, indeed ! Ah, let me catch him ! I'll 
 fascinate him ! 
 
 Enter Jessie, r., followed by Mathilda. 
 
 Jess. Papa, where is he ? 
 
 Math. Brother, where did he go ? 
 
 Molly. I must run and give him warning. [Exit, into garden. 
 
 Henn. So you know him, do you 1 the young reprobate ! 
 
 Math. Why, brother, you're excited ; about what, pray 1 
 
 Henn. So you know him, the fascinating fellow 1 
 
 Jess, (aside to Mathilda). He is fascinating ! I knew he was. 
 
 Henn. So you know the scapegrace, do you 1 
 
 Jess. Why, father ? 
 
 Henn. Come to steal their hearts away, indeed ! The impudent 
 rascal ! not to mention his kissing the servant ! 
 
 Xav. (heard without). Thank you, my dear, I knew you'd fix it. 
 
 Math, (to Jessie). Calm yourself, my child ; let me receive him. 
 
 Henn. No ; you won't do anything of the sort. Leave the room both 
 of you, (leads them to the door) and I'll receive him myself, (they hesitate, 
 he hurries them off, then turns, facing opposite entrance) 
 
 Re-enter Xavier, r., followed by Molly. 
 
 Xav. (seeing Henn, aside, to Molly). Who's that rooster 1 
 
 Molly. Mr. Henn. 
 
 Xav. Eh % that rooster a hen ? What do you mean 1 You said noth- 
 ing about any he's — your he's were all she's ! 
 
 Henn (after a 'pause, comes c, meeting Xavier). Well, sir ! 
 
 Xav. Precisely what I was about to remark. Well, sir 1 [Exit Molly. 
 
 Henn. I am particularly anxious to know, sir, what business you have 
 in my house, sir ? 
 
 Xav. Ah, your house 1 You don't mean it ! Just the man I want to 
 see. Here's my hand, sir ! Devilish glad to see you ! Mr. Henn, I 
 believe. How are you, Henn ? 
 
 Henn. Sir? 
 
 Xav. Precisely. You want to know who I am — quite natural, too. 
 My name is Xavier, Xerxes Xavier, agent for the Centennial Fire In- 
 surance Co. Like to insure you, sir, to any amount. Doesn't make 
 the slightest difference how large. 
 
 Henn. Mr. — what's your name 1 
 
 Xav. X, for short 1 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 113 
 
 Henn. Well, Mr. X, for short, the long and short of the matter is, 
 that I have nothing whatever to insure, and the sooner you relieve your- 
 self of ray presence by leaving the house, the sooner I'll be left alone. 
 Exactly, sir. Good morning, sir. 
 
 Xav. Oh! pray, don't hurry yourself — lots of time. I didn't come 
 merely on business — I'm an old friend of the family, though you may 
 not know it. I have just returned from a long journey. I've been all 
 around the world ! 
 
 Henn. You don't say so. 
 
 Xav. I have indeed ! 1 have always cherished a sincere respect for 
 you, Mr. Henn — I have indeed, though you mayn't know it. The rest 
 of your family can tell you so. 
 
 Henn. The rest of ray family ! 
 
 Xav. Yes ; and in my travels around the world I have gathered quite 
 a variety of curiosities. While I was on the coast — the lower coast, not 
 the upper coast — of, I've forgotten where, 1 gathered this beautiful 
 specimen of an oyster shell. I said to myself, " This will tickle Henn's 
 fancy ! You must keep this for Henn." And I kept it for Henn. {hands 
 him shell.) 
 
 Henn {taking it). You're very kind, sir. But accepting that you 
 have always been a friend of mine, though I never knew of it, I don't 
 think there ever were any oyster-shell feelings between us, sir. 
 
 Xav. Ah, perhaps not. But I'd like to insure your house, sir, all 
 the same. You are likely at any moment to catch fire, you know, and 
 then what 'J 
 
 Henn. No matter. When I catch fire I'll let you know, (going.) 
 
 Xav. Don't hurry yourself, (suddenly) Say, Henn, do you know there 
 is something about you that strikes me as very familiar 1 
 
 Henn. I've no doubt ; but I can't wait until you find out what it is. 
 
 Xav. I have it. There's something about you that reminds me of the 
 Colloseum at Rome. 
 
 Henn. Great Heavens ! 
 
 Xav. Yes, and there is an undefinable I don't know what about your 
 head that suggest the Tower of London ! 
 
 Henn (aside). He's an idiot! 
 
 Xav. There is a peculiar atmosphere about you also that vividly re- 
 calls the Champs Elysees ! 
 
 Henn. And there is something about you that reminds me of a luna- 
 tic asylum! [Exit suddenly, l. 
 
 Xav. (alone). It won't do. The old man's tough ! But I'll tackle the 
 ladies ! I've got to get them insured, by hook or by crook, or my com- 
 mission this year won't amount to a row of pins. 
 
 Enter Mathilda, c. d. 
 
 Math. Ah, he is alone ! How fortunate ! 
 
 Xav. (aside). Ah, the poetic one ! (aloud) My dear miss 
 
 Math, (aside). He calls me his dear miss ! (aloud) Sir! 
 
 Xav. Excuse this trembling uncertainty of purpose ; but being only 
 slightly acquainted with your father 
 
 Math. Brother, sir. 
 
 Xav. Your father's brother, I should say. Being, as I was about to 
 observe, but slightly acquainted with the gentleman, I did not dare 
 hope that an introduction to his charming relative could be so speedily 
 accomplished. 
 
 Math, (aside). A remarkably well-spoken young man. (aloud) Sir, 
 you natter me I 
 
114 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 Xav. Not at all, madam— raiss. I hate flattery ; for, as the poet 
 observes — {aside) What the devil does the poet observe? {aloud) as the 
 poet observes — ah ! 
 
 " Show me the man who seeks to flatter, 
 And he's a fraud— that's what the matter." 
 
 Math, (aside). Ah ! he is the poet X ; but I must find out about the 
 poodle. 
 
 Xav. (aside). I scarcely know how to begin about the insurance ; it's 
 deucedly awkward. 
 
 Math. Sir, your reputation as a poet has preceded your arrival. 
 
 Xav. (aside). The deuce it has. 
 
 Math. But it is that other attribute of your nature that I admire 
 most. 
 
 Xav. (aside). Hallo ! this can't be some confidence woman. 
 
 Math. Tell me, sir, are my fondest hopes realized 1 Did you not — 
 you did — I know you must be he. Dfd you not rescue the poodle 1 
 
 Xav. The which-ei ? 
 
 Math. The poodle. 
 
 Xav. (aside f amazed). It's a hopeless case. But I must humor her. 
 What can she be driving at? (aloud) Oh, yes — don't mention it, pray. 
 Oh, of course ; but don't mention it. (aside) I don't know what she 
 means, but it's all correct. 
 
 Math, (aside). How modest he is ! (aloud) Sir, you have by that one 
 act of yours entered yourself eternally upon my list of friends. 
 
 Xav. How fortunate ! (aside) I'll make out her policy in less than a 
 minute. 
 
 Math. For the man, be he of high or humble birth, who befriends 
 the dumb brute proves himself alike worthy of my friendship. 
 
 Xav, (aside). Ah, this's the brute one, not the poetic. I must strike 
 another key. (aloud) Madam, you overwhelm me. Little did I dream 
 when I got mixed up in that poodle affair (Mathilda starts) that I 
 should be rewarded by praise from such lips — for to me nothing is holier 
 than charity toward the brute creation. What, I appeal to you, is there 
 more touching than the fidelity of a devoted dosr 1 
 
 Math, (enthusiastically). Or the domesticity of a gentle cat. 
 
 Xav. Or the goaheaditiveness of a billy goat ! 
 
 Math. Or the honest heroism of the horse ! 
 
 Xav. Or the calmness of a canal-mule ? No, madam, to me nothing 
 — nothing at all can compare with the aforesaid quadrupeds ! There- 
 fore I have but one word of advice to bestow — have them insured I 
 Don't delay. The deadly flame may seize the precious darling before 
 its fond mistress dreams of its danger ; therefore insure at once. If you 
 haven't any live pets to insure, insure your stuffed ones. Jt makes 
 no difference to the Company. 
 
 Math. You are right, sir. 
 
 Xav. (continuing). At any moment, madam, when you least expect it — 
 (he goes up stage and strikes a match surreptitiously) when you least expect 
 it, madam, (lights the paper on the table) an accident may occur to en- 
 danger your property, (comes down) Yes, madam, I have known cases 
 where two persons were engaged in harmless conversation, when sud- 
 denly a flame shot up — Great Heavens ! (turns to the table.) 
 
 Math, (screams in terror). Oh ! 
 
 Xav. (rushing to the table and extinguishing flame). Saved I 
 
 Enter rapidly, c. d., Jessie. 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 115 
 
 Jess. What's the matter ? 
 
 Math, (in alarm). Fire ! 
 
 Jess. Where? (takes paper) Oh! (in despair) What a pity! Those 
 beautiful lines destroyed ! 
 
 Xav. (aside). What a delicious creature ! I must insure her. 
 
 Jess. Oh, sir, I am so sorry ! They were beautiful. You are a beau- 
 tiful poet, sir. (Xavier looks amazed) Ah! I know them by heart! Ex- 
 cuse my enthusiasm, sir, but they are really beautiful, (recites inspiredly) 
 
 " A beauteous rose with lovely tint, 
 I see it blooming as of yore : 
 The tales of love 1 once read, in't 
 I read once more. I read once more 1" 
 
 Xav. (aside). Another hopeless case ! this must be a family of lunatics. 
 
 Math. You see, sir, your reputation has preceded you both as a 
 humanitarian and a poet. 
 
 Jess. Especially as a poet. 
 
 Xav. A poet, by all means. But 
 
 Jess, [interrupting him). Can you not recite something now ] Some- 
 thing of your own as beautiful as those lines 1 (very gushingly.) 
 
 Xav. (aside). I'd like to accommodate her, she's so deucedly good- 
 looking ! but I'm blessed if I know how. 
 
 Math. Do, sir ! 
 
 Xav. Ah, but I need inspiration ! There's the garden ! Let us into the 
 garden, perhaps resting on the greensward and fanned by gentle zephyrs 
 'neath softly sighing trees, the muse will be kindled. 
 
 Jess, (aside). How romantic! (they walk towards garden, Xavier in 
 centre.) 
 
 Xav. But first I must snatch the brightest inspiration of them all 
 from those rosy lips. 
 
 Jess. Is it absolutely necessary ? 
 
 Xav. Couldn't manage without, (kisses her.) 
 
 Enter Molly. 
 
 Jess, (quickly). But don't do it to auntie ; she'll get angry. 
 
 Math, (severely). I'm fully able to take care of myself, miss. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Molly. 
 
 Molly looking after them, then tvhistling in amazement). My! ain't he 
 goin' it ! I must tell t'other one. Maybe it'll stir him up a bit. (open- 
 ing c. d., and calling^ You may come in ; there ain't nobody here. 
 
 Enter Tick, timidly, c. D. 
 
 Tick. Where's Mr. Ilenn 1 
 
 Molly. Dunno ! But I'd a-thought you wouldn't care much about 
 seeing him after running away with the sky-blue terrier this morning. 
 
 Tick. Molly, you're wild. Want to see Mr. Henn. 
 
 Molly. He's not here ; but if you want to see Miss Jessie, she's 
 -walking in the garden with a faskinating fellow — who's just been a- 
 kissing her like sixty! 
 
 Tick (jumping in amazement). Eh! What! Where's Sixty 7 Who? 
 (hurries up r., and looks off.) 
 
 Enter Henn. l., down front, holding papers. 
 
 Henn. What a remarkable coincidence ! There's this daughter of 
 
116 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 mine been telling me about a Mr. X., who writes poetry and saves poodle 
 dogs, and the paper contains a letter from a winner of a prize in the 
 Havana lottery, signed X, who has won a hundred thousand dollars I 
 There can't be such a lot of exes ! The name's too uncommon. It 
 must be the same man. I'll have to cultivate him ! By Jove ! I'll hunt 
 him up and begin by apologizing, (goes up.) 
 
 T:ok (to Molly). What's he doing now 1 Look at him ! 
 
 Molly. Dunno ; looks like as if he was kissing her again. 
 
 Henn. There's that confounded Tick. (Tick turns, sees Henn, is rather 
 nervous, but composes himself.} 
 
 Tick (r. a). Mr. Henn, I've come back. [Exit Molly, c. d. 
 
 Henn {pushing him aside). Get' out of the way ! [Exit into garden. 
 
 Tick. What does he mean! What does everybody mean 1 Can't 
 *,tand that sort of thing ! Perfectly ridiculous ! {walks up, r., looks off, 
 then comes down again. Repeats this business several times) Can't stand it ! 
 Won't stand it ! Got to stop it ! How stop it ] That's the trouble. 
 Molly ! {calling) Molly ! 
 
 Be-enter Molly. 
 Molly. Well, sir ! 
 Tick. What's his name ? 
 Molly. Whose ? 
 Tick. Damn rascal. 
 Molly. Dunno. 
 Tick. What do you know 1 
 Molly. Dunno. 
 Tick. Dang it ! 
 
 Molly. They calls him X ! I heerd them say X ! But I dunno if 
 that's his name. Funny kind of name, X ! 
 Tick {suddenly). I have it ! 
 Molly. Eh? 
 Tick. I have it ! {pause) I have it ! ( pause) I have it ! 
 
 [Exit suddenly, c. D. 
 Molly. He's got it bad. [Exit, c. d. 
 
 Re-enter, from garden, Henn and Xavier, followed by the ladies. Henn 
 and Xavier come down, ladies cross to r. 
 
 Henn {very warmly). My dear friend, my very dear friend, I insist 
 upon it ! There's no getting out of it ! You must ! And when I say 
 you must, you know you must ! Indeed you must I We have plenty of 
 rooms in the house, and it will afford me the greatest pleasure in the 
 world to let you have one of them, {suddenly) You aren't married, are 
 you, old boy ? 
 
 Xav. Not in the slightest. 
 
 Henn. Certainly not, you don't look as if you were. Fine girl, isn't 
 sbe? 
 
 Xav. ( pretending). Which one ? 
 
 Henn {poking him in the ribs). Too thin, X ! Won't do, X ! Too thin 
 entirely. But you've got to come and board with us ; there's no get- 
 ting out of it. 
 
 Xav. But really, sir! Now, look here, sir! It's perfectly absurd. 
 {aside) What the deuce is the meaning of this sudden hospitality ?- {aloud) 
 I couldn't think of such a thing. Now my baggage 
 
 Henn. I'll send for your baggage. That's all right. 
 
 Xav. {aside). He'd have a long way to send, (aloud) But, my dear sir. 
 {aside) What the deuce does the old man meau by first wanting to turn 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 117 
 
 me out, and then wanting to turn me in? {aloud) But it can't be done, 
 sir ! 
 
 Henn. It's got to be done, I insist upon it. I'll see to your baggage 
 at onoe. 
 
 Xav. Hang it ! no ! (aside) I'll have to go and buy a satchel across 
 way. (aloud) No, if I'm to stay here, I'll look after my own baggage ! 
 
 Henn. Will you, indeed ! at once ? 
 
 Xav. At once. But bow about that insurance policy ? 
 
 Henn I'll have you make it out when you get back. Go at once. 
 
 Xav. A policy at last ! Will you excuse me, ladies ? Good-bye, 
 Henn. Don't forget the policy. I'll be back in a minute. Don't for- 
 get the policy, Henn ! Au revoir, ladies ! [Exit, c. d. 
 
 Math. What a splendid man, isn't he 1 
 
 Jess. Isn't he 1 [Exeunt, l. d. 
 
 Henn. I guess I've got him. A hundred thousand dollars, by Jupiter ! 
 
 [Exit, L. D. 
 Enter Molly, c. d., holding telegram. 
 
 Molly. I'm sure things is getting in the awfulest mixed-uppedest 
 condition in this house that I ever seen. Here's one man goes off in a 
 rush, and t'other one comes in with a rush and gives me this telegraph, 
 and says something about li hurry up, give it to the first one you come 
 across," — and goodness knows what else. I'm sure it's askin' too 
 much of me to remember all that stuff and nonsense. 
 
 Enter, rapidly, c. d., Xavier with a satchel. 
 
 Xav. Who the deuce is that fellow standing in front of the door ? He 
 looked at me when I came in as though he took me for a burglar, (to 
 Molly) Say, Mary Ann ! 
 
 Molly Molly, if you please, sir. 
 
 Xav. Well, then, Molly, if you please, sir. Who in thunder is that 
 scarecrow standing in front of the door ? 
 
 Molly. That's t'other one, sir. 
 
 Xav. Which other one 1 
 
 Molly. Miss Jessie's other one. 
 
 Xav. (aside). What does the girl mean 1 Can she be another one of 
 the lunatic family ? 
 
 Molly (aside). I forgot what he told me to do with this ! But I 
 guesa it's all right, (aloud) Here, take this. 1 don't want it. (gives him 
 t'leqram ) [Exit, c. D. 
 
 Xav. (takes the telegram and drops satchel). No name ! that's strange ! 
 ( opens it) Hallo ! Great Heavens ! what's this ! {i Murder ! Man killed his 
 wife in a tenement house ! name unknown ! Only clue letter X stitched on 
 shirt front found in his trunk. Tracked to Henn's house ! Beware!" 
 Great God ! (runs do wn front, tears his hair) This must be a conspiracy! 
 It's that stranger's work! I'll strangle him! (makes for c. d.) 
 
 Enter Henn, c. d. 
 
 Henn. Halloa ! Back asain ! Where are you going 1 What's the 
 matter ! Speak ! (drags him d»wn and grasps telegram with one hand, reads.) 
 
 Evter, l. d., Jessie and Mathilda. 
 
 Kknn. What ! Murderer ! (clutches him tightly by the qqUm with other 
 hand. ) 
 
118 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS 
 
 Math ( (. comin L - c 0- What's the matter 1 
 Xav. Let me go ! (Henn drags him from l. to B.) 
 
 Enter Tick, followed by Molly. 
 
 Molly. There's the man what I gave it to. ( pointing to Xavier.) 
 
 Tick. You idiot ! (screaming very loud) Did I say it was for him 1 
 
 Molly. Dunno. I've forgot. 
 
 Henn. A murderer ! Can it be possible ! Quick ! somebody exam- 
 ine his baggage ! (Molly opens satchel, A number of sticks and stones faU 
 out, GeneralHablcau of amazement?) 
 
 Xav. {struggling). Let me speak ! 
 
 Henn. This baggage yours \ {screaming) Where are your hundred 
 thousand dollars? 
 
 Xav. I never had any. You're all lunatics ! {breaks loose and rushes for 
 Tick, who runs over to the ladles.) 
 
 Henn. The murderer ! {catches him and clutches him again,) 
 
 Xav. Let me alone, and I will explain all. (Henn releases him, but 
 stands guarding him ; Xavier draws a full breath) Wheugh ! (aside) I had 
 to fill my satchel with something to make it heavy, and that's ruined me. 
 (aloud, indignantly) Sir, sir, I repeat ! Allow me first and foremost to re- 
 mark, sir, that 1 am not the man you lake me for, sir ; no, sir. 
 
 Math. I feel it ! I know it ! Speak ! you are not the X who saved 
 the poodle 7 
 
 Xav. Damn the poodle ! Did I ever say I was, madam ? 
 
 Jess, (in despair). You did not write those beautiful verses ? 
 
 Xav. I couldn't if 1 tried. 
 
 Hknn. But you are a murderer! 
 
 Xav. I'll be hanged if I am ! There is a mistake, sir. A gigantic 
 mistake. A blooming, blatant, blustering, black-and-tan blunder, sir ! 
 I'm no other than I always claimed to be — Agent for the Centennial Fire 
 Insurance Co., and confound it, sir 
 
 Henn. Then what is the meaning of this telegram 1 
 
 Tick {coming down l. of Henn). 1 can explain. 
 
 All. You ! you ! 
 
 Xav. {first making a rush for him, then checking himself). No ; if he 
 explains I'll forgive him. 
 
 Tick. I heard he was trying to steal away only woman ever loved ; 
 spoil his little game — sent that telegram ! own invention ! {general ex- 
 pression of wonder.) 
 
 Henn (after a pause, laughing violently). Ha, ha, Tick ! Dang it, Tick ! 
 I wouldn't have thought it of you! Ho, ho, ho! 
 
 Tick. No, sir ; wouldn't have thought it of myself. (Jessie joins him.) 
 
 Henn (crossing to Xavier). X, you scoundrel, 111 forgive you ; I don't 
 precisely know what to forgive you for, but it's a good thing to do. But 
 for Heaven's sake, don't ever come into this family again to kick up 
 such another row. 
 
 Xav. I won't ! I'll make out your policy, and take leave immediately. 
 
 Tick. Mr. Henn. won't you forgive me too while you're at it ? 
 
 Jess. If he won't I will. 
 
 Henn. That settles it. 
 
 Molly. Will you forgive me, sir? I know I've done something I 
 hadn't oughtor done, but I can't remember what it was. (Tick takes her 
 by the ear and leads her off, then returns to Jessie ) 
 
AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS. 
 
 119 
 
 Math, (to Xavier). Before you go, sir, I want to ask you one ques- 
 tion — if you are not the X that saved the poodle 1 
 
 Jess. And wrote those verses ? 
 
 Henn. And won that money ? 
 
 Tick {laughing). And killed* his wife 1 
 
 Math. Then tell me, sir — are you any X at all 1 
 
 Xav. (a). I am ; very much of an X, madam — a double X, in fact. 
 X represents an unknown quantity, madam, and there are likewise an 
 unknown quantity of X's, madam ! 
 
 All {convinced). Oh — h! {they exchange looks nmong themselves^ and 
 then with the audience,) 
 
 R. 
 
 Henn, 
 
 c. 
 Xavier. 
 
 CURTA1X. 
 
 L. C. 
 
 Mathilda. 
 
 l. 
 Tick. Jessie. 
 
 EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. 
 
 B.U.X. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 B.3*. 
 B.3I. 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 B. 0. 
 
 AUDIENCE. 
 
 \ 
 
 L. 0. 
 
 \ 
 
 L. 3 1. 
 
 L.2& 
 L.ll 
 
 \ 
 
 l. Left. 
 
 l. c. Left Centre. 
 
 l. 1 e. Left First Entrance. 
 
 l. 2 e. Left Second Entrance. 
 
 l. 3 e. Left Third Entrance. 
 
 l.. u. e. Left Upper Entrance 
 
 (wherever this Scene may be.) 
 
 d. l. c. Door Left Centre, 
 
 c. Centre. 
 
 b. Right. 
 
 r. 1 e. Right Eirst Entrance. 
 
 r. 2 e. Right Second Entrance. 
 
 r. 3 e. Right Third Entrance. 
 
 r. u. E. Right Upper Entrance. 
 
 p. r. o Door Right Centre. 
 
120 AMATEUR AND PARLOR THEATRICALS, 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mr. Anthony Henn. 
 Mr. Xerxes Xavier (Insurance Agent). 
 Mr. Joshua Tick (a Telegraph Operator). 
 Miss Mathilda Henn (Anthony's sister). 
 Miss Jessie Henn (Anthony's Daughter). 
 Molly (the maid with a treacherous memory). 
 
 SCENE.— Room in Henn's residence on the Harlem Road. 
 
 | Door. | 
 
 .• 
 .' 
 
 Door leading into Garden. 
 
 Door. 
 
 Chair. ; : Chair. Chair. Table with 
 
 : : * ; " B i 
 
 ." Table with books, etc. stuffed animals, etc. 
 
 COSTUMES f Modern). 
 Henn.— Black body coat ; white vest ; standing collar. 
 Xavier.— Close-fitting gray-black suit. 
 Tick.— Walking costume. 
 Mathilda.— Prim house dress. 
 
 Jessie.— Is* Dress : Bright house dress. 2d Dress : More showy than first. 
 Molly.— Maid's dress. 
 
 PROPERTIES. 
 Stuffed animals on table ; papers, books, etc. ; small oyster shell ; satchel filled 
 veith sticks and stones ; telegram. 
 
 SYNOPSIS. 
 This farce shows how an insurance agent is mistaken first for a poet, then for a 
 humanitarian, then for the winner of a lottery prize, and finally for a murderer. 
 The names of all these characters are indicated by the letter X ; and Mr. Xavier, 
 who comes to the house of Mr. Anthony Henn, is immediately pounced upon by 
 the various members of Henn's household in the belief that he is the X. Jessie, 
 the daughter, excited over an unknown poet, X., immediately " sets her cap " for 
 Xavier, much to the discomfiture of her devoted though ludicrously timid lover, 
 Mr. Joshua Tick, a telegraph operator. Miss Mathilda Henn, Anthony's sister, 
 an old maid, " the friend of all dumb animals," having heard of the gallant rescue 
 of a poodle dog by a bather, on whose dress the letter X was embroidered, goes into 
 ecstacies over the insurance agent, and bewilders him with her laudations. Exces- 
 sively comical situations occur here ; old Henn, after trying to repel Xavier, learns 
 that a man with the initial X. has won a great prize in the lottery. He therefore 
 changes his plans, and becomes extravagantly hospitable. Tick, the lover, aroused 
 to jealousy by Xavier's success, sends a fictitious telegram to Henn's house, bear- 
 ing the news that a murderer, X., had been tracked to Henn's house. A sudden 
 alarm takes place, and poor Xavier, difmbfounded by the variety of manifestations 
 that have been made towards him, is now seized as the culprit. Here, amid general 
 hilarity, an explanation ensues. A great portion of the merriment is due to the 
 maid, Molly, whose treacherous memory is constantly causing confusion. The 
 action of this farce is extremely lively, and all the characters are of importance. 
 
 {For Stage Directions seepage 17=3 
 
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. 
 BY OI.IFTON W. TAYLEUR. 
 
 Six male, four female, characters. A play written in the same vein 
 as "Held by the Enemy," "Shenandoah," " Across the Potomac," and 
 other great New York successes. Mr. Tayleur has written many suc- 
 cessful plays for Maggie Mitchell, Frank Cbanfrau, and others, but 
 this striking picture of the stirring times of the Great Rebellion sur- 
 passes them all. Costumes, civil and military of the period. Scenes, 
 two interiors, and one landscape with Confederate camp, easily man- 
 aged. Time of playing, two hours and thirty minutes. 
 
 PRICE 25 CENTS. 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF EVENTS. 
 
 ACT I. — Drawing-room, Arlington, Washington — 1860. 
 
 "Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed; 
 Time rules us all : and life indeed is not 
 The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead, 
 And then, we women cannot choose our lot." 
 
 In fetters — The rivals — North and South— The coy widow — A noted 
 duelist — An old affection — The dismissal — The rivals meet — "You 
 shall answer for this " — Farewell. 
 
 ACT II— Same Scene— 1860. 
 
 " Who might have been — Ah, what, I dare not think I 
 We all are changed. God judges for the best. 
 God help us do our duty, and not shrink, 
 And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. 
 
 Broken tios — A Vassar girl's idea of matrimony — A Washington 
 ravage — Schooling a lover — Affairs of honor — The Northern fire-eater-^ 
 The missing challenge — Betrothed. 
 
 ACT III.— Drawing room in New York Hotel— 1861. 
 
 " With bayonets slanted in the glittering light 
 With solemn roll of drums. 
 With starlit banners rustling wings of night, 
 The knightly concourse comes.'' 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! — Stand by the flag — A woman's duty — A skirm- 
 ish in the parlor — On to Richmond — Keunited — The passing regiment 
 
 ACT IV.— Confederate Camp at Winchester— 1864. 
 
 " No more shall the war cry sever, or the winding river be red ; 
 
 They banish our anger forever, when they laurel the graves of our dead.'* 
 
 A coward's armor — A hand to hand struggle — Hugh captured— Sen- 
 tenced to be shot — A ministering angel — Harold King's revenge — The 
 attack on the camp — Death of King — After the battle — Won Back. 
 
 Single copif ~^o^ ^t-paid, to any address,' — ••eceipt of price. 
 
Christmas Plays 
 
 FOB 
 
 Homes and 3? arish.es. 
 
 A collection of Plays and Entertainments specially 
 
 arranged for Church and Home Amusement 
 
 at Ch> istmas-tide. 
 
 Any of the above can be successfully used at any other season than 
 Christmas, they being so arranged that the part relative to Christmas 
 can be omitted. 
 
 The Plays are very bright and attractive, and all permit the employment of 
 quite a number of juvenile characters who do not have long and difficult "parts " 
 to commit to memory. The arrangements for Scenery are simple and inexpensive, 
 and the Stage Directions are so full and explicit that the merest tyro in amateur 
 theatricals will experience no difficulty in comprehending them. 
 
 J?rice 35 Cents. 
 
 MRS. JARLEY'S WAX FIGURES. 
 
 Not the worn-out " original," but a fresh version, introducing new 
 characters and fresh descriptive matter, and giving a diagram of the 
 stage set and the arrangement of the figures, with full directions for 
 the costumes and "make-up " of all. Kequires six male and six female 
 characters, and makes an entertainment of about an hour in length. 
 
 Price 1 5 Cents. 
 
 jfcSTSfingle copies of either of the above books sent, post-paid, on receipt of priocc 
 
S©wh the BlaQi^ Cai|en. 
 
 A MAMA IN FOUR ACTS. BY FORBES HEERMANS. 
 
 PRICE 25 CENTS. 
 
 Ten male, three female characters. A perfect picture of life in 
 the mining districts of Colorado. Time, the present day. Scenery, 
 landscapes and plain interior. Time of playing, two hours and fifteen 
 minutes. 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF EVENTS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Twilight in San Juan Mountains. 
 A poor lone creetur — The coyote's howl — Courting of Minerra 
 Jobson — The dumb boy appears — Sale of the mine — Hiding the mo- 
 ney — Jimmie\s rescue — Put up your hands! — March! — Two love 
 scenes — The robbery— A cry for help ! — The murder — " Who has 
 
 done this ? " 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Foot of Monument Rock, Black Canon. 
 Midnight in the Black Canon — The Vigilantes — Bring on the pris- 
 oner — The, accusation — " I am innocent ! " — The trial — Circumstan* 
 tial evidence — A blackleg's oath — Ruth's testimony — Lynch law — 
 Jimmie to the rescue — The noose cut — The escape. 
 
 ACT III. 
 Mouth of the " Little Ruth M Mine. 
 Tom Dalton with song — Spriggs the bard — " Is it loaded ? " — Mrs. 
 Fireworks — "Fire away" — The sheriff in disguise — The papers in the 
 case — Andrews appears — The plot thickens — The explosion in the 
 mine — " Who will save them ! " — " No man can ! " — " Then a woman 
 will ! M — Andrews the hero. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 A Room in Mrs. Spriggs' House. 
 Spriggs despondent — The comic singer, with song and dance — 
 Ruth alone — The storm — The silent witness again — The murder 
 out — A terrible struggle — Just in time — The tables turned — "Down 
 the Black Canon ! " — Saved ! — " There's nothing half so sweet in life 
 as love's young dream." 
 
 Single copies sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price. 
 
Just Published. 
 
 SHANNON BOYS. 
 
 A ROMANTIC IRISH DRAMA IN THREE ACTS, 
 BY JAMES BURKE, JR. 
 
 Ten male, four female characters. An intensely interesting play, 
 full of strong situations and striking characters, admirably adapted for 
 amateurs. Affords opportunity for the introduction of Irish melodies, 
 songs and choruses. Scenery easily arranged, consisting of plain 
 cottage interior ; exterior of military barracks ; a country road ; a 
 wood and mountain scene; and a stylish drawing-room. Costumes — 
 English military and civilian of the present day. Time of playing, 
 two hours. 
 
 Price, 25 Cents. 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF EVENTS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Home of one of the Shannon boys — " The ould b'y fly away wid 
 Phil" — The new landlord — "Any insult in telling you I love you?" — 
 Sergeant Swift — Molly's answer — Nolan tells the latest news — A basket 
 of eggs — " You're an insolent cur" — The dance — Sir Richard presents 
 a medal — The missing letter — "You will be court-martialed and 
 shot "—Tableau. 
 
 ACT Ho 
 
 The road to Limerick — ■ ' Who goes there ? " — Shannon boys to the 
 rescue — Phil escapes — " We must take him dead or alive " — His 
 meeting with Molly — Sir Richard engages a footman — Appearances 
 must be kept up — The footman keeps his eyes and ears open — " Oh. 
 the scoundrels ! " — Rescue of Molly — Tableau. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Reception at Col. Dixon's— -Helen is warned — " Oh, no you 
 won't, Capt. Forbes ! "—The footman discloses his identity — " What 
 farce is this?" — The captain shown to be a villain — " I was there, you 
 see I" — Surrenders his sword and dies by his own hand — Tableau- 
 Molly's home — "Three cheers for Phil Swift and his bride !" — Col, 
 Dixon's acknowledgments— Phil's promotion — Chimes and dance. 
 
 Copies sent, postpaid, to any address on receipt of price. 
 
THE PLAY OF THE YEAR! 
 
 UNDER TWO FLAGS. 
 
 A ROMANTIC DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS, 
 
 B^" JL. MITCHELL. 
 PRICE, 25 CENTS. 
 
 Ten male, five female characters. An intensely interesting and 
 exciting play. The first act opens with a magnificent race scene, only 
 rivalled by that in the "Prodigal Daughter." The interest increases 
 with each act, and culminates with a thrilling scene in the final act, 
 which never fails in arousing the audience to the highest pitch of 
 enthusiasm. Easily staged and costumed, requiring only the simplest 
 scenery and setting, it is within the range of any amateur company, 
 and, if necessary, can be produced by a smaller number of players, as 
 several of the characters have but one or two lines to speak. 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF EVENTS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 England— Down in the Shires — An Irishman's soliloquy — The great 
 race _Young Cecil's appeal—The forged note— Foul play — The favorite 
 poisoned— A criminal offence— A steeple-chase tor liberty. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Algiers — The barracks — After twelve ysars -The child of the regi- 
 ment — A soldier of France — A familiar face —Black Hawk roused— 
 Nora's flirtation— Capture of the Arab chiefs daughter— Dispatches 
 from headquarters. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Algiers— The hotel— The nest o2 th^ "Silver Pheasant "—Rake and 
 Nora stand guard— "You are my brother!" — The broken chain— The 
 vivandiere — " I could kill you, and I will !"— The cross disgraced —The 
 insult — " You lie, and you know you lie !" — The blow. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 The camp in the desert- Condemned to death— A momentous sun- 
 rise—No reprieve— Cigarette rides for life — A last farewell— " I am 
 ready give your signal "—A pardon !— " You have given your life fof 
 mine "—Death of Cigarette. 
 
*JACK LONG* 
 
 OF TEXAS. 
 
 A BORDER DRAMA IN TWO ACTS. 
 
 By J. B. JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Price 15 Cents. 
 
 Nine male, two female characters. One of the most thrilling 
 pictures of life on the frontier ever presented. Filled with exciting 
 scenes between Scouts, Mexicans, Indians, Half-breeds, and Yankees. 
 Scenery, exterior of log cabin, landscape, and an interior. Costumes, 
 picturesque frontier. Time of playing, two hours. 
 
 Synopsis of Incidents foe Programmes, Small Bills, 
 
 Etc., Etc. 
 
 ACT I.— Frontier Settlement in Texas. 
 
 Distant view of the rolling prairie by sunrise — The "horse thieves" 
 
 and regulators — The never-miss shot — The Yankee trader 
 
 riled — Border match-making — The threats of malice. 
 
 The stolen steed. 
 
 THE BARBECUE AND SHOOTING GROUNDS. 
 
 The foilow-my-leader bullets — The judgment of Squire Lynch — The 
 
 flagellation — The vow of vengeance — The free fight — " In 
 
 one see the doom of all " — Tableau. 
 
 ACT II.— Cypress Swamp in the Cross Timbers. 
 
 The pirates of the prairie on the lookout — The peddler and his fate — 
 
 The dread pursuer — Ben Small's store — The "norther" — 
 
 The terrors of the tornado — The fugitive criminal — 
 
 The shot in the eye! 
 
 THE CHAPPARAL. 
 
 The maniac hunter — The regulator's remorse. 
 
 THE SCOUT'S REFUGE IN THE THICKET. 
 
 The tree over the canon — The last but one — The villain's flight, and 
 
 the appeal for mercy. 
 
 INDIAN TRAIL THROUGH THE BLACK GROWTH. 
 
 The chase continued — The narrow escape. 
 
 PAINTED ROCK 
 
 On the Rio Bravo — The anxious wait — The last hope wrecked — The 
 
 shot in the eye — The cure by love — The happy sequel — Tableau. 
 
 ■ — — ■ »■ 
 
 Single copies sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price. 
 
Three New Plays 
 
 HANDICAPPED; 
 
 Or, A RACING ROMANCE. 
 
 An Original Comedy in Two Acts. 
 By SALLIE TOLER. 
 
 Three male, eight female characters. The Reverend Theoph- 
 ilus Stiggs, who provokes as much laughter as the minister in 
 " The Private Secretary," and Edward Thurston, a young man 
 with a taste for fast horses, have exchanged coats by mistake 
 and the complications arising from their mistaken identity in 
 consequence are most ludicrous. The school-room scene allows 
 the introduction of specialties, and is as funny as anything in 
 De Wolf Hopper's " Dr. Syntax." Easily staged and costumed, 
 it is within the range of any amateur company. Time of play- 
 ing, one hour. 
 
 PRICE, 15 CENTS. 
 
 Tr*E MATCH BOX. 
 
 An Original Comedy in Two Acts. 
 By ALICE GALE WOODBURY. 
 
 Five male, four female characters. A most amusing little 
 comedy in which the strategy of the major and the young 
 doctor defeat the advanced ideas of the " New Woman,'" and 
 the young: surgeon's skill finds ample reward. Scene, one in- 
 terior. Costumes modern. Time of playing, one hour. 
 
 PRICK, 15 CENTS. 
 
 DANCING ATTENDANCE. 
 
 A Comedietta in One Act. 
 . By HENRY L. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Three male, one female, characters. A charming little come- 
 dietta. The part of Dolly Rymple, known as Mistress Dorothy, 
 the principal dancer at the King's Theatre, gives an exceptional 
 opportunity for a gracelul dancer, while Gilbert Trivett, the 
 blacksmith poet ; Sir Pungent Pimpernell, the fop, and Nick- 
 Sop, the village cobb'er and toper, are all well-drawn characters 
 and give equal opportunities for clever work. An exceptionally 
 good piece for amateurs, being easily arranged and extremely 
 effective. Scenery, one rural English out-door scene. Costumes, 
 English of the eighteenth century. Time of playing, one hour. 
 
 PRICE, 15 CESITS. 
 
 Single copies sent, postpaid, to any address, on receipt of price. 
 
i idrarY OF CONGHt^^ A 
 
 ilSlIIMlMi; 
 a-««t ^^^lisi^o, o 022 204 648 o 
 
 JOE EUGGfLES; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE GIEL MINER. 
 
 A COMEDY-DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. BY PRANK J. DEAN. 
 
 \ PEICE a 5 CENTS. 
 
 Nine male, three female characters. A vigorous, stirring play, de- 
 picting peculiar types of life in a large city and in the mining districts 
 irf the West. The parts of Joe Ruggles, the miner, Hans Von Bush 
 (Dutch dialect), and Richard Hamilton, the scheming villain, all 
 afford opportunity for clever work ; while the part of Madge (sou- 
 brette), who afterwards assumes the character of Mark Lynch, is an 
 excellent one for a bright young actress. This last, and the character 
 of Bessie (juvenile) could easily be assumed by youths. 
 
 Scenery — City street, showing R. R. Station 5 rocky pass, with set 
 cabins; a wood scene, and two plain interiors. Costumes of the day. 
 Time of playing, two and a half hours. 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF EVENTS. 
 
 ACT I.— Entrance to Railroad Station. 
 
 Looking for a victim— Joe Ruggles— " Them galoots is worse than grizzlies "— 
 •' Morning papers "—Madge and Bess plying their trades— " Can't you sing Joe a 
 song?"— Hamilton and his pal confer— Tom Howarth gains important informa- 
 tion— " Don't you dare to lay hands on us ! "—Hamilton tries to maintain his 
 authority—" Who ? Old Joe ! " 
 
 ACT II.— Doomsday's Hotel, Dare-devil's Gulch, California. 
 
 The landlord secures a guest— Hans disappointed— " Dot is a misdate"— A 
 ghost story— The "Kid and his sister"—" Did I hurt your highness? "—Hans and 
 Doomsday have another talk— Kate Laurel meets the young miner— " Yah, dot 
 vas vot I t'inks "—Madge's disguise penetrated— She recognizes an old enemy— 
 "Now, George Smith, take your choice"— Joe Ruggles as a tramp— "Ef yer 
 think yer can pick on me because I'm han'some ye'll find me ter hum "—Hamil- 
 ton appears—" Those two youngsters are mine "—The tramp takes a hand. 
 
 ACT III.— Wood Scene. 
 
 A lively ghost— Hamilton and Smith plan more villainy— Old Joe thinks of 
 turning detective— Kate Laurel again— "There is a secret connected with my 
 life"— Kate's confession— "What do you mean, sir! "—Tom Howarth once more 
 — " Vos you looking for a hotel ? "—Planning an abduction— Old Joe as an Irish- 
 man—" Phat does yez want wid me?"— Undertakes to be a detective— Takes a 
 hand in the abduction—" Do it at your peril! " 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Hans hears, and tells, the latest news—" I nefer pelieved dot spook peesness" 
 —Kate Laurel astonished— Hamilton attempts flight—" De poys haf got Mr. Ham- 
 ilton, und dey vill gif him a necktie bartv "—Arrest of Smith—'' Get out mit my 
 vay, I vas de Unided States Mail "— Tom meets his old friend under new circum- 
 stances—" Do you want me, Tom? "—Old Joe gives consent— A happy ending. 
 
 Single copies sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price. 
 
HAQEMAN'S MAKE-UP BOOK. 
 
 By MAURICE HAOEMAN. 
 
 Author of "What Became of Parker," 4 'Prof. Robinson," "Hector," "Mm 
 Mulcahy," "The First Kiss," "By Telephone," "To Rent," eta. 
 
 Price, 25 cents. 
 
 The importance of an effective make-up is becoming moro apparent to 
 the professional actor every year, but hitherto there has been no book on the 
 subject describing the modern methods and at the same time covering all 
 branches of the art. This want has now been filled. Mr. Hageman has had 
 an experience of twenty years as actorandstage-manager.andhis well-known 
 literary ability has enabled him to put the knowledge so gained into shape 
 to-be of use to others. The book is an encyclopaedia of the art of making up. 
 Every branch of the subject is exhaustively treated, and few questions can 
 be asked by professional or amateur that cannot be answered by this admira- 
 ble hand-book. It is not only the best make-up book ever published, but it 
 Is not likely to be superseded by any other. It Is absolutely indispensable 
 to every ambitious actor. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter I. General Remarks. 
 
 Chapter II. Orease-Paints, their origin, components and use. 
 
 Chapter 111. The Make-up Box. Grease-Pain ts, Mirrors, Face Powder and 
 Puff, Exora Cream, Rouge, Liquid Color, Grenadine, Blue for the Eyelids, 
 Brilliantine for tho Hair, Nose Putty, Wig Paste, Mascaro, Crape Hair, 
 Spirit Gum, Scissors, Artists* Stomps, Cold Cream, Cocoa Butter, Recipes for 
 Cold Cream. 
 
 Chapter IV. Preliminaries before Making up; the Straight Make-up 
 and how to remove it. 
 
 Chapter V. Remarks to Ladies. Liquid Creams, Rouge, Lips, Eyebrows, 
 Eyelashes, Character Roles, Jewelry, Removing Make-up. 
 
 Chapter VI. Juveniles. Straight Juvenile Make-up, Society Men, 
 Young Men in 111 Health, with Red WJgs, Rococo Make-up, Hands, Wrists, 
 
 Phf pks i^t-f* 
 
 Chapter VII. Adults, Middle Aged, end Old Men. Ordinary Type of 
 Manhood, Lining Colors, Wrinkles, Rouge, Sickly and Healthy Old Age, 
 Ruddy Complexions. 
 
 Chapter VIII. Comedy end Character Make-ups. Comedy Effects, 
 Wigs, Beards, Eyebrows, Noses, Lips, Pallor of Death. 
 
 Chapter IX. The human Features. The Month and Lips, the Eyes and 
 Eyelids, the Nose, the Chin, the Ear, the Teeth. . 
 
 Chapter X. Other Exposed Parts o! the Human Anatomy. 
 
 Chapter XI. Wigs, Beards, Moustaches, and Eyebrows. Choosing 
 a Wig, Powdering the Hair, Dimensions for Wigs, Wig Bands, Bald Wigs, 
 Ladles* Wigs, Beards on Wire, on Gauze, Crape Hair, Wool, Beards for 
 Tramps, Moustaches, Eyebrows. 
 
 Chapter XII. Distinctive end Traditional Characteristics. North 
 American Indians, New England Farmers, Hoosiers, Southerners, Politicians. 
 Cowboys, Miners, Quakers, Tramps, Creoles, Mulatoes, Quadroons, Octo- 
 roons, >segroes, Soldiers during War, Soldiers during Peace, Scouts, Path- 
 finders, Puritans, Early Dutch Settlers, Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, 
 Frenchmen, Italians, Spaniards, Portuguese, South Americans, Scandina- 
 vians, Germans, Hollanders, Hungarians, Gipsies, Russians, Turks, Arabs. 
 Moors, Camrs, Abysslnlans, Hindoos, Malays, Chinese, Japanese, Clowns and 
 fitttu&ry, Hebrews, Drunkards, Lunatics, Idiots, Misers, Rogues. 
 
 Address Orders to 
 
 THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 
 ODGAOO, ILLINOIS. 
 
PLAYS. 
 
 BEING the largest theatrical booksellers in 
 the United States, we keep in stock the most 
 complete and best assorted lines of plays and 
 entertainment books to be found in this country. 
 
 We can supply any play or book pub- 
 lished. We have issued a 144-page catalogue 
 of the best 1500 plays and entertainment books 
 published in the U. S. and England. It con- 
 tains a full description of each play, giving 
 number of characters, time of playing, scenery, 
 costumes, etc. This catalogue will be sent free 
 on application. 
 
 The plays described are suitable for am- 
 ateurs and professionals, and nearly all of them 
 may be performed free of royalty. Persons in- 
 terested in dramatic books should examine our 
 catalogue before ordering elsewhere. 
 
 The Dramatic Publishing Company. 
 
 CHICAGO. 
 
*<r ^<-*- 4-KJ1 OtO 
 
 Conservation Resources 
 Lig-Free® Type I 
 Ph 8.5, Buffered 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRES 
 
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