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 i. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD. A comic drama in two acts. Six 
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 15. A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. A comedietta in one act. Two male, 
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 21. WHO IS WHO ? A farce in one act. Three male, two female characters. 
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 CASTE. 
 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 Hon. George D'Alroy 
 
 Captain Hawtree 
 
 Eccles 
 
 Samuel Gerridge 
 
 Dixon 
 
 Marquise de St. Maur 
 
 Polly Eccles 
 
 Esther Eccles 
 
 Prince of Wales' Theatre, 
 London, 
 April 6, 1867. 
 Mr. Fred Younge, 
 Mr. Sidney Bancroft, 
 Mr. George Honey, 
 Mr. John Hare, 
 
 Miss Sophia Larkin, 
 Miss Marie Wilton, 
 Miss Lydia Foote, 
 
 Broadway Theatre, 
 
 New York, 
 
 August 5, 1867. 
 
 Mr. W. J. Florence. 
 Mr. Owen Marlowe. 
 Mr. Wm. Davidge. 
 Mr. Edward Lamb. 
 
 Mrs. G. H. Gilbert. 
 Mrs. W. J. Florence. 
 Mrs. S. F. Chanfraa. 
 
 Act I. —The little House in Stangate.— 
 
 Act II. — A Lodging in Mayfair. 
 
 Act III.— The little House in Stangate. 
 
 -COURTSHIP. 
 
 -MATRIMONY. 
 
 -WIDOWHOOD. 
 
 A lapse of eight months occurs between the first and second Acts, and a 
 lapse of twelve months between the second and third. 
 
 Time of performance. — Two hours and forty-five minutes. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Hon. George D'Alroy, a rich and aristocratic army officer, falls desper- 
 ately in love with Esther Eccles, an amiable and good girl, poor and 
 
 
CASTE 
 
 AN ORIGINAL COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 T. W. ROBERTSON 
 
 New American Edition, Correctly Reprinted from the 
 Original Authorized Acting Edition, with the Original 
 Casts of the Characters, Argument of the Play, 
 Time of Representation, Description of the 
 Costumes, Scene and Property Plots, Dia- 
 grams of the Stage Settings, Sides of 
 Entrance and Exit, Relative Posi- 
 tions of the Performers, Expla- 
 nation of the Stage Direc- 
 tions, etc., and all of 
 the Stage Business. 
 
 Copyright, 1890, by Harold Roorbach. 
 
 §-)f; 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HAROLD ROORBACH 
 
 PUBLISHER 
 
CASTE. 3 
 
 of humble station, who, with her sister Polly, works hard to support a 
 drunken father not caring how he gets money so long as he does not work 
 for it. Mindful of the stern decrees of Caste, D'Alroy has tried to dispel 
 his infatuation by various means, but to no purpose ; finally he turns for 
 advice to his friend Captain Hawtree, who, being a man of the world, 
 counsels anything but marriage, in view of the social gulf between the 
 lovers, and subsequently runs afoul of Mr. Sam Gerridge, Polly's sweet- 
 heart and something in the mechanical line. But in spite of their differ- 
 ence in station, in spite of the dictates of reason, in spite of the world, 
 D'Alroy declares himself to Esther and is accepted. 
 
 Six months later finds the pair happily married and quartered in lodg- 
 ings, without the knowledge of D'Alroy's mother, the Marquise of St. 
 Maur, whom he has not informed of his marriage, fearing to incur her 
 displeasure. Meanwhile D'Alroy has been ordered off to India, on active 
 service with his regiment, but can not bring himself to break the news to 
 his wife. While devising some means of disclosing the unwelcome tidings, 
 he is surprised by a visit from his mother, who comes to bid him adieu and 
 urge him to distinguish himself as becomes his birth and position. Esther 
 overhears this conversation from an adjoining room and is overwhelmed 
 at the prospect of her husband's departure. This precipitates the truth 
 about D'Alroy's mesalliance, to the horror of the Marquise, whose disgust 
 is heightened by the appearance of Polly, Sam and old Eccles, each of 
 whom is presented in turn, and the high born lady expresses her contempt 
 in no uncertain terms. The time for departure having arrived, D'Alroy 
 goes off with Hawtree, after comforting his wife as best he can, and 
 leaving suitable provision for her maintenance during his absence. 
 
 One year after, Esther, with her child, is back in her old home, her 
 husband reported captured and killed by the Sepoys and her money 
 squandered by old Eccles. Too proud to appeal to the Marquise for 
 aid, though urged so to do by Hawtree, who has returned and proved his 
 friendship in many ways, she is stung by insulting offers of charity from her 
 husband's mother who has learned of her situation through a begging letter 
 privately sent by Eccles. While at supper, Polly, Sam and Hawtree 
 are thunderstruck at the apparition of D'Alroy, the report of whose death 
 proves untrue. The joyful news is broken gently to Esther, and an 
 affecting reunion ensues between husband and wife. The Marquise, over- 
 joyed at her son's restoration, becomes willingly reconciled to her new 
 daughter; Eccles is comfortably disposed of by Hawtree, \v\\oseJiancee 
 has jilted him for a man of higher rank ; Polly and Sam purchase the 
 fixtures and good will of the late Binks, plumber, and a climax of happi- 
 ness is reached, despite the inexorable laws of Caste. 
 
 COSTUMES. 
 
 George D'Alroy.— Act I; Black coat and vest, gray trousers with 
 black seam, derby hat. Act II ; British officer's uniform, blue, dead gold 
 cord to trousers, spurs. Act III ; Black suit, short skirted coat, low 
 crowned black hat. Carries watch throughout. 
 
 Hawtree. — Act I ; Like D'Alroy. Act II; Like D'Alroy, sword 
 on. Act III ; Black walking suit. Watch. 
 
4 CASTE. 
 
 Eccles.— Acts /and //; Shabby black suit, dusty shoes, battered black 
 hat, black necktie. Act III ; Same, but more shabby. 
 
 Sam Gerridge. — Acts /and ///; White jacket, red vest, gray trousers, 
 cap. Act II; " Sunday clothes," — flashy and cheap. 
 
 Dixon. — Black valet's suit, white necktie. 
 
 Marquise. — Act II ; Handsome walking dress. Act III ; Fashionable 
 mourning. 
 
 Polly.— Act I ; Bonnet and shawl, light dress, collar and cuffs. Act 
 II; Walking dress, hat, parasol. Act III ; ist, Black dress, collar and 
 cuffs ; 2nd, change to light dress. 
 
 Esther. — Act I ; Costume like Polly's in same act. Act II; Light 
 morning house dress, jewelry, hair fashionably arranged. Act 111 ; Full 
 mourning, widow's cap and bands, bonnet to enter with. 
 
 STAGE SETTINGS. 
 
 Acts I and III. 
 
 -Iftw-H— 
 
 Door 
 
 Street Backing 
 Iron Railing 
 
 Window 
 
 Chair 
 
 Book-Shelf 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Corridor Backing 
 ' Door ■— 
 
 Jo 
 
 k * Easy-Chair 
 
 SB? 
 
 Drairmg-room Backing 
 1 Folding Doors ' 
 
 
 Easy-Choir^ H H EEasyChB/r 
 
 * ' Table St ° o1 
 
 I Stand 
 
 SCENE PLOT. 
 
 Act I. — A plain chamber set in 3 o. Street backing in 4 G. Iron rail- 
 ing, between backing and flat, low enough to get over from the outside. 
 
CASTE. . 5 
 
 A window C, in flat, with practical blind. Practical door R. 3 E., which, 
 when opened, shows street door in flat. Mantel and fire-place L. 2 E., two- 
 hinged gas-burners on each side of mantel. Cupboard in recess, L. 3 E. 
 Long table L. c, before fire. Small carpet clown. Book shelf against flat, 
 L., under which is a small table. Bureau, R. 2 E. Arm chair R. of table 
 L. c, and two chairs L. of it. Chair up R., near window. 
 
 Act II. — Fancy chamber set in 3 g. Backing in 4 g., representing a 
 drawing-room at the L., and corridor at the R. In flat, practical folding 
 doors L., opening upon drawing-room, and door R., opening upon corridor. 
 Windows, with muslin curtains, R. 1 E. and R. 3 e. Stand in lower win- 
 dow and small easy chair before upper window. Piano and stool, L. 
 Table R. C, easy chairs r. and l. of it. Foot-stool before l. easy chair. 
 Stand c, against flat, with chair on each side of it. Chair up L. 
 
 Act III. — Same as in Act I, except that piano is in place of bureau, R.; 
 map of India hangs in place of mirror over mantel ; cradle up C. 
 
 PROPERTIES. 
 
 Act I. — Cane, cigars in case, and eyeglass for Hawtree. Coin for 
 DAlroy. Three letters for Esther to enter with. Ham, in slices, in paper 
 for Polly. Foot-rule in Sam's pocket. Key. Fire, to light. Knives, 
 plates, etc., for setting table. Letter to be handed in at c window. Tea 
 things, tea pot, tea caddy, tea tray, etc., in cupboard. Book§ on shelf, and 
 bunch of benefit bills hanging beneath it. Ballet shoes and skirt on small 
 table up L. A few framed theatrical printed portraits and common 
 engravings on walls. Clock, ornaments and matches on mantel. Glass 
 over mantel. Kettle on hob. Small carpet down. Mats inside and out- 
 side door R. Furniture as per scene plot. 
 
 Act II. — Curtains at windows. On table, R. C, desert, claret in decanter, 
 two wine glasses half filled, box of cigarettes, vase of flowers, embroidered 
 slippers on canvas, and small basket of colored wools. Ornamental gilt 
 work-basket on stand before window r. 1 e. Vase of flowers on stand c 
 Pictures on walls, r., L. and c. Swords and belts for Hawtree and 
 DAlroy. Parasol for Polly. Cigar for Sam. Bottle of Brandy for 
 Eccles (in call). Eyeglass for Marquise. Carpet down. Furniture as 
 per scene plot. 
 
 Act III. — A new table and easy chair for Sam to bring on. Circulars, 
 sampies of wall paper, coin, foot-rule and wedding ring for Sam. Pipe, 
 tobacco and bottle for Eccles. Milk can for DAlroy to bring on, ready 
 r. u. e. Small box for Marquise to bring on at her second entrance. 
 Paper parcels for Esther to enter with. Eyeglass and cane for Hawtree. 
 Letter enclosing a cheque. Milk pitcher, teapot and dishes. Botlle on 
 mantel. Roll of music, tied up, on piano. Map of India, sword embel- 
 lished with crape knot, spurs and craped cap to hang over mantel. Child, 
 with coral necklace, in cradle. Polly's bonnet and shawl hanging on 
 peg, R., on flat. Fire lighted, and kettle on it. Poker at fire. Small tin 
 saucepan on fender. Two candles, in candlesticks, in cupboard. On table, 
 L. c, a slate and pencil, band-box and a ballet skirt. 
 
6 - CASTE. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 In observing, the player is supposed to face the audience. R., means 
 right; L., left; C, centre; R. c., right of centre; L. c, left of centre; d. 
 f., door in the flat or scene running across the back of the stage ; r. f., 
 right side of the flat; L. f., left side of the flat; r. d., right door; l. d., left 
 door; CD., centre door; I e., first entrance; 2 e., second entrance; u. e., 
 upper entrance; 1, 2 or 3 c, first, second or third grooves; up stage, 
 towards the back ; down stage, towards the audience. 
 
 R. C. 
 
 C. 
 
 L. C. 
 
 Note. — The text of this play is correctly reprinted from the original 
 authorized acting edition, without change. The introduction has been 
 carefully prepared by an expert, and is the only part of this book protected 
 by copyright. 
 
CASTE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — Interior of Eccles' house at Stangate — rapping heard at 
 door, R., the handle is then shaken as curtain rises — the door is 
 unlocked — enter George and Hawtree. 
 
 Geo. I told you so, the key was left under the mat in case I 
 came. They're not back from rehearsal, (crosses, C, to fireplace) 
 
 Haw. [looking round ) And this is the Fairy's Bower. 
 
 Geo. And this is the Fairy's fireplace ; the fire is laid, I'll light 
 it. [lights fire with luciferfrom mantelpiece) 
 
 Haw, And this is the abode rendered blessed by her abiding. It 
 is here that she dwells, walks, talks, eats and drinks. Does she 
 eat and drink? 
 
 Geo. Yes, heartily. I've seen her. 
 
 Haw. And you are really spoons — case of true love — hit dead. 
 
 Geo. Right through. Can't live away from her. (with elbow on 
 other end of mantel up stage) 
 
 Haw. Poor old Dal ! And you've brought me over the water 
 
 Geo. Stangate. 
 
 Haw. Stangate — to see her for the same sort of reason that when 
 a patient is in a dangerous state one doctor calls in another for a 
 consultation. 
 
 Geo. Yes ! Then the patient dies. 
 
 Haw. Tell us all about it. You know I've been away, (sits 
 right of table, leg on chair) 
 
 Geo. Well, then, eighteen months ago 
 
 Haw. Oh, cut that. You told me all about that. You went to 
 the theatre and saw a girl in a ballet, and you fell in love. 
 
 Geo. Yes, I found out that she was an amiable good girl. 
 
 Haw. Of course. Cut that. We'll credit her with all the vir- 
 tues and accomplishments. 
 
8 CASTE. 
 
 Geo. Who worked hard to support a drunken father. 
 
 Haw. Oh, the father's a drunkard, is he? The father doesn't 
 inherit the daughter's virtues. 
 
 Geo. No, I hate him. 
 
 Haw. Naturally, quite so, quite so. 
 
 Geo. And she, that is Esther, is very good to her younger sister. 
 
 Haw. The younger sister also angelic, amiable, accomplished, 
 etc., etc. 
 
 Geo. Um, good enough, but got a temper, large temper! Well, 
 with some difficulty I got to speak to her — I mean to Esther ; then 
 I was allowed to see her to her door here. 
 
 Haw. I know — pastry-cooks, Richmond dinner, and all that. 
 
 Geo. You're too fast. Pastry-cooks, yes — Richmond, no. Your 
 knowledge of the world fifty yards round barracks misleads you. 
 I saw her nearly every day, and I kept on falling in love, falling 
 and falling, till I thought I should never reach the bottom. Then 
 I met you. 
 
 Haw. I remember the night when you told me, but I knew it 
 was only an amourette. However, if the fire is a conflagration, 
 subdue it ; try dissipation. 
 
 Geo. I have. 
 
 Haw. What success? 
 
 Geo. None. Dissipation brought on bad health, and self-con- 
 tempt, a sick head and a sore heart. 
 
 Haw. Foreign travel. Absence makes the heart grow stronger. 
 Get leave and cut away. 
 
 Geo. I did get leave and I did cut away, and while away I was 
 miserable, and a gone 'er coon than ever. 
 
 Haw. What's to be done? 
 
 Geo. Don't know. That's the reason I asked you to come over 
 and see. 
 
 Haw. Of course, Dal, you're not such a soft as to think of mar- 
 riage. You know what your mother is. Either you are going 
 to behave properly, with a proper regard to the world, and all that, 
 you know, or you're going to do the other thing. Now the ques- 
 tion is, what do you mean to do ? The girl is a nice girl no doubt, 
 but as to your making her Mrs. D'Alroy the thing is out of the 
 question. 
 
 Geo. Why, what should prevent me ? 
 
 Haw. Caste! The inexorable law of caste. The social law, so 
 becoming and so good, that commands like to mate with like, and 
 forbids a giraffe to fall in love with a squirrel ; that holds sentiment 
 to be a dissipation, and demands the exercise of common sense 
 from all. 
 
 Geo. But, my dear Bark 
 
 Haw. My dear Dal, all those marriages of people with common 
 
CASTE. 9 
 
 people are all very well in novels and in plays on the stage, 
 because the real people don't exist, and have no relatives who 
 exist, and no connections, and so no harm's done, and it's rather 
 interesting to look at ; but in real life, with real relations, and real 
 mothers, and so forth, it's absolute bosh — it's worse ; its utter 
 social and personal annihilation and individual damnation. 
 
 Geo. As to my mother, I havn't thought about her. 
 
 Haw. Of course not. Lovers are so damned selfish they never 
 think of anybody but themselves. 
 
 Geo. My father died when I was three years old, and she 
 married again before I was six, and married a Frenchman. 
 
 Haw. A nobleman of the most ancient families in France, of 
 equal blood to her own ; she obeyed the duties imposed upon her by 
 her station, and by caste. 
 
 Geo. Still it caused a separation and a division between us, and 
 I never see my brother because he lives abroad. Of course the 
 Marquise de St. Maur is my mother, and I look upon her with a 
 sort of superstitious awe. 
 
 Haw. She's a grand Brahmin priestess. 
 
 Geo. Just so, and I know I'm a fool ; and my having a thick 
 tongue and lisping makes me seem more foolish than I am. Now 
 you're clever, Bark, a little too clever, I think. You're paying 
 your devoirs, that's the correct word I think — to Lady Florence 
 Carburry, the daughter of a Countess — she's above you, you've no 
 title. Is she to forget her caste? 
 
 Haw. That argument doesn't apply ; a man can be no more 
 than a gentleman. 
 
 Geo. " Kind hearts are more than coronets and simple faith than 
 Norman blood." 
 
 Haw. Now, George, if you're going to consider this question 
 from a point of view of poetry, you're off to no man's land, where 
 I won't follow you. 
 
 Geo. No gentleman can be ashamed of the woman he loves, no 
 matter what her original station — once his wife he raises her to his 
 rank. 
 
 Haw. Yes, he raises her — her — but her connections — her rela- 
 tives. How about them ? 
 
 Enter, Eccles, D. R. 
 
 Ecc. (entering) Polly ! — Why the devil ! — [seeing them assumes 
 a deferential manner) Oh, Mr. De Alroy, I didn't see you, sir. 
 Good afternoon — the same to you, sir, and many on 'em. [down, 
 
 R.) 
 
 Geo. {who has come down c. , crosses to Hawtree) This is papa. 
 Haw. Ah ! [leaning on comer of mantelpiece and scanning Eccles 
 through eye-glass) 
 
IO CASTE. 
 
 Geo. Miss Eccles and her sister not returned from rehearsal 
 yet? 
 
 Ecc. No, sir, they have not ; I expect 'em in directly. I hope 
 you've been quite well since I saw you last, sir ? 
 
 Geo. Quite, thank you ; and how have you been, Mr. Eccles? 
 
 Ecc. Well, sir, I have not been the thing at all. My 'ealth, sir, 
 and my spirits is both broken. I am not the man I used to be — I 
 am not accustomed to this sort of thing. I have seen better days 
 — but they are gone, most like for ever. It's a melancholy 
 thing, sir, for a man of my time of life to look back on better days 
 that are gone most like for ever. 
 
 Geo. I daresay. 
 
 Ecc. Once proud and prosperous, I am now poor and lowly — 
 once master of a shop, I am now, by the pressure of circumstances 
 over which I have no control, driven to seek work and not find it. 
 Poverty is a dreadful thing, sir, for a man as had once been well 
 off. 
 
 Geo. I daresay. 
 
 Ecc. [sighing) Ah ! sir, the poor and lowly is often hardly used. 
 What chance has the working man ? 
 
 Haw. None, (aside) When he don't work. 
 
 Ecc. We are all equal in mind and feeling. 
 
 Haw. I hope not. 
 
 Ecc. I am sorry, gentlemen, that I cannot offer you any refresh- 
 ment, but luxury and me has long been strangers. 
 
 Geo. (taking Eccles aside from Hawtree) I am very sorry for 
 your misfortunes, Mr. Eccles. May I hope that you will allow me 
 to offer you this trifling loan ? (giving him ha/f-a-sovereign) 
 
 Ecc. Sir, you are a gentleman — one can tell a real gentleman, 
 sir, with half-a-sov — I mean with half a eye — a real gentleman, 
 and understand the natural emotions of the working man. Pride, 
 sir, is a thing as should be put down by the strong, and of pecu- 
 niary necessity. I promised a friend to meet him at this time in 
 the neighborhood,' on a matter of business — so if you'll excuse me, 
 sir. 
 
 Geo. With pleasure. 
 
 Ecc. (going, up r. ) Sorry to leave you, gentlemen — but 
 
 Geo. Don't stay on my account. 
 
 Haw. Don't mention it. 
 
 Ecc. Business is business, (goes up, d. r.) The girls will be 
 here directly. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Exit, D. R. 
 
 Geo. (sighing) Ah ! 
 
 Haw. The papa is not nice, but " Kind hearts are more than 
 coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood." Poor George ! 
 I wonder what your mamma, the most noble the Marquise de St. 
 Maur, would think of Papa Eccles. Come, Dal, allow that there 
 
CASTE. 1 1 
 
 is something in caste. Conceive that dirty ruffian, that rinsing of 
 stale beer, that walking tap-room, for a father-in-law. Go out in 
 Central America. Forget her. 
 
 Geo. Can't. 
 
 Haw. You'll be wretched and miserable with her. 
 
 Geo. I'd rather be wretched with her than miserable without 
 her. (Hawtree takes out cigar case) Don't smoke here. 
 
 Haw. Why not? 
 
 Geo. She'll be coming in directly. 
 
 Haw. I don't think she'd mind. 
 
 Geo. I should ; do you smoke before Lady Florence Carburry ? 
 
 Haw. [closing case) Ha! you're suffering from a fit of the 
 morals. 
 
 Geo. What is that ? 
 
 Haw. The morals is a disease, like the measles, that attacks the 
 young and innocent. 
 
 Geo. [with temper) You talk like Mephistophiles without the 
 cleverness, [goes up to window and looks at watch) 
 
 Haw. [crosses) I don't pretend to be a particularly good sort of 
 fellow, nor a particularly bad sort of fellow. I suppose I'm about 
 the average standard sort of thing, and I don't like to see a friend 
 go down hill to the devil while I can put the drag on. [turning 
 with back to fire) Here is a girl of humble station, poor, and all 
 that, with a drunken father, who evidently doesn't care how he 
 gets money so long as he doesn't work for it. Marriage — pah! 
 Couldn't the thing be arranged ? [goes up again) 
 
 Geo. Hawtree, cut that, [at window) She's here, [turns from 
 window — enter, Esther, d. r — George receives her at door ; 
 flurried at sight of her) Good morning, I got here before you, you 
 see. 
 
 Est. Good morning. 
 
 Geo. I've taken the liberty — I hope you won't be angry — of ask- 
 ing you to let me present a friend of mine to you. Miss Eccles, 
 Captain Hawtree. 
 
 Hawtree advances and bows — George assists Esther in taking 
 off bonnet and shawl. 
 
 Haw. [aside) Pretty. 
 
 Est. [aside) Thinks too much of himself. 
 
 Geo. You've had a late rehearsal. Where's Polly ? 
 
 Est. She stayed behind to buy something. 
 
 Enter, Polly, d. r. — these two girls to be dressed alike — ballet 
 girl s kiss-me-quick curls > &*c. 
 
 Pol. Hallo, Mr. D'Alroy, how de do ? Ah, I am tired to death. 
 Kept at rehearsal by an old fool of a stage manager — but stage 
 
12 CASTE. 
 
 managers are always old fools — except when they're young ones. 
 We shan't have time for any dinner, so I've brought something for 
 tea, ham. {showing ham in paper, and seeing Hawtree) Oh, I 
 beg your pardon, sir, I didn't see you. 
 
 Geo. A friend of mine, Mary, Captain Hawtree. Miss Mary 
 Eccles. (crosses) 
 
 Pol. (aside) What a swell! Got nice teeth, and he knows it. 
 (takes off bonnet and shawl) How quiet we all are. Let's talk about 
 something, (she crosses to fire, l., round table-front — Hawtree 
 comes round to R. of table) 
 
 Est. What can we talk about ? 
 
 Pol. Anything, (puts ham from paper on to plate) Ham, Mr. 
 D'Alroy ? Do you like ham ? 
 
 Geo. I adore her. (crosses) I mean I adore it. 
 
 Pol. (to Hawtree) Do you like ham, sir? 
 
 Haw. Yes. 
 
 Pol. Now that is very strange. I should have thought you'd 
 have been above ham. 
 
 Haw. Why ? May I ask why ? 
 
 Pol. You look above it. You look quite equal to tongue-glazed. 
 (laughing) Mr. D'Alroy is here so often that he knows our ways. 
 
 Haw. 1 like everything that is piquante and fresh, and pretty, 
 and agreeable. 
 
 Pol. Ah! you mean that for me. (curtseying) Oh! (sings) Tra, 
 la lal la la ! Now I must put the kettle on. (George and Esther 
 are at window) Esther never does any work when Mr. D'Alroy is 
 here. They're spooning. Ugly word, spoon, isn't it? Reminds 
 me of red currant jam. By-the-bye, love is very like currant jam 
 — at the first taste, sweet ; afterwards shuddery. Do you ever 
 spoon ? 
 
 Haw. I should like to do so at this moment. 
 
 Pol. No, you're too grand for me. There's too much of you for 
 me. You want taking down a peg — I mean a foot. Let's see, 
 what are you, a corporal? 
 
 Haw. Captain. 
 
 Pol. I prefer corporal. See here, let's change about. You be 
 corporal — it'll do you good — and I'll be my lady. 
 
 Haw. Pleasure. 
 
 Pol. You must call me my lady, though, or you shan't have any 
 ham. 
 
 Haw. Certainly, my lady. But I cannot accept your hospitality, 
 for I'm engaged to dine. 
 
 Pol. At what time ? 
 
 Haw. Seven. 
 
 Pol. Seven! Why that's half-past tea time. Now, Corporal, 
 you must wait on me. 
 
 Haw. As the pages did of old. 
 
CASTE. 
 
 13 
 
 Pol. My lady ! 
 
 Haw. My lady. 
 
 Pol. Here's the kettle, Corporal, take it into the back kitchen. 
 (crosses) 
 
 Haw. Eh ! 
 
 Pol. I'm coming too. 
 
 Haw. Oh, that alters the case, (he takes kettle handle between 
 finger and thumb) 
 
 Geo. What are you about ? 
 
 Haw. About to fill the kettle, (holding it out at arm s length) 
 
 Est. (to Polly) Mind what you are doing, Polly ; what will Sam 
 say? 
 
 Pol. Whatever Sam chooses. What the sweetheart don't seethe 
 husband can't grieve at. Corporal ! 
 
 Haw. My lady. 
 
 Pol. Forward, march, and mind the soot don't drop upon your 
 trousers. 
 
 Exeunt, Polly and Hawtree, door, r. 
 
 Est. (rising) What a girl it is— all spirits. The worst is that it 
 is so easy to mistake her. 
 
 Geo. And so easy to find out your mistake, (they cross to l. 
 down stage) But why won't you let me present you with a piano ? 
 (following Esther) 
 
 Est. I don't want one. 
 
 Geo. You said you were fond of playing. 
 
 Est. We may be fond of many things without having them. 
 (crosses, taking out letter) Now here is a gentleman says that he is 
 attached to me. 
 
 Geo. (jealous) May I know his name? 
 
 Est. What for? it would be as useless as his solicitations. 
 (throws letter into fire) 
 
 Geo. I lit that fire. (George crosses to fire) 
 
 Est. Then burn these two— no, not that (snatching one back), I 
 must keep that, burn the others. (George does so, crosses attain) 
 
 Geo. Who is that from ? s ' 
 
 Est. Why do you wish to know ? 
 
 Geo. Because I love you, and I don't think you love me, and I 
 fear a rival. 
 
 Est. You have none ! 
 
 Geo. I know you have so many admirers. 
 
 Est. They're nothing to me. 
 
 Geo. None ? 
 
 Est. No. They're admirers, but there's not a husband anion? 
 them. 5 
 
 Geo. Not the writer of that letter? 
 
14 CASTE. 
 
 Est. Oh, I like him very much. 
 
 Geo. Oh! 
 
 Est. And I am very fond of this. 
 
 Geo. Then, Esther, you don't care for me ! 
 
 Est. Don't I ? How do you know ? 
 
 Geo. Because you won't let me read that letter. 
 
 Est. It won't please you if you see it. 
 
 Geo. I daresay not. That's just the reason that I want to. 
 You won't? 
 
 Est. I will— there ! [giving it to him) 
 
 Geo. [reads) " Dear madam." 
 
 Est. That's tender, isn't it? 
 
 Geo. "The terms are £4. Your dresses to be found for eight 
 weeks certain, and longer if you should suit. (George in astonish- 
 ment) I cannot close the engagement until the return of my partner. 
 I expect him back to-day, and will write you as soon as I have 
 seen him. — Yours very, &c." Four pounds, find dresses ! What 
 does this mean? 
 
 Est. It means that they want a Columbine for the pantomime 
 at Manchester, and I think I shall get the engagement. 
 
 Geo. Manchester? Then you'll leave London. 
 
 Est. I must. You see this little house is on my shoulders, 
 Polly, only eighteen shilings a week and father has been out of work 
 a long, long time. I make the bread here, and it's hard to make 
 sometimes. I've been mistress of this place, and forced to think 
 ever since my mother died, and I was eight years old — Four 
 pounds a week is a large sum. I can save out of it. 
 
 Geo. But you'll go away and I shan't see you. 
 
 Est. Perhaps it will be for the best. What future is there for 
 us? You're a man of rank, and I am a poor girl who gets her 
 living by dancing. It would have been better that we had never 
 met. 
 
 Geo. No! 
 
 Est. Yes, it would, for I'm afraid that 
 
 Geo. You love me ? 
 
 Est. I don't know. I'm not sure, but I think I do. 
 
 Geo. [trying to seize her hand ) Esther ! 
 
 Est. No. Think of the difference of our stations. 
 
 Geo. That's what Hawtree says. Caste, caste, curse caste ! 
 (goes up a little) 
 
 Est. If I go to Manchester it will be for the best. We must 
 both try to forget each other. 
 
 Geo. Forget you. No, Esther, let me [seizing her hand) 
 
 Pol. [without) Mind what you are about. Oh dear, oh dear ! 
 (George and Esther retire up c.) 
 
CASTE. 15 
 
 Enter, Polly and Hawtree, d. r. 
 
 Pol. You nasty great clumsy corporal, you've spilt the water all 
 over my frock. Oh, dear me ! {coming down, c.) 
 
 Haw. Allow me to offer you a new one. 
 
 Pol. No, [takes chair) I won't. You'll be calling to see how it 
 looks when it's on. Haven't you got a handkerchief? Wipe it 
 dry. (Hawtree bends almost on one knee, and wipes dress on her, 
 L. — enter, Sam, doom.) 
 
 Sam. Afternoon, {savagely) I suppose you didn't hear me knock. 
 The door was open. I'm afraid I intrude. 
 
 Pol. No, you don't, we're glad to see you ; if you've got a 
 handkerchief help to wipe it dry. (Sam assists Hawtree) 
 
 Haw. I'm very sorry, (rising) 
 
 Pol. It won't spoil it. 
 
 Sam. The stain won't come out. (rising) 
 
 Pol. It's only water. 
 
 Sam. Good afternoon, Miss Eccles. (Polly rises) Who's the 
 other swell? (to Polly) 
 
 Pol. I'll introduce you. Captain Hawtree — Mr. Sam Gerridge. 
 
 Haw. Charmed, (crosses) Who's this? (to George going up) 
 
 Geo. Polly's sweetheart. 
 
 Haw. Oh. Now if I can be of no further assistance, I'll go. 
 (looking at watch) George, will you? (George takes no notice) 
 Will you? 
 
 Geo. What? 
 
 Haw. Go with me. 
 
 Geo. Go ! No. 
 
 Haw. (to Polly, coming down) Then, Miss Eccles — I mean, my 
 lady, (shaking hands) 
 
 Pol. (r. c.) Good-bye, Corporal. 
 
 Haw. (r. c.) Good-bye. Good afternoon, Mr. pardon me. 
 
 (to Gerridge) 
 
 Sam. (with constrained rage) Gerridge, sir. 
 
 Haw. Ah, Gerridge. Good day. (going up) 
 
 Exit Hawtree, d. r. 
 
 Sam. Who's that fool ? (to Polly) Who's that long idiot? 
 
 Pol. I told you — Captain Hawtree. 
 
 Sam. What's he want here ? 
 
 Pol. He's a friend of Mr. D'Alroy's. 
 
 Sam. Ugh ! Isn't one of 'em enough ! 
 
 Pol. What do you mean? 
 
 Sam. For the neighbors to talk about. Who's he after? 
 
 Pol. What do vou mean by after? You're forgetting vourself, 
 I think. 
 
 Sam. No I'm not forgetting myself — I'm remembering you. 
 What can a long fool of a swell dressed up to the nines within an 
 

 1 6 CASTE. 
 
 inch of his life want after two girls of your class. Look at the dif- 
 ference of your stations. They don't come here after any good. 
 
 During this speech Esther crosses to fire and sits before it in low 
 chair — George follows her and sits on her l. 
 
 Pol. Samuel ! 
 
 Sam. I mean what I say. People ought to stick to their own 
 class. Life is a railway journey, and mankind is a passenger — 
 first class, second class, third class. Any person found riding in a 
 superior class to that for which he has taken his ticket will be 
 removed at the first station stopped at, according to the bye-laws 
 of the company. 
 
 Pol. You're giving yourself nice airs. What business is it of 
 yours who comes here? Who are you? 
 
 Sam. I'm a mechanic. 
 
 Pol. That's evident. 
 
 Sam. I'm not ashamed of it. I'm not ashamed of my paper 
 cap. 
 
 Pol. Why should you be? I daresay Captain Hawtree isn't 
 ashamed of his fourteen and sixpenny gossamer. 
 
 Sam. You think a lot of him cos' he's a captain. Why did he 
 call you my lady ? 
 
 Pol. Because he treated me as one. 1 wish you'd make the 
 same mistake, (they bounce up stage wrangling) 
 
 Est. (sitting with George, tete-a-tete by fire) But we must listen 
 to reason. 
 
 Geo. I hate reason. 
 
 Est. I wonder what it means ? 
 
 Geo. Everything disagreeable. When people insist on talking 
 unpleasantly, they always say listen to reason. 
 
 Sam. (coming down) What will the neighbors say ? 
 
 Pol. I don't care, (coming down) 
 
 Sam. What will the neighbors think f 
 
 Pol. They'll think nothing. They can't think. Like you, they've 
 not been educated up to it. 
 
 Sam. It all comes of your being on the stage. 
 
 Pol. It all comes of your not understanding me or anything else 
 but putty. Now, if you were a gentleman 
 
 Sam. Then of course I should make up to a lady, (they bounce 
 up stage again) 
 
 Geo. Reason's an idiot, two and two are four, and twelve and 
 eight are twenty. That's reason. 
 
 Sam. [coming down) The stage ! Painting your cheeks. 
 
 Pol. Better paint our cheeks than paint nasty old doors as you do. 
 How can you understand art? You, a mechanic. You're not a 
 professional ; you're not in trade ; you are not of the same station 
 
CASTE. \J 
 
 that we are. When the manager speaks to you, you touch your 
 hat, and say, *' Yes, sir," because he's your superior. 
 
 Geo. When people love there's no such thing as money. It 
 don't exist. 
 
 Est. Yes, it does. 
 
 Geo. Then it oughtn't to. 
 
 Sam. The manager employs me, as he does you. Payment is 
 good everywhere and anywhere, whatever is commercial is right. 
 
 Pol. Actors are not like mechanics. They wear cloth coats, 
 and not fustian jackets. 
 
 Sam. I dislike play-actors. 
 
 Pol. And I despise mechanics, [they tear up stage again) 
 
 Geo, I never think of anything else but you. 
 
 Est. Really! 
 
 Sam. [coming down) Polly, I won't stay here to be insulted. 
 
 [putting on cap) 
 
 Pol. Nobody wants you to stay. Go ! 
 
 Sam. I will go. Good-bye, Miss Mary Eccles. [crosses C. to door, 
 R.) I shan't come here again, [turning to door) 
 
 Pol. Don't ! good riddance to bad rubbish ! 
 
 Sam. You can go to your captain. 
 
 Pol. And you to your putty, [leaning against table facing him) 
 
 Est. And so you think you shall always love as you do now ? 
 
 Geo. More ! 
 
 Pol. Now, you shan't go. [locking door, taking out key, which 
 she pockets ; places back against door) Now I'll just show you my 
 power. 
 
 Sam. Miss Eccles, let me out. [advancing to door) 
 
 Pol. Shan't. 
 
 Est. Now you two. [postman s knock) The postman. 
 
 Sam. Now you must let me go ; you must unlock the door! 
 
 Pol. No, I needn't, [opens window, looking out) Here, postman. 
 [takes letter) Thank you ; Esther. 
 
 Est. [rising] Forme? 
 
 Pol. Yes. (gives it to her, closes windmv, and returns to door 
 triumphantly) 
 
 Est. [going down L. of 'table) From Manchester. 
 
 Geo. Manchester? [corning down l., back of table) 
 
 Est. (l. c, reading) I've got the engagement, £4 a week. 
 
 ( George places his arm round her) 
 
 Geo. You shan't go, Esther. Stay, be my wife. 
 
 Est. But the world, your world ? 
 
 Geo. Damn the world, you're my world. Stay with your hus- 
 band, Mrs. D'Alroy. 
 
 Sam. I will go out. [with sudden determination) 
 
 Pol. You can't and you shan't. 
 
 Sam. I can. I will ! (opens window and jumps out) 
 
1 8 CASTE. 
 
 Pol. [frightened) He's hurt himself. Sam, dear Sam ! [run- 
 ning to window — Sam's face appears at window — Polly sh u ts it 
 down violently — during this George has kissed Esther) 
 
 Geo. My wife ! [the handle of door is heard to rattle, then the 
 door is shaken violently — Esther crosses to Polly, up c, who 
 gives her key — Esther then opens the door — Eccles reels in very 
 drunk and clings to the corner of bureau, r., for support — George 
 stands L. c, pulling his moustache — Esther a little way up r. c, 
 lookmg with shame first at her father, then at George — Polly sit- 
 ting in window recess, up c. 
 
 ACT DROP. 
 
 For Call. — George hat in ha?id bidding Esther good-bye, r., 
 Eccles sitting in chair, nods before the fire — Sam again looks in 
 at window — Polly pulls the blind violently. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene. — George's lodgings in Mayfair, opening on the drawing* 
 room — Esther and George discovered sitting in easy chairs, R. 
 and L. of table ; George has his uniform trowsers and spurs on. 
 
 Est. George, dear, you seem out of spirits. 
 
 Geo. [smoking cigarette) Not at all, dear ; not at all. [rallying) 
 
 Est. Then why don't you talk? 
 
 Geo. I've nothing to say. 
 
 Est. That's no reason. 
 
 Geo. I can't talk about nothing. 
 
 Est. Yes, you can. You often do. You used to do so before we 
 were married, [crosses to George and caresses him) 
 
 Geo. No, I didn't. I talked about you and my love for you. D'ye 
 call that nothing? 
 
 Est. [sitting on stool, L. of George) How long have we been 
 married, dear? Let me see, six months yesterday, [dreamily) It 
 hardly seems a week. It almost seems a dream. 
 
 Geo. Awfully jolly dream. Don't let us wake up. [aside) How 
 ever shall I tell her ? 
 
 Est. And when I married you I was twenty-two, wasn't I ? 
 
 Geo. Yes, dear ; but then you know you must have been some 
 age or other. 
 
 Est. No ; but to think that I'd lived two-and-twenty years with- 
 out knowing you. 
 
CASTE. 19 
 
 Geo. What of it, dear? 
 
 Est. It seems such a dreadful waste of time. 
 
 Geo. So it was, awful. 
 
 Est. Do you remember our first meeting? Then I was in the 
 ballet. 
 
 Geo. Yes. Now you're in the heavies. 
 
 Est. Then I was in the front rank. Now I'm of high rank. 
 The Hon. Mrs. George D'Alroy. You promoted me to be your 
 wife. 
 
 Geo. No, dear. You promoted me to be your husband. 
 
 Est. And now I'm one of the aristocracy, ain't I ? 
 
 Geo. Yes, dear. I suppose that we may consider ourselves 
 
 Est. Tell me, George, are you quite sure that you are proud of 
 your poor little humble wife ? 
 
 Geo. Proud of you ! Proud as the winner of the Derby. 
 
 Est. Wouldn't you have loved me better if I'd been a lady? 
 
 Geo. You are a lady. You're Mrs. D'Alroy. 
 
 Est. What will your mamma say when she knows of your mar- 
 riage. I quite tremble at the thought of meeting her. 
 
 Geo. So do I. Luckily she's in Rome. 
 
 Est. Do you know, George, I should like to be married all over 
 again. 
 
 Geo. Not to anybody else, I hope ? 
 
 Est. My darling ! 
 
 Geo. But why over again. Why? 
 
 Est. Our courtship was so beautiful ! it was like in a novel from 
 the library, only better. You, a fine, rich, high-born gen- 
 tleman, coming to our humble little house to court poor me. Do 
 you remember the ballet you first saw me in? that was at Covent 
 Garden. " Jeanne la Folle, or, The Return of the Soldier." {goes 
 to piano) Don't you remember the dance? [plays piano) 
 
 Geo. Esther, how came you to learn to play the piano ? Did 
 you teach yourself? 
 
 Est. Yes ; so did Polly. We can only just touch the notes, to 
 amuse ourselves. 
 
 Geo. How was it ? 
 
 Est. I've told you so often ! 
 
 Geo. Tell me again. (Esther returns to stool at his feet) I'm like 
 the children, I like to hear what I know already. 
 
 Est. Well then, mother died when I was quite young ; I can 
 only just remember her. Polly was an infant, so I had to be 
 Polly's mother. Father, who is a very eccentric man, but a very 
 good one, when you know him (George* s jaw drops and he pulls his 
 moustache), did not take much notice of us, and we got on as well 
 as we could. We used to let the first floor, and a lodger took it — 
 Herr Griffenhaagen. He was a ballet master at the opera. He 
 
20 CASTE. 
 
 took a fancy tome, and asked me if I should like to learn to dance 
 and I told him father couldn't afford to pay for my tuition ; and he 
 said that {imitation) he didn't want payment, but that he would 
 teach me for nothing ; for he had taken a fancy to me, because I 
 was like a little lady he had known long years ago in de far off 
 land he came from. Then he got us an engagement at the 
 theatre. That is how we first were in the ballet. 
 
 Geo. That fellow was a great brick ; I should like to ask him to 
 dinner! What became of him? 
 
 Est. I don't know, he left England. (George fidgets and looks 
 at watch) You are very restless, George, what's the matter? 
 
 Geo. Nothing. 
 
 Est. Are you going out? 
 
 Geo. Yes. [looking at his boots a?td spurs) That's the reason I 
 dined in these. 
 
 Est. To the barracks ? 
 
 Geo. Yes. 
 
 Est. On duty ? 
 
 Geo. (hesitating) On duty ! (rising) And of course when a man 
 is a soldier he must go on duty when he's ordered, and when he's 
 ordered, and — and — (aside) Why did I ever enter the service ? 
 
 Est. (rising and twining her arms round hi?n) George, if you 
 must go out to your club, go. Don't mind leaving me. (taking his 
 hand) Somehow or other, George, these last few days everything 
 seems to have changed with me. I don't know why, sometimes 
 my eyes fill with tears for no reason, and sometimes I feel so 
 happy for no reason. I don't mind being left by myself as I used 
 to do. When you are a few minutes behind time I don't run to the 
 window and watch for you, and turn irritable. Not that I love you 
 less, no! for I love you more ; but often when you are away I 
 don't feel that I am by myself. I never feel alone, (goes to piano 
 and turns over music) 
 
 Geo. What angels women are ! At least this one is ; I forget 
 all about the others, (carriage wheels heard off, R.) If I'd 
 known I could have been so happy, I'd have sold out when I mar- 
 ried, (knock at street door) 
 
 Est. (standing at table) That's for us. 
 
 Geo. (at first window) Hawtree in a hansom ! (aside) He's 
 come for me. I must tell her sooner or later, (at door) Come in, 
 Hawtree. 
 
 Enter, Hawtree in regimentals. 
 
 Haw. How do ? Hope you're well, Mrs. D'Alroy. (co?ning 
 down R., places cap on table) George, are you coming to 
 
 Geo. (r. coming down with him, C.) No, I've dined. We've 
 dined early. 
 
CASTE. 21 
 
 Esther plays scraps of music at piano. 
 
 Haw. {crosses, R., sotto voce) Haven't you told her? 
 
 Geo. [going clown l. ^/Hawtree) No, I daren't. 
 
 Haw. But you must. 
 
 Geo. You know what an awful coward I am. You do it for 
 me. 
 
 Haw. Not for worlds. I have just had my own adieu to make. 
 
 Geo. Ah, yes, to Florence Carburry ; how did she take it? 
 
 Haw. Oh, very well ! 
 
 Geo. Did she cry ? 
 
 Haw. No. 
 
 Geo. Nor exhibit any emotion whatever ? 
 
 Haw. No, not particularly. 
 , Geo. Didn't you kiss her ? 
 
 Haw. No, Lady Clardonax was in the room. 
 
 Geo. Didn't she squeeze your hand? 
 
 Haw. No. 
 
 Geo. Didn't she say anything ? 
 
 Haw. No, except that she hoped to see me back again soon, and 
 that India was a bad climate. 
 
 Geo. Umph! It seems to have been a tragic parting, almost as 
 tragic as parting your back hair. 
 
 Haw. Lady Florence is not the sort of person to make a scene. 
 
 Geo. To be sure she's not your wife ! I wish Esther would be as 
 cool and comfortable, {after a pause) No, I don't, {a rap at door 
 — enter Dixon) Oh, Dixon, lay out my 
 
 Dix. I have laid them out; everything is ready. 
 
 Geo. {after a pause, irresolutely) I must tell her, mustn't I ? 
 
 Haw. Better send for her sister. Let Dixon go for her in a cab. 
 
 Geo. Just so. I'll send him at once. Dixon — {goes up and talks 
 to Dixon) 
 
 Est. {rising) Do you want to have a talk with my husband ? 
 Shall I go into the dining-room ? 
 
 Haw. No, Mrs. D'Alroy. {going to her at piano) 
 
 Geo. No, dear. At once, Dixon. Tell the cabman to drive 
 like — (exit Dixon) — like a cornet just joined, {going down, r. c.) 
 
 Est. {to Hawtree) Are you going to take him anywhere ? 
 
 Haw. No. {aside) Yes, to India, {crosses, c, to George) Tell 
 her now. 
 
 Geo. No, no. I'll wait till I put on my uniform, {going up R. ; 
 the door opens and Polly peeps in) 
 
 Pol. How d'ye do, good people ? quite well? 
 
 Geo. Eh! Didn't you meet Dixon ? 
 
 Pol. Who? 
 
 Geo. Dixon — my man. 
 
 Pol. No. 
 
22 CASTE. 
 
 Geo. [crosses) Confound it ! He'll have his ride for nothing. 
 
 Pol. Bless you, my turtles, [blessing them ballet fashion) George, 
 kiss your mother, (r. C, he kisses her) That's what 1 call an 
 honorable brother-in-law's kiss. I'm not in the way, am I ? 
 
 Geo. (r., behind easy chair) Not at all. I'm very glad you've 
 come. 
 
 Haw. [back to audience and elbow on easy chair, R. ; aside to 
 George) Under ordinary circumstances she's not a very eligible 
 visitor. 
 
 Geo. Caste again, [going up, R.) I'll be back directly. 
 
 Exit George. 
 
 Haw. [crosses, L.) Mrs. D'Alroy, I [shakes hands) 
 
 Est. [who is standing over Polly, at piano) Going ? 
 
 Pol. [rising) I drive you away, Captain ? [taking her parasol from 
 table) 
 
 Haw. No. 
 
 Pol. Yes, I do, I frighten you. I'm so ugly ; I know I do. You 
 frighten me. 
 
 Haw. How so ? 
 
 Pol. You're so handsome, [coming down, L. c.) Particularly in 
 these clothes, for all the world like an inspector of police. 
 
 Est. [half -aside) Polly ! 
 
 Haw. [aside) This is a wild sort of thing in sisters-in-law. 
 
 Pol. Any news, Captain ? 
 
 Haw. [in a drawling tone) No. Is there any news with you ? 
 
 Pol. Yes. We've got a new piece coming out at our theatre. 
 
 Haw. What's it about? 
 
 Pol. [drawling) I don't know, [to Esther) Had him there. 
 (Hawtree drops sword impatiently) Going to kill anybody to-day 
 that you've got your sword on ? 
 
 Haw. No. 
 
 Pol. I thought not. [sings) 
 
 " With a sabre on his brow, 
 And a helmet by his side ; 
 The soldier sweethearts servant maids, 
 And eats cold meat besides." [laughs) 
 
 Enter, George, door r. F., in uniform, carrying in his hand his 
 siuord, sword belt and cap — Esther meets him, takes them from 
 him and places them on chair up, L., then comes half down, l.; 
 George^« dcnufi, R. c. 
 
 Pol. [clapping her hands) Oh, here's a beautiful brother-in-law ! 
 W~hy didn't you come in on your horse as they do at Astley's? 
 Gallop in and say : [imitation) Soldiers of France, the eyes of 
 Europe are a-looking at you. The Empire has confidence in you, 
 and France expects that every man this day will do his little 
 
CASTE. 23 
 
 utmost. The foe is before you — more's the pity — and you are 
 before them — worse luck for you ! Forward ! Go and get killed, 
 and to those who escape the Emperor will give a little bit of rib- 
 bon. Nineteens about ! Forward ! Gallop ! Charge ! {galloping 
 round to R. , imitating bugle and giving point with parasol; she 
 nearly spears Hawtree's nose — Hawtree claps his hand upon his 
 sword-hilt ; she throws herself into chair laughing, and clapping 
 Hawtree's cap from table upon her head — all laugh and applaud 
 — carriage wheels heard without) 
 
 Pol. What's that ? (a peal of knocks heard at street door) 
 
 Geo. [who has hastened to window, up r.) A carriage. Good 
 heavens, my mother ! 
 
 Haw. [at window, R. 1 E.) The Marchioness! 
 
 Est. [crosses to George.) Oh, George ! 
 
 Pol. [crosses to window) A marchioness ! A real live marchioness ! 
 Let me look ! I never saw a 
 
 Geo. [forcing her from window) No, no, no ! She doesn't know 
 I'm married. I must break it to her by degrees. What shall I 
 do? 
 
 Est. Let me go into the bedroom until 
 
 Haw. Too late. She's on the stairs. 
 
 Est. Here then, [going to doors, l. f.) 
 
 Pol. I want to see a real live march 
 
 George lifts her in his arms and places her within folding doors 
 with Esther, crossing to door, r. f. ; Hawtree closes folding 
 doors, l. f., as George opens doorR. f., and admits Marquise. 
 
 Geo. [escorting her down stage, r.) My dear mother, I saw you 
 getting out of the carriage. (Hawtree, up, l.) 
 
 Mar. My dear boy [kissing his forehead), I am so glad I got to 
 London before you embarked. (George nervous ; Hawtree com- 
 ing down, L.) Captain Hawtree, I think. How do you do? 
 
 Haw. [crosses in front of table) Quite well, I thank your ladyship. 
 I trust you are ? 
 
 Mar. [sitting in easy chair, R.) Oh, quite, thanks. Do you 
 still see the Countess and Lady Florence? 
 
 Haw. Yes. 
 
 Mar. Please remember me to them. [Hawtree takes cap from 
 table and places sword under his arm) Are you going ? 
 
 Haw. Yaas. I am compelled, [bows, crosses round back of table ; 
 to George, who meets him, r. c.) I'll beat the door for you at 
 seven. We must be at barracks by the quarter. (George crosses 
 back, l.) Poor devil ! This comes of a man marrying beneath 
 him. 
 
 Exit, Hawtree, door, r. f. ; George comes down L. of table. 
 
 Mar. I'm not sorry that he's gone, for I wanted to talk to you 
 
24 CASTE. 
 
 alone. Strange that a woman of such good birth as the Countess 
 should encourage the attentions of Captain Hawtree for her 
 daughter Florence. Lady Clardonax was one of the old Carburrys 
 of Hampshire — not the Norfolk Carburrys but the direct line, and 
 Mr. Hawtree's grandfather was in trade — something in the City — 
 soap, I think, perhaps' pickles, {points to stool ; George brings it 
 to her ; she motions that he is to sit at her feet ; George does so) 
 He's a very nice person, but parvenu as any one may see by his 
 languor and his swagger. My boy [kissing his forehead), I am 
 sure, will never make a mesalliance. He is a D'Alroy and by his 
 mother's side, Planta Genista. The source of our life stream is 
 Royal ! 
 
 Geo. How is the Marquis? 
 
 Mar. Paralyzed. I left him at Spa with three physicians. He 
 always is paralyzed at this time of the year; it's in the family. The 
 paralysis is not personal but hereditary. I came over to see my 
 steward ; got to town last night. 
 
 Geo. How did you find me out here ? 
 
 Mar. I sent the footman to the barracks, and he saw your man 
 Dixon in the street, and Dixon gave him this address. It's so 
 long since I've seen you. [leans back in chair) You're looking very 
 well, and I daresay when mounted are quite a beau cavalier ; and 
 so, my boy [playing with his hair), you are going abroad for the 
 first time on active service. 
 
 Geo. [aside) Every word can be heard in the next room — if they 
 have only gone upstairs ! 
 
 Mar. And now, my dear boy, before you go I want to give you 
 some advice, and you mustn't despise it because I'm an old 
 woman. We old women know a great deal more than people give 
 us credit for. You are a soldier, so was your father, so was his 
 father, so was mine, so was our Royal founder. We were born to 
 lead — the common people expect it from us. It is our duty. Do 
 you not remember in the chronicles of Froissart — [with great 
 enjoyment) — I think I can quote it word for word. I've a wonder- 
 ful memory for my age. [with closed eyes) It was in the 59th 
 chapter how Godefroy D'Alroy helde the towne of St. Amande 
 during the seige before Tournay. It said the towne was not closed 
 but with pales, and Capt. argue there was Sir Amery of Pany, the 
 Seneschall of Carcassonne, who had said it was not able to holde 
 agaynst an hoeste, when one Godefroy D'Alroy say'd that rather 
 then he woulde depart, he woulde keep it to the best of his power. 
 Whereat the soldiers cheered and say'd " Lead us on, Sir Gode- 
 froy," and then began a fierce assault, and they within were 
 chased, and sought for fro' streete to streete, but Godefroy stayed 
 at the gate so valyantly, that the soldiers helde the towne until the 
 comuynge of the Earl of Haynault with twelve thousand men. 
 
CASTE. 25 
 
 Geo. I wish she'd go. If she once gets on to Froissart she'll 
 never know when to stop, [aside) 
 
 Mar. When my boy fights, and you will fight over there, he is 
 sure to distinguish himself; it his nature to. (toys with his hair) 
 He cannot forget his birth, and when you meet these Asiatic 
 ruffians who have dared to revolt and to outrage humanity, you 
 will strike as your ancestor Galtier of Chevrault struck at Poictiers. 
 Froissart mentions it thus : " Sir Galtier with his four squires was 
 in the front of that battell, and there did marvels in arms, and Sir 
 Galtier rode up to the Prince and said to him, ' Sir, take your horse 
 and ride forth, this journey is yours; God is this day in your 
 hands. Gette us to the French Kynge Catayle. I think verily by 
 his valyantesse he woll not fly. Advance banner in the name of 
 God and ofSaynt George,' and Galtier gallopped forward to see his 
 Kynges victory and meet his own death." 
 
 Geo. If Esther hears all this ! (aside) 
 
 Mar. There is another subject about which I should have spoken 
 to you before this, but an absurd prudery forbade me. I may 
 never see you more. I am old, and you are going into battle 
 (hissing his forehead with emotion) and this may be our last meet- 
 ing, (noise heard within folding doors) What's that? 
 
 Geo. Nothing. My man — Dixon — in there. 
 
 Mar. We may not meet again on this earth. I do not fear your 
 conduct my George, with men, but I know the temptations that 
 beset a youth who is well born ; but a true soldier, a true gentle- 
 man, should not only be without fear but without reproach. It is 
 easier to fight a famous man than to forego the conquest of a love- 
 sick girl. A thousand Sepoys slain in battle cannot redeem the 
 honor of a man who has betrayed the confidence of a confiding 
 woman. Think, George, what a dishonor, what a stain upon your 
 manhood, to hurl a girl to shame and degradation, and what 
 excuse for it? That she is plebeian ! A man of real honor will 
 spare the woman who has confessed her love for him, as he would 
 give quarter to an enemy he had disarmed, (taking his hand) 
 Let my boy avoid the snares so artfully spread, and when he asks 
 his mother to welcome the woman he has chosen for his wife, let 
 me take her to my arms and plant a motherly kiss upon the white 
 brow of a lady, (noise of a fall heard within folding doors) 
 
 Mar. (rising) What's that ? 
 
 Geo. Nothing ! (rising) 
 
 Mar. I heard a cry. (goes up stage and throws openfolding doors, 
 discovering Esther lying on floor, with Polly kneeling over her) 
 
 Pol. George ! George ! 
 
 George goes up and raises Esther in his arms ; Polly goes down, 
 l. and wheels easy chair up L. for her; George places 
 Esther in chair, George on her r. , Polly on her l. 
 
26 CASTE. 
 
 Mar. {coming down, R.) Who are these women t 
 
 Pol. Women ! 
 
 Mar. George D'Alroy, these persons should have been sent 
 away. How could you dare to risk your mother meeting women 
 of their stamp ? 
 
 Pol. {back, l. c, violently) What does she mean? How dare 
 she call us women ? What's she I'd like to know ? 
 
 Geo. Silence, Polly. You mustn't insult my mother. 
 
 Mar. The insult is from you. I leave you, and I hope that time 
 may induce me to forget this scene of degradation, {going up, 
 
 R.) 
 
 Geo. Stay mother. (Marquise goes down a little, r.) Before 
 you go let me present to you Mrs. George D'Alroy, my wife. 
 (George has raised Esther fro?n chair in both arms and supports 
 her to up c.) 
 
 Mar. Married ! 
 
 Geo. Married, {the Marquise sinks into easy chair, R. 
 George replaces Esther in easy chair up l., but still retains her 
 hand — two hesitating taps heard at door — Eccles enters sneakingly) 
 
 Ecc. They told us to come upstairs. When your man came, 
 Polly was out, so I thought I should do instead, {calling at door) 
 Come up, Sam. (enter Sam in his Sunday clothes and smoking a 
 cheroot', he nods and grins') 
 
 Ecc. Sam had just called, so we three, Sam and I, and your 
 man, all came in a hansom cab together. Didn't we, Sam? 
 
 Eccles and Sam go over to the girls, l. 
 
 Mar. {with glasses up, to George) Who is this? 
 
 Geo. {coming down l. of Marquise) My wife's father. 
 
 Eccles comes down smilingly, l. 
 
 Mar. What is he ? 
 
 Geo. A — nothing. 
 
 Ecc. I am one of Nature's noblemen. Happy to see you, my 
 lady, {crosses to her) Now my daughter told me who you are. 
 (George turns his back in an agony) We old folks, father and 
 mother of the young couple, ought to make friends, {holding out 
 his dirty hand) 
 
 Mar. {shrinking back) Go away. What's his name ? 
 
 Eccles goes up again disgusted, L. 
 
 Geo. Eccles. 
 
 Mar. Eccles ! Eccles ! There never was an Eccles. He don't 
 exist. 
 
CASTE. 27 
 
 Ecc. {coming down, l. ) Don't he? What d'ye call this? {goes 
 up again, l., and speaks to Sam) 
 
 Mar. No Eccles was ever born. 
 
 Geo, He takes the liberty of breathing, notwithstanding, {aside) 
 And I wish he wouldn't. 
 
 Mar. And who is the Utile man? Is he also Eccles? 
 
 Sam looks round ; Polly gets close up to him, and looks with defi- 
 ant glance at the Marquise. 
 
 Geo. No. 
 
 Mar. Thank goodness ! What, then ? 
 Geo. His name is Gerridge. 
 
 Mar. Gerridge ! It breaks one's teeth. Why is he here ? 
 Geo. He is making love to Polly, my wife's sister. 
 Mar. And what is he ? 
 Geo. A gasman. 
 
 Mar. He looks it ! (George goes up to Esther, l.) And what is 
 the — the sister? 
 
 Eccles, who has been casting longing eyes at the decanter on table, 
 edges towards it and when he thinks no one is noticing, fills wine 
 glass. 
 
 Pol. {assert i?ig herself indignantly) I'm in the ballet at the Thea- 
 tre Royal, Lambeth — so was Esther. We're not ashamed of what 
 we are. We have no cause to be. 
 
 Sam. {back, L. C. ) That's right, Polly, pitch into the swells. 
 Who are they ? {goes up a little) 
 
 ECCLES by this time has seized wine glass and turning his back is 
 about to drink, when Hawtree enters door, R. flat ; Eccles hides 
 glass under his coat, and pretends to be looking up at picture) 
 
 Haw. {entering) George ! {stops suddenly, looking round) So 
 all's known. 
 
 Mar. {rising) Captain Hawtree, see me to my carriage. I am 
 broken-hearted, {takes Hawtree's arm, crosses, is going up) 
 
 Ecc. {who simultaneously has tasted the claret spits it out again 
 with a grimace exclaiming "Rot." Esther rises from chair in 
 7iervous excitement, clutching George* s hand) 
 
 Geo. {to Marquise) Don't go in anger. You may not see me 
 again. (Marquise stops, R. ; Esther brings George down, c.) 
 
 Est. (l. c, with arm round his neck) Oh ! George, must you 
 go ? 
 
 Geo. Yes. 
 
 Est. I can't leave you — I'll go with you. 
 
 Geo. Impossible, the country is too unsettled. 
 
28 CASTE. 
 
 Est. May I come after you ? 
 
 Geo. Yes. 
 
 Est. [with her head on his shoulder) I may ! 
 
 Mar. [coming down, r ) It is his duty to go — his honor calls him. 
 The honor of his family — our honor ! 
 
 Est. But I love him so. Pray don't be angry with me. 
 
 Haw. [looking at watch and coming down, C. ) George ! 
 
 Geo. I must go. love. [Hawtree goes up, r. c.) 
 
 Mar. {advancing) Let me arm you, George — let your mother, 
 as in the days of old. There is blood and blood, my son, let Radi- 
 cals and rebels rave as they will — see, your wife cries, when she 
 should be proud of you. 
 
 Geo. My Esther is all that is true, good, and noble. No lady 
 born to a coronet could be gentler or more true. Esther, my wife, 
 fetch me my sword, and buckle my belt round me. [whispers to 
 Esther) It will please my mother, [to Marquise) You shall see. 
 (Esther totters up stage, l., and brings down his sword, Polly his 
 cap ; as Esther is trying to buckle his belt he whispers) I've left 
 money for you, my darling. My lawyer will call on you to-morrow. 
 Forgive me, I tried to tell you we were ordered forlndia, but when 
 the time came my heart failed me and I 
 
 Esther, before she can succeed in fastening his sword belt, reels and 
 falls fainting in his arms — Polly hurries to her, L., and takes 
 her hand — Sam standing at piano looking frightened — Eccles at 
 back very little concerned — Hawtree with hand upon handle of 
 door, R. f ( , and Marquise looking o n r. of George. 
 
 ACT DROP. 
 
 For Call. — Esther in chair fainting — Polly and Sam each side of 
 her holding her hands — the folding doors, L. C, thrown open and 
 Eccles standing within holding up bottle of brandy to the light, 
 with triumphant grin on his face. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene. — The room in Stangate [as in Act /.) — Polly discovered, 
 dressed in black, seated at table, R. corner of it — she is placing the 
 skirt in bandbox as curtain rises. 
 
 Pol. [placing skirt in box and leaning her chin upon her hand) 
 There, there's the dress for poor Esther in case she gets the engage- 
 ment, which I don't suppose she will ; it's too good luck, and good 
 luck never comes to her, poor thing, [rises and goes up to cradle, 
 
CASTE. 29 
 
 up c.) Baby's asleep still. How good he looks, as good as if he 
 were dead, like his poor father, and alive too at the same time, like 
 his dear self. Oh dear me, it's a strange world, [sits again as 
 before, feeling in pocket for jnoney) Four and elevenpence ; that 
 must do for to-day and to-morrow. Esther's going to bring in the 
 rusks for Georgie. [takes up slate) Three, 5, 8and4, 12, 1 shilling. 
 Um, father can only have twopence ; he must make do with that 
 till Saturday, when I get my salary. If Esther gets the engage- 
 ment I shan't have many more salaries to take. I shall leave the 
 stage and retire into private life. I wonder if I shall like private 
 life, and if private life will like me. It will seem so strange being 
 no longer Miss Mary Eccles — Mary Eccles — but Mrs. Samuel 
 Gerridge. [writes it on slate) Mrs. Samuel Garridge. [laughs bash- 
 fully) La ! To think of my being Mrs. Anybody. How annoyed 
 Susan Smith will be, [writing on slate) Mrs. Samuel Gerridge pre- 
 sents her compliments to Miss Susan Smith, and Mrs. Samuel 
 Gerridge requests the favor of Miss Susan Smith's company to tea 
 on Tuesday evening next, at Mrs. Samuel Gerridge's house. 
 [pause) Poor Susan! [beginning again) p. s., Mrs. Samuel Ger- 
 ridge- [knock heard at room door; Polly starts) 
 
 Sam. [without) Polly, open the door. 
 
 Pol. Sam ! [wipes out note on slate) Come in. 
 
 Sam. [without) I can't. 
 
 Pol. Why not? 
 
 Sam. I've got something on my head. 
 
 Polly rises and opens door, R. — Sam enters, carrying a small 
 table on his head ; he has a rule pocket in corduroys ; rule seen. 
 
 Pol. What's that? [shuts door) 
 
 Sam. Furniture, [going down, R. and depositing table) How 
 are you, my Polly? [kissing her) Bless you, you look handsomer 
 than ever this morning, [dances and sings) Fiddle-de tum-ti-di-do. 
 
 Pol. What's the matter, Sam, are you mad? 
 
 Sam. No, happy ; much the same thing. 
 
 Pol. Where have you been these two days? 
 
 Sam. That's just what I'm going to tell you. Polly, my pet, my 
 brightest batswing and most brilliant burner, what do you think? 
 
 Pol. Oh, do go on, Sam, or I'll slap your face. 
 
 Sam. Well, you've heard me speak of old Binks the plumber, 
 and glazier, and gasfitter, who died six months ago ? 
 
 Pol. Yes. 
 
 Sam. I've bought his business, [sits on table) 
 
 Pol. No! 
 
 Sam. Yes, of his widow, Mrs. Binks. So much down, so much 
 more at the end of the year, [dances and sings up, R.) Ri ti 
 toodle, roodle oodle. Ri ti tooral ororal lay. 
 
30 CASTE. 
 
 Pol. [sitting 07i chair, L. end of ' tabic) La, Sam! 
 
 Sam. [pacing stage up and down) Yes, I've bought the good-will, 
 fixtures, fittings, stock, rolls of gas pipe, and sheets of lead, {sits 
 on table facing Polly) I am a tradesman with a shop, a master 
 tradesman ; all I want to complete the premises is a missus, [tries 
 to kiss her ; she slaps his face) 
 
 Pol. Sam, don't be foolish ! [she goes up l. of table, taking the 
 slate up with her) 
 
 Sam. [following) Come and be Mrs. Sam Gerridge, Polly, my 
 patent safety day and night light. You'll furnish me completely. 
 ( Polly puts slate on table up l. , Sam snatches it up and looks at 
 it ; she snatches it from him with a shriek and rubs out writing, look- 
 ing daggers at him — he conies down stage, L., with a grin) 
 
 Pol. Only to think ! 
 
 Sam. [coming down with Polly) I spent all yesterday looking 
 up furniture. I bought that a bargain, [opens drawer of table, r.) 
 And I brought it to show you for your approval. I've bought lots 
 of other things, and I'll bring 'em all here to show you for your 
 approval. 
 
 Pol. I couldn't think what had become of you. 
 
 Sam. Look here, {producing patterns of paper) I want you to 
 choose the pattern for the back parlor behind the shop. I'll new 
 paper it and new paint it, and new furnish it. It shall be all bran 
 new. 
 
 Pol. (l. of table) But won't it cost a lot of money, Sam ? 
 
 Sam. I can work for it. With customers in the shop, and you 
 in the back parlor, I can work like fifty men. [sits on table, r. c, 
 with arm round Polly) Only fancy at night when the shop's 
 closed and the shutters are up, counting out the till together. 
 Besides, that isn't all I've done ; I've been writing, and what I've 
 written I've got printed. 
 
 Pol. No! 
 
 Sam. True. 
 
 Pol. You've been writing about me. [delighted) 
 
 Sam. No, about the shop. (Polly disgusted) Here it is. [takes 
 roll of circulars from pocket) You mustn't laugh ; you know it's my 
 first attempt. I wrote it the night before last, and when I thought 
 of you, Polly, the words seemed to flow like red hot solder, [reads) 
 "Sam Gerridge takes this opportunity of informing the nobility, 
 gentry, and inhabitants of the Borough Road." You know there's 
 not many of the nobility and gentry live in the Borough Road ; 
 but it pleases the inhabitants to make ; em believe you think so, 
 "Of informing the nobility, gentry, and inhabitants of the Borough 
 Road, and its vicinity" — that's rather good, I think? [looking at 
 her) 
 
 Pol. Yes ; I've heard worse. 
 
 Sam. I first thought of saying neighborhood, but I thought 
 
CASTE. 31 
 
 vicinity sounded more genteel. " And its vicinity, that he has 
 entered upon the business of the late Mr. Binks, his relict, the 
 present Mrs. B., having disposed to him of the same." Now 
 listen, Polly, because it gets interesting — " S. G. — " 
 
 Pol. S. G. Who's he? 
 
 Sam. Me, S. G., Samuel Gerridge, me — us — we're S. G. Don't 
 interrupt me or you'll cool my metal and then I can't work. " S. 
 G. , hopes by a constant attention to business and " — mark this — 
 "by supplying the best articles at the most reasonable prices, to 
 merit a continuance of those favors which it will ever be his con- 
 stant study to deserve." There ! [turning on table to R., triumph- 
 antly) Stop a bit — there's more yet — "bell-hanging, gas-fitting, 
 plumbing and glazing as usual." There — it's all my own. [puts 
 circular on mantelpiece, crosses, R., contemplates it) And now, 
 Polly [taking his table up, r.; postman's knock) I'll go— I shall 
 send some of these out by post, [goes off R. D., atid returns with 
 letter) 
 
 Pol. [taking it) Oh ! for Esther. I know who it's from, [places 
 letter on mantelpiece, seriously) Sam, who do you think was here 
 last night ? 
 
 Sam. Who? 
 
 Pol. Captain Hawtree. [comes across, L. c.) 
 
 Sam. [depreciatingly) On, come back from India, I suppose? 
 
 Pol. Yes ; luckily Esther was out. 
 
 Sam. I never liked that long swell. He. was an uppish, con- 
 ceited 
 
 Pol. [sitting L. end of table) Oh, he's better than he used to be. 
 He's a major now. He's only been in England a fortnight. 
 
 Sam. (l.) Did he tell you anything about poor D'Alroy ? 
 
 Pol. [leaning against table end) Yes ; he said he was riding out 
 not far from the cantonment, and was surrounded by a troop of 
 Sepoy cavalry, which took him prisoner and galloped off with him. 
 
 Sam. But about his death ? 
 
 Pol. Oh! [hiding her face) Oh! that, he said, was believed to 
 be too terrible to mention. 
 
 Sam. Did he tell you anything else ? 
 
 Pol. No ; he asked a lot of questions, and I told him everything. 
 How poor Esther had taken her widowhood, and what a dear good 
 baby the baby was, and what a comfort to us all, and how Esther 
 had come back to live with us again. 
 
 Sam. And the reason for it ? [sharply) 
 
 Pol. [looking down) Yes. 
 
 Sam. How your father got the money that was left for Esther? 
 
 Pol. Don't say any more about that, Sam. [sharply) 
 
 Sam. I only think Captain Hawtree ought to know where the 
 money did go, and that you shouldn't screen your father and let 
 him suppose that you and Esther spent it all. 
 
 Pol. I told him. 
 
32 CASTE. 
 
 Sam. Did you tell him that your father was always at harmonic 
 meetings, at taverns, and had half-cracked himself by drink, and 
 was always singing the songs and making the speeches that he 
 heard there, and that he was always going on about his wrongs as 
 one of the working classes? He's a pretty one for one of the 
 working classes — he is ! Hasn't done a stroke of work these 
 twenty years. Now, I am one of the working classes, but I don't 
 howl about it. I only work and I don't spout, {goes up C, and 
 comes down again) 
 
 Pol. Hold your tongue, Sam. I won't have you say any more 
 against poor father. He has his faults, but he's a very clever 
 man. [sighing) 
 
 Sam. Oh ! What else did Captain Hawtree say? 
 
 Pol. He advised us to apply to Mr. D'Alroy's mother. 
 
 Sam. The Marquissy ? And what did you say ? 
 
 Pol. I said that Esther wouldn't hear of it, and so the Major said 
 that he'd write to Esther, and I suppose this is the letter. 
 
 Sam. Now, Polly, come and choose the paper, [going up, C.) 
 
 Pol. [rising) Can't ; who's to mind baby ? 
 
 Sam. [at window) There's your father passing, won't he mind 
 him ? 
 
 Pol. [going up, c.) I daresay he will. If I promise him an extra 
 sixpence on Saturday, [tapping at window) Hi! Father! 
 
 Sam. [aside) He looks down in the mouth. I suppose he's had 
 no drink, [goes down, R.) 
 
 Enter Eccles in shabby black ; taking half circle of stage, he sits 
 before fire, l. 
 
 Ecc. No, not for long, [placing hat on table) Good morning, 
 Samuel. Going back to work — that's right, my boy. Stick to it ! 
 [pokes fire) Stick to it ! Nothing like it ! 
 
 Sam. [down, R. c; aside) Now isn't that too bad. No, Mr. 
 Eccles, I've knocked off for the day. [crosses to him) 
 
 Ecc. [waving poker) That's bad — that's bad. Nothing like work 
 for the young. I don't work so much as I used to myself; but I 
 like to see the young uns at it. It does me good, and it does them 
 good too. What does the poet say ? [rising impressively) 
 
 " A carpenter said, tho' that was well spoke, 
 It was better by far to defend it with oak ; 
 A currier, wiser than both these together, 
 Said, say what you will there is nothing like labor. 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 Your ribbon, gown, and a' that ; 
 The rank is but the guinea stamp, 
 The working man's the gold for a' that." 
 
 [sits again, triumphantly wagging his head) 
 
CASTE. 33 
 
 Sam. {aside) This is the sort of public-house loafer that wants 
 the wages and no work, an idle old [goes up in disgust) 
 
 Pol. [on Eccles' l.) Esther will be in by and bye. Do, 
 father. (Eccles: No, no, I tell you I wont) [whispering ; arm 
 around his neck) And I'll give you sixpence extra on Saturday. 
 
 Ecc. Oh! Very well. (Polly gets hat and cloak from peg up 
 r.) Oh, you puss, ypu know how to get over your poor old 
 father. 
 
 Sam. [aside) Yes ; with sixpence. 
 
 Pol. [putting on bonnet and cloak) Give the cradle a rock if baby 
 cries, father. 
 
 Sam. If you should want employment or amusement, Mr. 
 Eccles, cast your eye over that. ( gives him circular and exit with 
 Polly, d. r. ; Eccles lights pipe and stands with back to fire, 
 smoking vigorously ; a pause) 
 
 Ecc. Poor Esther ! nice market she's brought her pigs to. Ugh ! 
 Mind the baby indeed; what good is he to me ? That fool of a 
 girl to throw away all her chances — a honorablcss — and her father 
 not to have a quartern of cool refreshing gin ; stopping in here to 
 rock a young honorable ; cuss him ! (l. of cradle, rocking it) 
 Are we slaves, we working men? [sings savagely) Britons never, 
 never, never shall be — [dashes pipe into fireplace, and going down, 
 sits at end of table, l. of it ; nodding his head sagaciously ; hands 
 in his trousers pockets) However, I won't stand this much longer ; 
 I've writ to the old cat, I mean to the Marquissy, to tell her that 
 her daughter-in-law and her grandson is almost starving. That fool 
 Esther, too proud to write to her for money. I hate pride, it's 
 beastly! [rising) There's no beastly pride about me. [goes up R. 
 of table, smacking his lips) I'm as dry as a lime kiln, [crosses to 
 ?nanlelpiece and takes up dram bottle) Empty, [replaces it, takes up 
 jug from table) Milk, [with disgust) For this young aristocratic 
 pauper ; everybody in the house is sacrificed for him. [at foot of 
 cradle, r. c, with hands on chair back) And to think that a work- 
 ing man, and a member of the Committee of the Banded Brothers 
 for the regeneration of human kind by means of equal diffusion of 
 intelligence and equal division of property should be thirsty while 
 this cub — [draws apart curtain and looks at child — after a pause) 
 That there coral he's got round his neck is gold, real gold [with 
 hand on knot at end of cradle, r. c, ) Oh ! society ! Oh ! Govern- 
 ments ! Oh! Class Legislature — is this right? Shall this mindless 
 wretch enjoy himself while sleeping with a jewelled gaud, and his 
 poor old grandfather wants the price of half-pint? No, it shall not 
 be. Rather than see it I will myself resent this outrage on the 
 rights of man, and in this holy crusade of class against class, of 
 weak and lowly against the powerful and the strong, [pointing to 
 child) I will strike one blow for freedom, [goes to back of cradle) 
 He's asleep. It will fetch ten bob round the corner, and if the 
 
34 CASTE. 
 
 Marquissy gives us anything it can be got out with some o' that. 
 [steals coral) Lie still, my darling. It's grandfather's a-watching 
 
 you ! 
 
 " Who ran to catch me when I fell, 
 
 And kicked the place to make it well 
 
 My grandfather." 
 
 As he is going off at door, R., enter Esther ; she is dressed like a 
 widow, pale face, and her manner quick, stem, and imperious ; 
 she carries a parcel and paper bag of rusks in her hand. 
 
 Ecc. My love ! 
 
 Esther passes, puts parcel on table, goes to cradle, kneels down and 
 kisses child — Ecclbs fumbles with the lock nervously, and is going 
 out as Esther speaks) 
 
 Est. My Georgie ! Where's his coral? Gone! Father, — (rising; 
 Eccles stops)— the coral ! Where is it? 
 
 Ecc. (confused) Where's what? 
 
 Est. The coral ! You've got it ; I know it. Give it me. (quickly 
 and imperiously) Give it me- give itme. (Eccles takes coral from 
 his pocket and gives it back) 
 
 Est. If you dare to touch my child ! (goes to cradle) 
 
 Ecc. Esther, am I not your father ? (coming down, R. Esther 
 gets round table to l. c.) 
 
 Est. And I am his mother. 
 
 Ecc. (coming down) Do you bandy words with me, you 
 pauper, to whom I have given shelter, shelter to you and your 
 brat. I've a good mind — (advancing to her with clejiched fist) 
 
 Est. (confronting him) If you dare ! I am no longer your little 
 drudge, your frightened servant. When mother died and I was so 
 high, I tended you, and worked for you, and you beat me. That 
 time is past. I am a woman, I am a wife, a widow, a mother. Do 
 you think I will let you outrage him ? (pointing to cradle) Touch 
 me if you dare ! (advancing a step) 
 
 Ecc. (bursting into tears) And -this is my own child which I 
 nursed when a baby, and sung cuotsicum coo to afore she could 
 speak. Honorable Mrs, D'Alroy, I forgive you for all that you 
 have said. In everything that I have done I've acted with the best 
 intentions. May the babe in that cradle never treat you as you 
 have tret me — a grey 'air'd father. May he never cease to love 
 and >#onor you as you have ceased to love and /tonor me, after 
 all that I've done for you, and the position to which I've raised 
 you by my own industry. May he never behave to you like the 
 bad daughters of King Lear ; and may you never live to feel 
 how sharper than a serpent's scales it is to have a thankless child. 
 
 Exit, R. D. 
 
CASTE, 35 
 
 > Est. {kneeling by cradle) My darling ! [arranging bed and plac- 
 ing coral to the baby's lips and then to her own) Mamma's come 
 back to her own. Did she stay away from him so long ? (rises 
 and looks at the sabre, etc.) My George, to think you never can 
 ook upon his face, nor hear his voice ! My brave gallant, and 
 handsome husband! My lion and my love! (comes down c 
 Pacing the stage) Oh ! to be a soldier, and to fight the wretches 
 who destroyed him, who took my darling from me ! (action of cut- 
 ting with sabre) To gallop miles upon their upturned faces' 
 [crosses L. with action ; sees letter) What's this! Captain Hawtree's 
 hand (reads) "My dear Mrs. D'Alroy, I returned to England 
 less than a fortnight ago. I have some papers and effects of 
 my poor friend's, which I am anxious to deliver to you, and I 
 beg of you to name a day when I can call with them and see 
 you. At the same time let me express my deepest sympathv 
 with your affl.ction. Your husband's loss was mourned by every 
 man in the regiment. (Esther lays the letter on her heart and then 
 resumes reading) I have heard with great pain of the pecuniary 
 embarrassments into which accident and the imprudence of others 
 have placed you. I trust you will not consider me, one of poor 
 George s oldest comrades and friends, either intrusive or imperti- 
 nent in sending the enclosed— (5^ takes out cheoue)-and in hop- 
 ing that should any further difficulties arise vou will inform me 
 of them, and remember that I am, dear Mrs. D'Alroy, now and 
 always, your faithful and sincere friend, Arthur Hawtree " 
 ( Esther goes to cradle and bends over it) Oh, his boy, if you could 
 read it! (crosses) ; ; 
 
 Enter, Polly, r. d. 
 
 Pol. Father gone ? 
 to Esther! 7 ' Y ° U l0 ° k ^ flurried " ( PoLLY iau £ hs and whispers 
 
 Est (near head of table taking Polly in her arms and kissin? 
 her) So soon ! well, my darling, I hope you may be happy, (sobs) 
 
 Pol. (crosses L. round table and putting rusks in saucepan] Did 
 you see the agent, dear ? * ' 
 
 Est. (r. of table) Yes ; the manager didn't come, he broke his 
 appointment again. 
 
 Pol. (l. of table) Nasty rude fellow ! 
 
 Est. (seated) The agent said it didn't matter. He thought I 
 should get the engagement; he'll only give me thirty shillings a 
 week though. fe 
 
 Pol. But you said that two pounds was the regular salary 
 
 Est. (handkerchief to eyes) Yes, but they know I'm poor, and 
 
 want the engagement, and so take advantage of me. (with her 
 
 handkerchief to her eyes) 
 
36 CASTE. 
 
 Pol. I put the dress in the bandbox ; it looks almost as good as 
 new. 
 
 Est. {seated) I've had a letter from Captain Hawtree. 
 
 Pol. I know, dear, he came here last night. 
 
 Est. A dear good letter, speaking of George, and enclosing me 
 a cheque for £30. 
 
 Pol. {up at cupboard) Oh, how kind! You mustn't let father 
 know of it. {coming down to table — noise of carriage wheels without) 
 
 Est. I shan't. 
 
 Eccles enters, breathless ; Esther rises ; Polly runs to window. 
 
 Ecc. It's the Marquissy in her coach. Now be civil to her, and 
 she may do something for us ; I see the coach as I was coming 
 from the Rainbow. ( Polly places chairs in order) 
 
 Ecc. [at door) This way, my lady ; up them steps ; they're rather 
 awkward for anybody like you, but them as is poor and lowly 
 must do as best they can with steps and circumstances. 
 
 Esther and Polly, l. at end of table — enter Marquise, d. r. ; 
 she surveys the place with aggressive astonishment — Esther drops 
 the costume into bandbox, and Polly puts the lid on it. 
 
 Mar. [half aside, going down, R. ) What a hole, and for my 
 grandson to breathe such an atmosphere, and to be contaminated 
 by such associations, [to Eccles, who is a little up, r. c.) Which 
 is the young woman who married my son ? 
 
 Est. I am Mrs. D'Alroy, widow of George D'Alroy. Who are 
 you? 
 
 Mar. I am his mother, the Marquise de St. Maur. 
 
 Est. [with a grand air) Be seated, I beg. 
 
 Mar. {rejecting chair offered servilely by Eccles, and looking 
 round) The chairs are all dirty. (Sam enters with an easy chair on 
 his head, which he puts down, l. not seeing Marquise, who 
 instantly sits down in it, concealing it completely) 
 
 Sam. {astonished, l. corner) It's the Marquissy. {looking at her) 
 These here aristocrats are fine women though. Plenty of 'em. {des- 
 cribing circle) Quality and quantity. 
 
 Pol. (l. of table end) Sam, you'd better come back. (Eccles 
 nudges him and bustles him towards door) 
 
 Sam. {going towards door, aside) She's here. What's coming, I 
 wonder ! (exit Sam ; Eccles shuts door on him) 
 
 Ecc. {coming down, R. C, rubbing his hands) If we'd a-know'd 
 your ladyship had bin a-coming we'd a had the place cleaned up 
 a bit. [with hands on chair back ; Esther snatches chair from him ; 
 he gets round to r., behind Marquise) 
 
 Mar. {to Esther) You remember me, do you not? 
 
 Est. Perfectly, though I only saw you once, [seating herself en 
 
CASTE. 37 
 
 grande dame, l. c.) May I ask what has procured me the honor of 
 this visit ? 
 
 Mar. I was informed that you were in want and I came here to 
 offer you assistance. 
 
 Est. I thank you for your offer, and the delicate consideration 
 for my feelings with which it is made. I need no assistance. 
 
 Mar. A letter I received last night informed me that you did. 
 
 Est. May I ask ifthat letter came from Captain Hawtree? 
 
 Mar. No, from this person, your father, I think. 
 
 Est. [to Eccles) How dare you interfere in my affairs? 
 
 Ecc. My love, I did it with the best intentions. 
 
 Mar. Then you will not accept assistance from me? 
 
 Est. No. 
 
 Pol. {aside to Esther, holding her hand) Bless you, my darling. 
 
 Mar. But you have a child — a son — my grandson, [with emo- 
 tion) 
 
 Est. Master D'Alroy wants for nothing. 
 
 Pol. [aside) And never shall ! 
 
 Mar. I came here to propose that my grandson should go back 
 with me. 
 
 Est. [rising defiantly) What, part with my boy ? I'd sooner die ! 
 
 Mar. You can see him when you wish — as for money I 
 
 Est. Not for ten thousand million worlds — not for ten thousand 
 million marchionesses. 
 
 Ecc. Better do what the good lady asks you, my dear. She's 
 advising you for your good and for the child's likewise. 
 
 Mar. Surely you cannot intend to bring up my son's son in a 
 place like this ? (Esther goes up, c.) 
 
 Ecc. It is a poor place, and we are poor people, sure enough. 
 We ought not to fly in the faces of our pastors and masters — our 
 pastresses and mistresses. 
 
 Pol. Oh, hold your tongue, do. [aside ; goes up to cradle) 
 
 Est. [before cradle) Master George D'Alroy will remain with his 
 mother. The offer to take him from her is an insult to his dead 
 father and to him. 
 
 Ecc. He don't seem to feel it, stuck up little beast. 
 
 Mar. But you have no money. How can you rear him ? How 
 can you educate him? How can you live? 
 
 Est. [tearing dress from bandbox) Turn Columbine ! Go on the 
 stage again and dance. 
 
 Mar. [rising) You are insolent. You forget that I am a lady. 
 
 Est. You forget that I am a mother, [replaces dress in box) Do 
 you dare to offer to buy my child, his breathing image, his liv- 
 ing memory, with money? [crosses to door, r., and throws it open) 
 There is the door. Go ! [picture) 
 
 Ecc. [to Marquise, who has risen) Very sorry, my lady, as you 
 should be tret in this way, which was not my wishes. 
 
38 CASTE. 
 
 Mar. Silence! (Eccles retreats, R., putting back chair; Mar- 
 quise goes up to door, r.) Mrs. D'Alroy, if anything could have 
 increased my sorrow for the wretched marriage my poor son was 
 decoyed into, it would be your conduct this day to his mother, 
 (exit, R. D.) 
 
 Ecc. {looking after her at door, r.) To go away and not leave a 
 sou behind her. Cat! cat! stingy cat! (crosses to fire h., sits and 
 pokes it violently — carriage wheels heard without — Polly goes and 
 kisses Esther up c.) 
 
 Est. Take me to my room. I'll lie down. Let me have the 
 baby or that old woman may come back and steal him. 
 
 Exeunt, Esther and Polly with the baby, R. D. 
 
 Ecc. (rocking in chair) Well, women is the obstinatest devils 
 that never wore horse shoes, (striking table) Children ! beasts ! 
 beasts ! 
 
 Enter, Sam and Polly, r. d. 
 
 Sam. I'll tell him now and get it over at once. (Polly lakes 
 bandbox front table and places it up l. corner) And now, Mr. 
 Eccles, since you've been talking on family affairs, I'd like to have 
 a word with you, so take this opportunity to 
 
 Ecc. {raising his head sharply) Take what you like and then 
 order more, (rising and down, l. c.) Samuel Gerridge, that hand 
 is a hand that never turned its back on a friend or a bottle to give 
 him. (sings) I will stand by my friend, if he'll stand to me, me, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Sam. Well, Mr. Eccles, sir, it's this. 
 
 Pol. (aside; coming down R. of table) Don't tell him too sud- 
 den, Sam, it might shock his feelings, (goes round and sits l. of 
 table end) 
 
 Sam. It's this. You know that for the past four years I've been 
 keeping company with Mary — Polly. (Polly sits l., behind eitd 
 of table) 
 
 Ecc. (sinking into chair) Go it, go it. Strike home, young man, 
 strike on this grey head, (sings) Britons, strike home, home here ! 
 (tapping his chest) To my heart, don't spare me. Have a go at 
 my grey hairs. Pull 'em, pull 'em out, a long pull, a strong pull, 
 and a pull altogether, (cries and drops his face on arm upon table) 
 
 Pol. (l. of table) Oh, father, I wouldn't hurt your feelings for 
 the world, (kissing him) 
 
 Sam. (crosses to Eccles) Mr. Eccles, I wouldn't wish to annoy 
 you, sir, but now I'm going to enter upon a business. Here's a 
 circular, (giving one) 
 
 Ecc. (indignantly) What are circulars compared to a father's 
 feelings ? 
 
CASTE. 39 
 
 Sam, And I wish Polly to name the day, sir, and so I ask 
 you. 
 
 Ecc. This is 'ard. This is 'ard. This is ' ard. One o' my gals 
 marries a so-dger, the other goes a gasfitting. 
 
 Sam. The business, which will enable me to maintain a wife, is 
 that of the late Mr. Binks, plumber, glazier, etc. 
 
 Ecc. [sings) They have given thee to a plumber ! They have 
 broken every vow. They have given thee to a plumber, and my 
 heart is breaking now, now, gentlemen. 
 
 Pol. You know, father, you can come and see me. 
 
 Ecc. [rising and holding out his hand) So I can and that's a 
 comfort, [shaking her hand) and you can see me, and that's a 
 comfort ; I'll come and see you often — every day (Sam turns up 
 stage in horror ) and crack a fatherly bottle, and shed a friendly 
 tear. 
 
 Pol. Do, father, do. 
 
 Sam. [ivith agulp) Yes, Mr. Eccles, do. 
 
 Ecc. I will, [he takes the hand of each and goes down with them) 
 And this it is to be a father. ( puts hat on from bureau and returns, 
 C) I would part with any of my children for their own good 
 readily if I was paid for it. [sings) For I know that the angels are 
 whispering to me — me, gentlemen. 
 
 Sam. I will make Polly a good husband, and anything that I 
 can do to prove it [lowering his voice) in the way of spirituous 
 liquors and tobacco [slipping coin into his hand unseen by Polly) 
 shall be done. 
 
 Ecc. [lighting up) " Be kind to thy father, wherever you be, for 
 he is a blessing and credit to thee — thee, gentlemen." [goes up, r. ) 
 Well, my children, bless you ; take the blessing of a grey-hair'd 
 father. (Polly sobbing ; Eccles comes down, c, to Sam) Samuel 
 Gerridge, she shall be 'thine. You shall be her husband, [looking 
 at money) A friend is awaiting for me outside which I want to have 
 a word with, and may you never know how much more sharper 
 than a serpent's tooth it is to have a marriageable daughter. 
 [sings) 
 
 " When I heard he was married, 
 I breathed not a tone, 
 The h'eyes of all round me 
 Was fixed on my own. 
 I flew to my chamber 
 To hide my despair ; 
 I tore the bright circlet 
 Of gems from my hair. 
 When I heard she was married. 
 
 When I heard she was Exit, door, R. 
 
 [without) Married, gentlemen." 
 
40 CASTE. 
 
 Pol. [drying her eyes) There, Sam, I always told you that 
 though father had his faults his heart was in the right place. 
 
 Sam. [at end of table, aside) Poor Polly ! [goes up, a knock at R. 
 door ; Sam sits on table, L.) 
 
 Pol. Come in ! 
 
 Enter, H awt ree in black. 
 
 Haw. I met the Marquise's carriage on the bridge. Has she 
 been here? (Sam crosses to fire and stands with back to it) 
 
 Pol. Yes. 
 
 Haw. What happened ? 
 
 Pol. Oh, she wanted to take away the child, [crosses round to 
 cupboard up l. ) 
 
 Sam. In the coach. 
 
 Haw. And what did Mrs. D'Alroy say to that? 
 
 Sam. Mrs. D'Alroy said she'd see her flow'd first, or words to 
 that effect. 
 
 Haw. I am sorry to hear this. I had hoped — however, that's 
 over. 
 
 Pol. Yes, it's over, and I hope we shall hear no more about it. 
 Want to take away the child indeed ! Like her impudence ! 
 What next! [getting ready tea things) Esther's gone to lie down. 
 I shan't wake her up for tea, though she's had nothing to eat all 
 day. 
 
 Sam. (l. of table) Shall I fetch some shrimps? 
 
 Pol. (l. of table) No ; what made you think of shrimps? 
 
 Sam. They're a relish, and consoling — at least I always find 'em 
 so. [Sam goes up and pulls down blind) 
 
 Pol. I won't ask you, Major, to take tea with us, you're too 
 grand. 
 
 Haw. [placing hat on piano) Not at all ; I shall be most happy. 
 [aside) 'Pon my word, these are a very good sort of people. I'd 
 no idea [sits R. of table, Polly and Sam, l.) 
 
 Pol. Sam, light the gas. 
 
 Sam. No, don't light up ; I like this sort of dusk. It's unbusi- 
 nesslike but pleasant, [puts his arm round her waist) 
 
 Pol. [making tea) Sugar, Sam ? 
 
 Sam. [aside) Look in the cup. 
 
 Pol. [to Hawtree, handing cup) You want sweetening. Sugar 
 yourself — we've got no milk. It'll be here directly — it's just his 
 time. 
 
 Voice, [outside and rattle of milk pails) Milk-oow ! 
 
 Pol. There he is. [knock at door, R.) Oh, I know, I owe him 
 fourpence. [feeling her pockets — knock again louder) 
 
 Pol. He's very impatient. Come in. 
 
CASTE. 41 
 
 Enter, George, his face bronzed, and in full health ; he carries a 
 milk cajt in his hand, which he places on table. 
 
 Geo. A fella hung this on the railings, so I brought it in. 
 
 Polly and Sam slip frightened under the table— Hawtree remains 
 motionless and terrified— George astonished— picture. 
 
 Geo. What's the matter with you ? 
 
 Haw. [rising] George ! 
 
 Geo. Hawtree ! you here ? 
 
 Pol. O-o-o-o-oh ! The ghost ! The ghost ! 
 
 Sam. It shan't hurt you, Polly. Perhaps it's only indigestion. 
 
 Haw. Then you're not dead? 
 
 Geo. Dead ! no ! Where's my wife ? 
 
 Haw. You were reported killed. 
 
 Geo. It wasn't true ! 
 
 Haw. Alive ! my old friend, alive ! 
 
 Geo. And well, {shakes hands) Landed this morning. Where's 
 my wife ? 
 
 Sam. [tuho has popped his head from under tablecloth) He isn't 
 dead, Poll, he's alive ! [pause) 
 
 Pol. Alive ! My dear George ! Oh, my dear brother! [looking 
 at him intently) Alive! [hysterically, going to him) Oh, my dear, 
 dear, dear brother! [in his arms) How could you go and do so? 
 
 Sam down, l. George places Polly in his arms. 
 
 Geo. Where's Esther ? 
 Haw. Here — in this house. 
 Geo. Here ! Doesn't she know I'm back? 
 Pol. No ! how should she ? 
 
 Geo. [to Hawtree) Didn't you get my telegram? 
 Haw. No. Where from ? 
 Geo. Southampton. I sent it to the club. 
 Haw. I haven't been there these three days. 
 Pol. [gushingly) Oh, my dear, dear, dear, dead and gone, come 
 back all alive brother George ! 
 
 George passes her down to r. c. 
 
 Sam. [crosses, c.) Glad to see you, sir. 
 
 Geo. Thank you, Gerridge. [shakes hands) Same to you. But 
 Esther ! 
 
 Pol. [back to audience and kerchief to her eyes) She's asleep in 
 her room. (George is going, r. d. Polly stops him) You mustn't 
 see her. 
 
 Geo. Not see her after this long absence ! Why not? 
 
42 CASTE. 
 
 Haw. She's so ill to-day ; she has been greatly excited. The 
 news of your death, which we all mourned, has shaken her 
 terribly. 
 
 Geo. Poor girl ! poor girl ! 
 
 Pol. {down, r. c.) Oh! we all cried so when you died, [crying) 
 and now you're alive again I want to cry ever so much more. 
 [crying) 
 
 Haw. We must break the news to her by degrees, [crosses 
 behind to fire) 
 
 Sam. If we turn the tap on its full pressure she'll explode, [goes 
 
 Geo. To return and not to be able to see her, to love her, to kiss 
 her ! [stamps) 
 
 Pol. Hush! 
 
 Geo. I forgot, I should wake her ! 
 
 Pol. More than that — you'll wake the baby. 
 
 Geo. Baby ! What baby ? 
 
 Pol. Yours. 
 
 Geo. Mine ! 
 
 Pol. Yes, yours and Esther's. Why, didn't you know there was 
 a baby ? La, the ignorance of these men ! 
 
 Haw. Yes, George, you're a father. 
 
 Geo. Why wasn't 1 told this? Why didn't you write? 
 
 Pol. How could we when you were dead ? 
 
 Sam. And hadn't left your address. 
 
 Geo. If I can't see Esther I will see the child. The sight of me 
 won't be too much for its nerves. Where is it ? 
 
 Pol. Sleeping in its mother's arms. (George goes to door, R. they 
 stop him) Please not ! Please not ! 
 
 Geo. I must ! I will ! 
 
 Pol. It might kill her, and you wouldn't like to do that. I'll 
 fetch the baby, but oh, please don't make a noise. 
 
 Exit, Polly, r. d. 
 
 Geo. My baby, my ba It's a dream. You've seen it. What's 
 
 it like ? 
 
 Sam. Oh, it's like a — like a sort of — infant, white and milky, 
 and all that. 
 
 Enter, Polly with baby wrapped 'in shawl ; George meets Polly, c. 
 
 Pol. Gently, gently, take care, [giving child to George) Esther 
 will hardly have it touched. 
 
 Geo. But I'm its father. 
 
 Pol. That don't matter. She's very particular. 
 
 Geo. Boy or girl ? 
 
 Pol. Guess. 
 
 Geo. Boy? (Polly nods — George enraptured) What's its 
 name? 
 
CASTE. 43 
 
 Pol. Guess. . 
 
 Geo. George? (Polly mwfc) Eustace? (Polly /waft) Fairfax/ 
 Algernon? (Polly nods— pause) My names. 
 
 Sam. (to Hawtree as they go up) There don't seem room 
 enouo-h in him, sir, to hold so many names, do there ? 
 
 Geo. To come back all the way from India to find that I'm dead, 
 and that you're alive ! To find my wife a widow with anew love, 
 a g e d— how old are you ? I'll buy you a pony to-morrow, my brave 
 little boy. What's his weight ? I should say two pound nothing. 
 You are* surprise, my— {affected, touching him) Take him away, 
 Polly, for fear I should bend him. ( Polly takes child and places 
 it in cradle) 
 
 Haw. [crosses to R. corner; Sam takes his place) But tell us how 
 "it is you're back, how you escaped. 
 
 Geo. (R. c, coming down) Too long a story just now, by-and- 
 by. Tell me all about it. ( Polly gives him chair, R. C.) How is it 
 Esther's living here ? 
 
 Pol. (l. of table; after a pause) She came back here after the 
 child was born, and the furniture was sold up. 
 
 Geo. Sold up ! What furniture ? 
 
 Pol. That vou bought for her. 
 
 Haw. It couldn't be helped, George; Mrs. D' Alroy was so 
 
 P oor - .,11 
 
 Geo. Poor ! but I left her £600 to put in the bank. 
 
 Haw. We must tell you ; she gave it to her father, who banked 
 it in his own name. 
 
 Sam. And lost it in betting ; every copper. 
 
 Geo. Then she's been in want? 
 
 Pol. No, not in want ; friends lent her money. 
 
 Geo. [seated, R. c.) What friends ? [pause; to Hawtree) You? 
 
 Pol. Yes. 
 
 G.20. [rising and shaking Hawtree' s hand) Thank you, old 
 fella. (Hawtree^w/) . . 
 
 Sam. [aside) Who'd ha thought that long swell had it in him ! 
 He never mentioned it. 
 
 Geo. So papa Eccles had the money ? 
 
 Sam. And blued it. 
 
 Pol. [pleadingly, both hands on end of table) You see father was 
 very unlucky on the race course. He told us that if it hadn't been 
 that all his calculations were upset by a horse winning that had 
 no business to, he should have made all our fortunes. Father s 
 been unlucky, and he gets tipsy at times, but he's a very clever 
 man, if you only give him scope enough. 
 
 Sam. I'd give him scope enough ! 
 
 Geo. Where is he now ? 
 
 Sam. Public-house. 
 
 Geo. And how is he ? 
 
44 CASTE. 
 
 Sam. Drunk ! 
 
 Geo. [rising, to Hawtree) You were right. There is something 
 in Caste, [aloud) But tell us about it. (sits) 
 
 Pol. Well, you know you went away, and then the baby was 
 born. Oh ! he was such a sweet little thing — just like — your 
 eyes 
 
 Geo. Cut that. 
 
 Pol. Well, baby came, and when baby was six days old your 
 letter came, Major, (to Hawtree) I saw it was from India, and 
 that it wasn't in your hand (to George) I guessed what was inside 
 it, so I opened it unknown to her, and I read there of your capture 
 and death. I daren't tell her. I went to father to ask his advice, 
 but he was too tipsy to understand me. Sam fetched the doctor. 
 He told us that the news would kill her. When she woke up she 
 said she had dreamt there was a letter from you. I told her no, 
 and day after day she asked for a letter. So the doctor advised 
 us to write one as if it came from you. So we did, Sam and I, and 
 the doctor told her — told Esther, I mean — that her eyes were bad 
 and she musn't read, and we read our letter to her, didn't we, 
 Sam? But bless you, she always knew it hadn't come from you. 
 At last when she was stronger we told her all. 
 
 Geo. (after a pause) How did she take it? 
 
 Pol. She pressed the baby in her arms and turned her face to 
 the wall, (a pause, George sits) Well, to make a long story short, 
 when she got up she found that father had los.t all her money you 
 left her. There was a dreadful scene between them. She told 
 him he had robbed her and her child, and father left the house 
 and swore he'd never come back again. 
 
 Sam. Don't be alarmed. He did come back. 
 
 Pol. Oh, yes. He was too good-hearted to stop away from his 
 children long. He has his faults, but his good points, when you 
 find them, are wonderful. 
 
 Sam. Yes, when you do find them. 
 
 Pol. So she had to come back here to us, and that's all. 
 
 Geo. Why didn't she write to my mother? 
 
 Pol. Father wanted her, but she was too proud. She said she'd 
 die first. 
 
 Geo. (rising; to Hawtree) There's a woman! Caste's all 
 humbug ! (sees sword over mantlepiece) That's my sword (crosses 
 C, rounds.) and a map of India — and that's the piano I bought 
 her. I'll swear to the silk ! 
 
 Pol. Yes, that was bought in at the sale. 
 
 Geo. (to Hawtree) Thank you, old fellow. 
 
 Haw. Not by me. I was in India at the time. 
 
 Geo. By whom, then ? 
 
 Pol. By Sam. (Sam winks to her to discontinue) I shall. He 
 knew Esther was breaking her heart about anyone else having it, 
 
CASTE. 45 
 
 so he took the money he'd saved up for our wedding, and we're 
 going to be married now, ain't we, Sam? • 
 
 Sam. And hope by a constant attention to business to merit — 
 (Polly pushes him away) 
 
 Pol. She's never touched the piano since you died ; but if I don't 
 play to-night may I die an old maid, {goes up and clears table) 
 
 George crosses to Sam and shakes his hand, then goes up stage, pulls 
 up blind and looks into street— Sam finishes tea. 
 
 Haw. [aside) Who'd have thought that little cad had it in him ! 
 He never mentioned it. [aloud) Apropos, George, your mother. 
 I'll go to the square, and tell her of — [takes hat from piano) 
 
 Geo. Is she in town ? 
 
 Haw. Yes. Will you come with me? 
 
 Geo. And leave my wife ! And such a wife ! 
 
 Haw. I'll go at once. I shall catch her before dinner. Good- 
 bye, old fellow ; seeing you back again alive and well, makes me 
 feel quite — that I quite feel — [shakes George's hand, goes to door, 
 then crosses to Sam) Mr. Genidge, I fear I have often made myself 
 very offensive to you. 
 
 Sam. Well, sir, you have. 
 
 Haw. I feared so ; I didn't know you then ; I beg your pardon ; 
 let me ask you to shake hands, forgive me and forget it. [offering 
 his hand) 
 
 Sam. [taking it) Say no more, sir, and if ever I've made myself 
 disagreeable to you, I ask your pardon, forget it and forgive me. 
 [they shake hands warmly) And when you marry that young lady 
 as I know you're engaged to, if you should furnish a house and 
 require anything in my way — [bringing out circular — Polly comes 
 down, l., and pushes him away ; he puts circular in his pocket and 
 stands before fire) 
 
 Haw. Good-bye, George, for the present, [goes up) Bye, Polly 
 [resumes his Pall Mall manner as he goes out) I'm off to the square. 
 
 Exit, Hawtree, r. d. 
 
 Geo. But Esther ! 
 
 Pol. [rising) I'll tell her all about it. 
 
 Geo. How"? 
 
 Pol. I don't know ; but it will come. Providence will send it to 
 me as it has sent you, my dear brother. You must go. [crosses c,) 
 Esther will be getting up directly, [at door, George looks through 
 keyhole) It's no use looking there ; it's dark. 
 
 Geo. [at door) It isn't often a man can see his own widow. 
 
 Pol. And it isn't often that he wants to. Now go away, [push- 
 ing him off) 
 
 Geo. I shall stop outside. 
 
46 CASTE. 
 
 Sam. And I'll whistle for you when you may come in. [crosses, 
 c.) 
 
 Pol. Now! 
 
 Geo. Oh! my Esther ! When you know I'm alive I'll marry 
 you. all over again, and have a second honeymoon ! [they force 
 him off, R. D.) 
 
 Pol. [coming down) Now, Sam, light the gas. I'm going to 
 wake her up. Oh, my darling, if 1 dare tell you. [whispering) 
 He's come back ! He's come back ! He's come back ! Alive ! 
 Alive ! Alive ! Sam, kiss me ! [kisses Sam and goes off, R. D.) 
 
 Sam. [dances shutter dance) I'm glad the swells are gone ; now 
 I can open my safety valve and let my feelings escape, [lights 
 gas; stage light) To think of his coming back alive from India, 
 just as I'm going to open my shop, [lights candles) Perhaps he'll 
 get me the patronage of the Royal Family. It'd look stunning over 
 the door with a lion and a unicorn a-standing on their hind legs 
 doing nothing furiously with a lozenge between them, [sits on 
 arm-chair, R.) Poor Esther, to think of my knowing her when she 
 was in the ballet line, then when she was in the honorable line, 
 then a mother. No, honorables is mamma's. Then a widow and 
 in the ballet line again, [crosses, L.) And him to come back 
 [growing affected) and find a baby with all his furniture and fit- 
 tings ready for immediate use. [sits l. of table) And the poor thing 
 lying asleep with her eyelids hot and swollen — not knowing that 
 that great, big, heavy, hulking, overgrown dragoon is prowling 
 outside ready to fly at her lips, and strangle her in his strong lov- 
 ing arms. It — it — it [breaks down and sobs with his head upon 
 
 the table) 
 
 Enter, Polly, with a light colored dress on. 
 
 Pol. Why, Sam, what's the matter? 
 
 Sam. [rises and crosses, R.) The water's got into my meter. 
 
 Pol. Hush! 
 
 Enter, Esther, r. d. ; they stop suddenly ; Polly down stage. 
 
 Sam. [upstage, singing and dancing) Tiddy-ti-tum-lo ! 
 
 Est. [sitting dcnu?i ?iearfire L. of head of table, taking up costume 
 and beginning to work) Sam, you seem in high spirits to-night. 
 
 Sam. [crosses) Yes; you see Polly and I are going to be married, 
 and, and hope by bestowing a favor to merit, to continuance, 
 attention, by deserving a merit 
 
 Pol. [who has kissed Esther two or three times) What are you 
 talking about ? [comes doivn and sits on music stool) 
 
 Sam. I don't know. I'm off my burner. 
 
 Polly goes round front of table to l. c. 
 
CASTE. 47 
 
 Est. What's the matter with you to-night, dear? {to Polly) I 
 can see something in your eye. 
 
 Sam. It's the new furniture. 
 
 Pol. {seated, l. of table) It was a pretty dress when it was new ; 
 not unlike the one Mdlle. Delphine used to wear, [suddenly clap- 
 ping her hands) Oh ! 
 
 Est. What's the matter? 
 
 Pol. A needle ! {aside to Sam, who crosses to her, l.) I've got it. 
 
 Sam. The needle in your finger ? 
 
 Pol. No, an idea in my head. 
 
 Sam. {still looking at finger) Does it hurt? 
 
 Pol. [rises, crosses c.) Stupid ! (Sam crosses to R. again; aloud) 
 Do you recollect Mdlle. Delphine, Esther ? 
 
 Est. Yes. 
 
 Pol. Do you recollect her in that ballet that old Herr Griffen- 
 haagen arranged — "Jeanne la Folle, or the Return of the 
 Soldier?" (Sam sits, R. on music stool) 
 
 Est. Yes. Will you do the fresh hem ? 
 
 Pol. What's the use ? Let me see— how did it go? How well I 
 remember the scene. The cottage that side, the bridge at the 
 back. La! La! La! Ballet of villagers and the entrance of 
 Delphine as Jeanne the bride, [sings and pantomimes) Then the 
 entrance of Claude the bridegroom. Then there was the proces- 
 sion to church. The march of the soldiers over the bridge, [sings 
 and pantomimes) Arrest of Claude, who is drawn for the conscrip- 
 tion {business ; and Esther looks dreamily) and is torn from the 
 arms of his bride at the church porch. Omnes broken-hearted! 
 This is Omnes broken-hearted, {pantomimes) 
 
 Est. Polly, I don't like this, it brings back memories. 
 
 Pol. [going to table and leaning her hands on it looks over at 
 Esther) Oh ! fuss about memories. One can't mourn for ever. 
 ( Esther surprised) Everything in this world isn't sad. There's 
 bad news, and — and, there's good news sometimes when we least 
 expect it. 
 
 Est. Ah ! Not for me. 
 
 Pol. Why not ? {pause ; crosses to c.) Then the second act, you 
 know — second act winter, {taking chair to R.) The village cross — 
 this is the village cross, {placing chair, r.) Entrance of Jeanne — 
 now called Jeanne la Folle, because she has gone mad. This is 
 Jeanne gone mad. {pantomimes) Gone mad on account of the 
 supposed loss of her husband. 
 
 Sam. The supposed loss ? 
 
 Pol. The supposed loss. 
 
 Est. {dropping costume) Polly ! 
 
 Sam. Mind ! 
 
 Pol. Mustn't stop now; goon. Entrance of Claude, who isn't 
 dead, in a captain's uniform— a cloak over his shoulder. Don't 
 
48 CASTE. 
 
 you recollect the ballet? Jeanne is mad and can't recognise her 
 husband, and don't till he shows her the ribbon she gave him when 
 they were betrothed. Here, I'll doit. I want a bit of ribbon. 
 Sam, have you got a bit of ribbon ? Ah ! reach me that crape 
 sword-knot, that will do. (crosses, R. ; Sam goes up, l. c.) 
 
 Est. Touch that! (rising and coming down, L. c. ) 
 
 Pol. Why not? It's no use now. 
 
 Est. You have heard of George ! I know you have ! I see it in 
 your eyes ! You may tell me ! I can bear it ! I can, indeed ! — 
 indeed I can ! Tell me ! He is not dead ! 
 
 Pol. No! 
 
 Est. (whispers) Thank Heaven ! Are you sure ? 
 
 Pol. Quite. 
 
 Est. You've seen him ! I see you have ! I know it ! I feel it ! 
 I had a bright and happy dream of him — I saw him as I slept. 
 Oh ! let me know if he is near ! (pacing stage, L. to R.) Give me 
 some sign, some sound — (Polly opens piano) some token of his 
 life and presence. (Polly whispers to Sam up r. Polly plays piano 
 on the treble only — Sam up by door, R. ) 
 
 Est. (in an ecstacy) O my husband ! Come to me for I know 
 that you are near ! Let me feel your arms clasp round me ! Do 
 not fear for me ! I can bear the sight of you ! It will not kill me. 
 George — love — husband — come! Oh, come tome! (during this 
 George has appeared at R. d., and running to Esther enfolds her 
 in his embrace. Polly plays the bass as well as treble of the air 
 forte then fortissimo ; she then plays at random, endeavoring to 
 hide her tears — at last she strikes piano wildly, and goes off into a 
 fit of hysterical laughter, to the alarjn <?/"Sam, who places her gently 
 on the floor— George and Esther^ up c. to cradle) 
 
 Sam. Polly ! Polly ! my darling ! (Polly seizes Sam by the hair 
 and shakes him violently) 
 
 Pol. Sam, Sam, I'm going mad ! 
 
 Est. To see you here again, to feel your warm breath upon my 
 cheek! Is it real? am I not dreaming? (coming down) 
 
 Sam. (l., rubbing his head) No, it's real. 
 
 Est. (placing chair C and kneeling on his left) But tell us, tell 
 us, do, darling, how you escaped. 
 
 Geo. It's a long story, but I'll condense it. I was riding out and 
 suddenly found myself surrounded and taken prisoner. One of 
 the troop that took me was a fella who had been my servant, and 
 to whom I had done some little kindness ; he helped me to escape 
 and hid me in a sort of cave, and for a long time used to bring me 
 food. Unfortunately, he was ordered away, so he brought another 
 Sepoy to look after me. I felt from the first this man meant to 
 betray me, and I watched him like a lynx during the one day he was 
 with me. As evening drew on a Sepoy picket was passing ; I 
 could tell by the look in the fella's eyes he meant to call out as 
 
CASTE. 49 
 
 soon as they were near enough, so I seized him by the throat and 
 shook the life out of him, 
 
 Est. {standing over him) You strangled him ? 
 
 Geo. Yes. 
 
 Est. Killed him dead ? 
 
 Geo. He didn't get up again. 
 
 Pol. {to Sam) You never go and kill Sepoys ! 
 
 Sam. I pay rates and taxes. 
 
 Geo. The day after Havelock and his Scotchmen marched 
 through the village, and I turned out to meet them. I was too 
 done up to join, so I was sent straight on to Calcutta. I got leave, 
 took a berth on the P. and O. boat — the passage restored me. I 
 landed this morning, came on here and brought in the milk. 
 
 Enter, the Marquise, r. d. ; she rushes to embrace George, c. 
 
 Mar. My dear boy ! My dear, dear boy ! 
 
 Pol. [seated, r.) Why, see, she's crying. She's glad to see him 
 alive and back, {goes up, l.) 
 
 Sam. {profoundly) There's always something good in women, 
 even when they're ladies, {goes tip. Polly puts dress in box and 
 goes to cradle) 
 
 Mar. {crosses to Esther, l. c.) My dear daughter, we must for- 
 get our little differences, {kissing her) Won't you? How history 
 repeats itself ! You will find a similar and as unexpected a return 
 mentioned by Froissart in the chapter that treats of Philip Dart- 
 nell. 
 
 Geo. Yes, mother. I remember, {kisses her) 
 
 Mar. {to George, aside) We'll take her abroad and make a 
 lady of her. 
 
 Geo. Can't, mamma. She's ready made. Nature has done it 
 to our hands. 
 
 Mar. {aside to George) But I won't have the man who smells of 
 putty, nor the man who smells of beer, {goes up and sits at fire) 
 
 Enter, Hawtree very pale. 
 
 Haw. George ! Oh, the Marchioness is here. 
 
 Geo. What's the matter ! 
 
 Haw. Oh, nothing. Yes, there is. I don't mind telling you. 
 Why, I've been thrown. I called at my chambers as I came along 
 and found this, {gives George a note) 
 
 Geo. From the Countess, Lady Florence, mother, {reads) 
 " Dear Major Hawtree, — I hasten to inform you that my daughter, 
 Florence, is about to enter upon an alliance with Lord Saxeby, the 
 eldest son of the Marquis of Loamshire. Under these circum- 
 stances should you think fit to call here again I feel assured — " 
 
H. THEYRE SMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Price, 1 5 Cents Each. 
 
 A CASE FOR EVICTION. One male and two female characters— light comedian, 
 lady comedian and servant. Interior scene ; modern costumes ; time of playing, 
 thirty minutes. This breezy little play is so true to life that everybody enjo> s it 
 and, as a matter of course, it is always highly successful. A young husband and 
 wife have a visitor who makes them twice glad— glad when he comes and doubly 
 glad when he goes. The difficulties that the young couple experience in getting 
 rid of their guest, without hurting his feelings, are laughable in the extreme. 
 The guest, by the way, is heard but not seen— which fact gives rise to much 
 comic 1 business. No scenery whatever is required ; and as every-day costumes 
 are worn, the piece can be produced successfully without the slightest trouble. 
 
 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. Two male and one female characters- 
 juvenile man, o!d man and lady comedian. Scene, a sitting-room ; modern cos- 
 tumes ; time of playing, forty-five minutes. An exceedingly popular play, offering 
 unusual opportunities lor good acting. A young man who has married without 
 his uncle's consent is cut (ff with a shilling, but the uncle meets, his nephew's 
 wife — not knowing who she is — and is so captivated bv her wit, grace and beauty 
 that, on learning who she is he changes his mind, reinstates his nephew and 
 allows the latter to return the shilling. The dialogue is witty, the action rapid, 
 and the situations effective. 
 
 A HAPPY PAIR. One mnb, one female character — both light comedy. Scene, a 
 nicely furnished room ; modern costumes ; time of playing, forty-five minutes. A 
 brisk little play, full of r.ction and giving numerous opportunities for clever work. 
 While entirely free from nil "!ow-comedy" business, it contains enough humor 
 to be highly diverting. The quarrels of the " happy pair," and their final recon- 
 ciliation can not fail to please, and the play is sure to give entire satisfaction 
 either in the parlor or as a " curtain raiser" or afterpit.ee. 
 
 MY LORD IN LIVERY. Four male and three female characters— light comedian, 
 low comedian, oid man, utility, lady comedian and two walking ladies. Parlor 
 scene; modern costumes ; time of playing, fifty minutes. An unusually bright 
 piece brimming over with wit and humor. The three young ladies who permit a 
 comic servant to meet them on terms of equality under the belief that he is a 
 nobleman masquerading like themselves— the happy-go-hicky young nobleman 
 who is mistaken for a bur lar— the comical old butler — all have a vast deal of 
 laughable by-play and business. This play ws a pronounced success in New 
 York, and has been presented to crowded houses in all the principal cities of this 
 country. The ease with which it may be staged, and the invariable success which 
 attends it, make My Lord in Livery peculiarly adapted to the use of amateurs. 
 
 UNCLE'S WILL. Two male and one female characters — juvenile lead, rid man 
 and lady comedian. Scene, a sitting-room ; costumes, modern ; time of playing, 
 thirty minutes. This brilliant little play is a prime favorite in both Europe and 
 America, and is admirably adapted to the use of amateurs. The wit flashes 
 like a diamond, and the dainty bits of humor scattered here and there keep up a 
 constant ripple of pleaded excitement. Each character is a star part. The dash- 
 ing young naval officer, the comical old man — in which Mr. Davidge made \. 
 pronounced hit at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York— and the bright and 
 spirited young lady, all are first class and worthy of the best talent in any dramatic 
 club. 
 
 WHICH IS "WHICH. Three male, three female characters— juvenile man, old 
 man, utility, two juvenile ladies and old woman. Scene, a studio ; costumes, 
 modern ; time of playing, fifty minutes. Excellent and much patronized by 
 amateurs. The amusing perplexities of the poor artist, who can not tell which of 
 his visitors is the heiress and which h<=r penniless friend— who mistakes one for 
 the other— who makes love to the rich girl, supposing that she is poor, and deter- 
 mines to marry her in spite of her supposed poverty— and who finally discovers 
 that he has proposed to the heiress after all— combine to make this a delightful 
 Pky- » 
 
 IW A nv of the above will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt 
 of the annexed prices. A s there are several editions of these plays offered for sale, 
 good, bad and indifferent, purchasers will consult their own interests, when order- 
 ing, by specifying Rookbach's edition. ^££& 
 
 HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murrav St... New York. 
 
NEW ENTERTAINMENTS. 
 
 THE JAPANESE WEDDING. 
 
 A costume pantomime representation of the Wedding Ceremony in Japanese high life. 
 The company consists of the bride and groom, their parents, six bridesmaids, and 
 the officiating personage appropriately called the " Go-between." There are 
 various formalities, including salaams, tea-drinking, eating rice-cakes, and giving 
 presents. No words are spoken. The ceremony (which occupies about 50 
 minutes), with the " tea-room," fills out an evening well, though music and other 
 attractions may be added. Can be represented by young ladies alone, if preferred. 
 Price, 25 Cents. 
 
 AN EVENING WITH PICKWICK. 
 
 A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Introduces the Pickwick Club., 
 the Wardles of Dingley Dell, the Fat Boy, Alfred Jingle, Mrs. Leo Hunter, Lord 
 Mutanhed and Count Smorltork, Arabella Allen and Bob Allen, Bob Sawyer, Mrs. 
 and Master Kardeli, Mrs. Cluppins. Mrs. Weller, Stiggins, Tony Weller, Sam 
 Weller, and the Lady Traveller. Price, 25 cents. 
 
 AN EVENING WITH COPPERFIELD. 
 
 A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Introduces Mrs. Copperfield, 
 Davie, the Peggotys, the Murdstones, Mrs. Gummidge, Little Em'ly, Barkis, 
 Betsey Trotwood, Mr. Dick and his kite, Steerforth, the Creakles, Traddles, 
 Rosa Dartle, Miss Mowcher, Uriah Heep and his Mother, the Micawbers, Dora 
 and Gyp, and the wooden-legged Gatekeeper. Price, 25 cents. 
 These " Evenings with Dickens " can be represented in whole or in part, require 
 but little memorizing, do not demand experienced actors, are not troublesome to pre- 
 pare, and are suitable for performance either on the platform or in the drawing room. 
 
 THE GYPSIES' FESTIVAL. 
 
 A Musical Entertainment for Young People. Introduces the Gypsy Queen, Fortune 
 Teller, Yankee Peddler, and a Chorus of Gypsies, of any desired number. The 
 scene is supposed to be a Gypsy Camp. The costumes are very pretty, but 
 simple ; the dialogue bright ; the music easy and tuneful ; and the drill movements 
 and calisthenics are graceful. Few properties and no set scenery required, so 
 that the entertainment can be represented on any platform. Price, 25 cents. 
 
 THE COURT OF KING CHRISTMAS. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT. The action takes place in Santa Claus 
 land on Christmas eve, and represents the bustling preparations of St. Nick and 
 his attendant worthies for the gratification of all children the next day. The cast 
 may include as many as 36 characters, though fewer will answer, and the enter- 
 tainment represented on a platform, without troublesome properties. The cos- 
 tumes are simple, the incidental music and drill movement* graceful and easily 
 managed, the dialogue uncommonly good, and the whole thing quite above the 
 average. A representation of this entertainment will cause the young folks, from 
 six to sixty, fairly to turn themselves inside out with delight, and, at the same 
 time, enforce the important moral of Peace and Good Will. Price, 25 cents. 
 RECENTLY PUBLISHED. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED TABLEAUX FOR AMATEURS. A new series of Tableaux 
 r/™«/y, by Maktha C. Weld. In this series each description is accompanied 
 with a full-page illustration of the scene to be represented. 
 PARI' I. — MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Contains General Introduction, 
 
 12 Tableaux and 14 Illustrations. Price, 25 Cents. 
 PART II.— MISCELLANEOUS TABLE AUX.— Contains Introduction, 12 Ta- 
 bleaux and 12 illustrations. Price, 25 Cents. 
 
 SAVED FROM THE WRECK. A drama in three acts. Eight male, three 
 female characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 
 
 BETWEEN TWO FIRES. A comedy-drama in three acts. Eight male, three 
 female characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 
 
 BY FORCE OF IMPULSE. A drama in five acts. Nine male, three female 
 characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 
 
 A LESSON IN ELEGANCE. A comedy in one act. Four female characters. 
 Time, thirty minutes. Price. 15 Cents. 
 
 WANTED, A CONFIDENTIAL CLERK. A farce in one act. Six male 
 characters. Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. 
 
 SECOND SIGHT. A farcical comedy in one act. Four male, one female charac- 
 ter. Time, one hour. Price, 15 Cents. 
 
 THE TRIPLE WEDDING. A drama in three acts. Four male, four female 
 characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. Price, 15 cents. 
 %£?" Any 0/ the above ivill be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt 
 
 of the annei ed pri, es.^JgzSt 
 
 HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New York. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 HELMER'S 014 529 014 4 
 
 ACTOR'S MAKE-UP BOOK. I 
 
 jl Practical and Systematic Guide to the Art of Making up for the Stage, 
 
 PRICE, 25 CENTS. 
 
 With exhaustive treatment on the Use of Theatrical 
 "Wigs and Beards, The Make-up and its requisite materials, the 
 different features and their management, typical character 
 Masks, etc. With Special Hints to Ladies. Designed for the 
 use of Actors and Amateurs, and for both Ladies and Gentle- 
 men. Copiously Illustrated. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. Theatrical Wigs. — The Style and Form of Theatrical Wigs 
 and Beards. The Color and Shading of Theatrical Wigs and Beards. 
 Directions for Measuring the Head. To put on a Wig properly. 
 
 II. Theatrical Beards. — How to fashion a Beard out of crepe 
 hair. How to make Beards of Wool. The growth of Beard simu- 
 lated. 
 
 III. The Make-up. — A successful Character Mask, and how to 
 make it. Perspiration during performance, how removed. 
 
 IV. The Make-up Box. — Grease Paints. Grease paintL in 
 sticks ; Flesh Cream ; Face Powder; How to use face powder as a 
 liquid cream ; The various shades of face powder. Water Cos- 
 metique. Nose Putty. Court Plaster. Cocoa Butter. Cr6pe Hair 
 and Prepared Wool. Grenadine. Dorin's Rouge. "Old Man's" 
 Rouge. "Juvenile" Rouge. Spirit Gum. Email Noir. Bear's 
 Grease. Eyebrow Pencils. Artist's Stomps. Powder Puffs. Hares' 
 Feet. Camels'-hair Brushes. 
 
 V. The Features and their Treatment. — The Eyes : blind- 
 ness. The Eyelids. The Eyebrows : How to paint out an eyebrow or 
 moustache ; How to paste on eyebrows ; How to regulate bushy eye- 
 brows. The Eyelashes : To alter the appearance of the eyes. The 
 Ears. The Nose: A Roman nose; How to use the nose putty; A 
 pug nose ; An African nose; a large nose apparently reduced in size. 
 The Mouth and Lips : a juvenile mouth ; an old mouth ; a sensuous 
 mouthf; a satirical mouth ; a one-sided mouth ; a merry mouth ; A 
 sullen mouth. The Teeth. The Neck, Arms, Hands and Finger- 
 nails : Fingernails lengthened. Wrinkles: Friendliness and Sullen- 
 ness indicated by wrinkles. Shading. A Starving character. A 
 Cut in the Face. A Thin Face Made Fleshy. 
 
 VI. Typical Character Masks. — The Make-up for Youth ; 
 Dimpled cheeks. Manhood. Middle Age. Making up as a Drunk- 
 ard : One method ; another method. Old Age. Negroes. Moors. 
 Chinese. King Lear, Shylock, Macbeth. Richelieu. Statuary. 
 Clowns. 
 
 VII. Special Hints to Ladies. — The Make-up. .Theatrical 
 "Wigs and Hair Goods, 
 
 ^ Sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt of the price. 
 
 HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 
 
 9 Murray Street New York.