4104 P32 NO PLAYS EXtL^^JSeED. MEYER'S CELEBRATED GREASE PAINTS. We are now prepared to furnish a full line of Grease Paints of the celebrated make of Charles Meyer, at the manufacturer's price. These paints are acknnwJeda^ed by professionals to be the best, and are in general use in our theatres. Compared to the old method of using powders, these paints are far superior, as they impart a clfiarer and more life-like appearance to the skin, and, being- of a greasy nature, cannot easily be affected bv perspiration. We can supply the following necessary colors, put up in a neat box, with full directions for use, viz. : Light Flesh, Dark F^lesh, Brown, Black, Lake, White, Carmine, and Slate. Price, $1.00. We have also the following exti-a colors : — NO. NO. NO. 1. Very pale Flesh Color. 6. Healthy Sunburned, for 11. Ruddy, for old age. 2. Light Flesh, deeper tint. juvenile heroes. 13. Olive, healthy, 3. Natural Flesh Color, for 7. Healthy Sunb'ned, deep- 13. Olive, lighter shade. juvenile heroes. er shade. 14. Gypsy flesh color. 4. Rosy Tint, for juvenile 8. Sallow, for young men. 15. Othello. heroes. 9. Healthy Color, for mid- 16. Chinese. 5. Deeper shade, for juve- die ages. 17. Indian. nile heroes. 10. Sallow, for old age. iS. East Indian. Done up in sticks of four inches in length, at 25 cents each. Any other color made to order. LINING CO LORS : Brown, Black, Lake, and White, 15 cents each. Carmine and White, large sticks, 25 cents each. MEYER'S WELL-KNOWN FACE PREPARATIONS. Justly recommended by the profession as being the best. CREAM EXORA. — In large china pots. A very fine preparation for beauti- fying the complexion, in different shades, as follows : No. i, White; No 2, Tint of Rose; No. 3, Darker Shade (brunette). 50 and 75 cents per cox. ADHESIVE POWDER. — For sticking on Mustaches, Whiskers, etc. • Price, 25 cents per box. COCOA BUTTER.— For removing grease paint. Large pieces, 25 cents. DORIWS { l^^gi ii Th||tre, } p,;,,, 35 ,,„., ,„,h. BAKER'S SMOKE POTS. — Having considerable call for an article for making smoke for fire scenes, etc., we have made arrangements with the pyro- technist of the Boston Theatre to supply us with the best article for that purpose; we can now furnish smoke pots, entirely free from stench and producing a thick white smoke, in two sizes, at 35 and 50 cents each. BAKER'S BLACK OPERA CORK. — For Ethiopian Singers and Actors. 40 cents per box. BAKER'S TABLEAU LIGHTS. -Red, Green, and White. Price, 25 cents each. These lights are put up especially for our trade, and cannot be excelled for brilliancy. Thev burn w-ith as little smoke as any preparation for like purpose. The white is esp'eciallv brilliant, rivalling the magnesium light in intensity. We have the above solidified for mailing purposes, enough for three lights in a pack- age, at the same price. The Tableau Lights will be sold in bulk, put up in tin boxes, notless.than half a pound ol a color, at $1.50 per pound ; sent only by express. We can furnish any of the articles advertised in the catalogues of other publishers of plays, at list prices. WALTER H. BAKER & CO., 10 Milk Street, Boston. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. ^N4 ' .V A DRAMA IN PROLOGUE AND FOUR ACTS. DRAMATIZED FROM THE NOVEL OF THAT NAME, BY FRANK CARLOS. \. \ BOSTON ^i^uM^M^acJ^s^^^ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, BY FRANK CARLOS, iri the OflSce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C. Copyright, 1886, by Frank Carlos Griffith. CHARACTERS. GiLEAD P. Beck Comedy. Laurence Colquhoun Leading. Jack Dunquerque Juvetiile. Cornelius Jagenal Character. Humphrey Jagenal Character. Gabriel Cassilis \st Old Matt. Captain Ladds zd Old Man. Lee Ching 2d Heavy. John Ruskin Personated by Ladds. Thomas Carlyle Doubles with Lee Ching. Alfred Tennyson Utility. Professor Huxley Utility. George Augustus Sala Super. Charles Darwin Super. Algernon Swinburne Super. Servant Utility. Phillis Fleming Jnginue. Mrs. Cassilis Leading. "Representative of a Cause" .... 1st Old Woman. Her Assistant Walking Lady. NOTE. Managers of Theatres, wishing to produce this Play, can make arrangements to that effect by applying to the author, care of Walter H. Baker & Co., P. O. Box 2846, Boston. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. PROLOGUE. Scene. — Empire City. A deserted jnining-toivn. A row of dilapidated shanties in perspective at back. A two- sto?y shanty L. set cornering from L. to C. of stage ^ at back. Wood wings R. Moujitains at back, with sjin about an hour high. Sun to set during scene, and the sky to glow after the sun is down. Broken shovels lying about with other discarded and ruined property. Grass growing tip around the deserted shanties. Jack {speaking outside, R.). What do you think, chief? Capt. Ladds. Push on. {Enter, r. i e., Ronald Dun- QUERQUE (Jack) and Capt. Ladds.) Jack. If you were not so intolerably conceited about the value of your words, — hang it, man, you are not the Poet- Laureate ! — you might give your reasons why we should not camp where we are. The sun will be down in an hour ; the way is long, the wind is cold, or will be soon. This pilgrim has tightened his belt to stave off the gnawing at his stomach. Here is running water, here is wood, here is shelter, here is everything calculated to charm the poetic mind even of Cap- tain Ladds — Ladds {pointing l.). Road ! Roads lead to places ; places have beds ; beds are warmer than grass ; no rattle- snakes in beds ; miners in hotels — amusing fellows, miners. Deserted here. Too much ventilation. Jack. If ever I go out again after buffaloes, or bears, or mountain deer, or any other game whatever, which this great continent offers, with a monosyllabic man, may I be con- demned to another two months of buffalo-steak without Worcester sauce, such as I have had already ; may I be poi- soned with bad Bourbon whiskey ; may I never again see the sweet shady side of Pall Mall ; may I — {Looking sud- denly R. u. E.) be blowed, what's that ? 6 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Ladds {after a moment'' s pause). Man. Jack. What's he running for? Ladds. Think likely he's in a hurry. Jack. Hello, there's a Grizzly after him. Ladds. Right. A procession of two. Jack {bringing his rijle up). I'll soon settle him. Ladds {knocking up the rifle). Man in line. Walt. That bear means claws. Jack. Tommy, I can cover him now. Ladds. Wait, Jack. Dont miss. Give Grizzly two min- utes more. God ! how the fellow scuds. Jack. See how Grizzly holds his great head down and wags it from side to side. Now, Tommy. Ladds. Give Grizzly two minutes. Jack. Only fifty yards ; the man looks over his shoulder ; forty yards. Ladds. Getting pumped. Mustn't let Grizzly claw the poor devil. Jack, Let me bring him down. Tommy ? Ladds. Bring him down, young un. Let him have it. (Jack fires. Bear roars. Beck, outside^ shrieks) Good, young un. He's down. Up again. Only wounded. Wait. {Brijtgs rifie suddenly to shoulder and fires. Beck rushes on stage from r. 3 E., and falls, exhausted, c. The bear falls dead Just on at the entra7tce.) Grizzly's dead. {Drops rifle^ and pulls out knife.) Steak. Jack. No. Skin. Let me take his skin. You can cut some steaks after. Now for the man. {Goes to Beck.) Now, old man. Might as well sit up, you know, if you can't stand. Bruin's gone to the happy hunting-grounds. Beck. {Gradually recovers, ojid allows them to assist him to his feet. He has a thin, patchy, irregular beard. Moccasins. Trousers all ivorti, and greasy, and ragged. Tattered flantiel shirt j right arin of shirt nearly g07ie, showing a tattooed limb. No buttons on garment. Thorns instead. Red cotton handkerchief around his neck, and soft round felt hat, pinned up in front with a thorn. Small wooden box around neck, fastened by a steel chaiti. No weapons. He stares around ; stretches j shakes hijnself and looks around, seeing the bear. Then goes to him, and, after looking at him a mo}nent,pats his head, and re?narks :) I sympathize with you, Grizzly, for your bad run of luck. {To Jack rt?z<^ Ladds.) A near thing. Since I've been in this doggoned country, I've had one or two near things, but this was the nearest. Jack. Rather close. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. / Beck. And which of you gentlemen was good enough to shoot the critter? (Ladds indicates Jack, Beck takes off his hat, and extends hand.') Sir, I don't know your name, and you don't know mine. If you did, you wouldn't be much happier, because it is not a striking name. If you'll oblige me, sir, by touching that {indicating hajid), we shall be brothers. All that's mine shall be yours. I do not ask you, sir, to reciprocate. All that's mine, sir, when I get anything, shall be yours. At present, sir, there is nothing ; but I've luck behind me. Shake hands, sir. Once a mouse helped a lion, sir. It's in a book. I am the mouse, sir, and you are the hon. Sir, my name is Gilead P. Beck. Jack. I only fired the first shot. My friend here — Ladds. No. Won't have it. First shot disabled — hunt finished then — Grizzly out of the running. Glad you're not clawed — unpleasant to be clawed. Young un did it. No thanks. Tell us where we are ? Beck. This was Patrick's Camp, since called Empire City. The pioneers of '49 could tell you a good deal about Patrick's Camp. It was here that Patrick kept his store. In those old days, — they're gone now, — if a man wanted to buy a blanket, that article, sir, was put into one scale and weighed down with gold-dust in the other. Same with a pair of boots ; same with a pound of raisins. Patrick might have died rich, sir, but he didn't, — none of the pioneers did, — so he died poor ; and died in his boots, too, — like most of the lot. Jack. Not much left of the camp. Beck. No, sir, not much. The mine gave out. Then they moved up the hills, where I conclude you gentlemen are on your way. Prospecting, likely. I was trying to find my way here when I met with old Grizzly. Perhaps if I'd let him alone, he'd have let me alone. But I blazed at him, and, sir, I missed him ; then he shadowed me, and the old rifle's gone at last. Jack. How long did the chase last ? Beck. I should say, sir, forty days and forty nights, or near about. And you gentlemen are going — Jack. We are going anywhere. Perhaps, for the present, you had better join us. Beck. Perhaps I better had. I ought first, though, to sit down and cry like a girl on the prairie. Jack. Why ought you to cry ? Beck. I guess I ought to cry because I've lost my rifle, and everything except my Luck, in that darned long stern- chase. 8 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Jack. You can easily get a new rifle. Beck. With dollars. As for them, there's not a dollar left — nary a red cent ; only my Luck. Jack. And what is your Luck? Beck. That I will tell you by and by. Perhaps it's your Luck, too, young boss. Ladds. What do you know about this place ? Beck. Empire City ? Ladds. I see a city-^ — can't see the people. Beck. All gone. City's busted up. When I first sot eyes on Empire City, two years ago, it was just two years old. It is only in our country that a great city springs up in a day. I said to myself then, sir, Empire City is bound to advance ; Empire City will be the Chicago of the West. Five years ago there was ten thousand miners here ; now there isn't one ; nothing but a Chinaman or two. Jack. How do you know there are Chinamen? Beck. See those stones ? {Pointing l.) Jack. Yes. Beck. The miners picked the bones of those rocks, but they never pick quite clean. Then the Chinamen come and finish off. Gentlemen, it's a special Providence that you picked me up. I don't altogether admire the way in which that special Providence was played up to, in the matter of the bar ; but a Christian, without a revolver, alone among twenty Chinamen — {Shi'iigs his shoulders sigjiijicantly) gentlemen, they'd have got my Luck. Jack {to Ladds). Chief, I don't like it. It's ghostly. It's a town of dead men. As soon as it is dark, the ghosts will rise and walk about — play bilhards, I expect. What shall we do t Ladds. Late. Hotel. Sleep on floor — sit on chairs — eat off a table. Beck. I'll reconnoitre. {Goes into hotels L. 4.) Jack {to Ladds). What do you make of him ? Ladds. Yankee. Honest. Good fellow. Trust him. Jack, Good. I'm glad you like him, for I have taken to him immensely. Ladds. Acquisition. Help against Chinamen. Sh! {Re- enter Beck.) Well ? Beck. Wal, sir, the bar is left standing ; the glasses are -there ; bright-colored bottles ; two or three Bourbon whiskey kegs ; counter ; dice on the counter ; everything there except the drink. Everything gone but the fixins. There used to be good beds where there wasn't more'n two or three at once in 'em ; and there used to be such a crowd around this bar as you wouldn't find near'n St. Louis city. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 9 Jack. Hush. There are steps inside the hotel. Beck. Chinamen, likely. If there's a row, gentlemen, give me something, if it's only a toothpick, to chime in with. But that's not a Chinese step ; that's an Englishman. He wears boots, but they're not miner's boots ; he walks fine and slow, like all Englishmen ; he is not in a hurry like our folk. And who but an Enghshman would be found staying behind in the Empire City when it's gone to pot ! Jack, Who, indeed ! Most unhandsome of a ghost, though, to walk before midnight. (Laurence Colquhoun enters from hotel, L. 4.) Beck. Told you he was an Englishman. Lau. {Light tJiin boots. Flannel shirt with red silk belt. Blanket thrown back fro fn his shoulders. Broad felt hat.) Englishmen, I see. Ladds. Yes. Lau. You have probably lost your way ? Ladds, Been hunting. Working round — San Fran- cisco. Followed track ; accident ; got here. Your hotel perhaps ? Fine situation, but lonely. Jack, Not a ghost, then. Lau. I may be able to make you comfortable for the night. You see my den. I came here a year or so ago — by accident, like yourselves. I found the place deserted. I liked the solitude, the scenery, whatever you like, and I stayed here. You are the only visitors I have had for a year. Beck. Chinamen? Lau. Well, Chinamen, of course. But only two of them. They take turns at forty dollars a month to cook my dinners. And there is a half caste who does not mind running down to Sacramento when I want anything. And so you see I make out pretty well, {Ptits whistle to lips and blows.) You shall see, (Lee Ching appears from hotel coming down L. c.) Dinner as soon as you can. Lee Ching, Ayah ! Can do. What time you wantchee .-* Lau. As soon as you can. Half an hour. Lee Ching, Can do. My no have got cully-powder. Have makee finish. Have got, Lau. Look for some ; make Achow help. Lee Ching. How can? No b'long his pidgin. He no helpee. B'long my pidgin, makee cook chow chow. Ayah ! Achow have go makee cheat over Melican man. Makee play cards all same, euchre. {Exit into hotel.) Ladds, Beg pardon. Should have seen. Made remark about hotel. Apologize. Jack. He means that he was a terrible great fool not to lO THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. see that you are a gentleman. (Ladds nods.) Let me intro- duce our party. This is our esteemed friend Mr. Gilead P. Beck, whom we caught in a bear-hunt — Beck. B'ar behind. Jack. This is Capt. Ladds of the 35th Dragoons. Ladds. Ladds. Nibs, cocoa-nibs, — pure aroma — best breakfast digester — blessing to mothers — perfect fragrance. Jack. His name is Ladds, and he wishes to communi- cate to you the fact that he is the son of the man who made an immense fortune — immense, Tommy .^ Ladds. Immense. Jack. By a crafty compound known as " Ladds' Patent Anti-dyspeptic Cocoa." My name is Ronald Dunquerque. People generally call me Jack. I don't know why, but they do. (Lee Ching and Achow enter^ bri?tging a rough table^ which they place c. Then hi^rry back and bring dishes^ etc.^ Lau. {shaking hands with Ladds). One of ours. My name is Laurence Colquhoun. I sold out before you joined. I came here, as you see. And now, gentlemen, 1 think I hear the first sounds of dinner. Lee Ching, bring the champagne from behind the curtain. Achow, claret. {They go off after these^ and instantly return with the7n.) I think they have laid such a table as the wilderness can boast. Not alto- gether what a man might order at the Junior United, but it will do. Here is venison, curry, mountain quail, and there is claret, and champagne, both good, especially the claret. Last, but not least, there is coffee. Now, gentlemen, to your places. No ceremony. {They sit. IjPMKe.^C'E at the head. Beck l. Ladds next to Laurence, r., and Jack nearest the audience^ r.) Help yourselves. Beck. Sir, we will. Lau. Claret t Jack. If you please. Lau. And you.? (71? Beck.) Beck. Don't care if I do, seein' it's you. Lau. And you ? {To Ladds.) Ladds. Yes, sir, Lau. Here's a health to merrie England. Beck. And death to b'ars. {All rise and drink?) Lau. Four years since I left England. Jack. But you will come back to it again .? Lau. I think not. Jack. Better. Much better. Robinson Crusoe always wanted to get home again. So did Selkirk. So did Philip Quarles. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. II Lau. Not so Laurence Colquhoun. Beck {taking box fj-om neck and placmg it on table). Let me tell you, gentlemen, the story of my Luck. I was in Sonora City, after the worst three months I ever had ; and I went around trying to borrow a few dollars. I got not dol- lars, but I got free drinks — so many free drinks that at last I lay down in the street and went to sleep. Wal, gentlemen, I suppose I walked in that slumber of nrine, for when I woke up, I was lying a mile outside the town. I also entertained angels unawares, for at my head there sat an Indian woman. She was as wrinkled an old squaw as ever shrieked at a buryin'. But she took an interest in me. She took that amount of interest in me that she told me that she knew of gold. And then she led me by the hand, gentlemen, that aged and affectionate old squaw, to a place not far from the roadside ; and there, lying between two rocks, and hidden in the chapparel, glittering in the light, was this bauble. {Tapping the box ^ I didn't want to be told to take it. I wrapped it in my handkerchief, and carried it in my hand. Then she led me back to the road again. " Bad luck you will have," she said, " but it will lead to good luck, so long as that is not broken, sold, given away, or lost." Then she left me, and here it is. Bad luck I have had. Look at me, gentlemen. Adam was not more destitute when the garden gates were shut on him. But the good will come somehow. {Opens box, and removes the biitterjly.^ Jack. A golden butterfly. Beck. A golden butterfly. No goldsmith made this but- terfly. It came from nature's workshop. It is my Luck. Jack. And if the butterfly fall and break, Farewell the Luck of Gilead Beck. Beck. Thank you, sir. That's very neat. I'll take that, sir, if you will allow me, for my motto, unless you want it for yourself. Jack. No, I have one already. Beck. " If this golden butterfly fall and break, Farewell the Luck of Gilead P. Beck." If you are going on, gentlemen, to San Francisco, I hope you will take me with you. Jack. With pleasure. Beck. Thank you. Do any of you happen to have a bit of paper about you ? Ladds. Here's a bit of newspaper. Beck. Good. Just the thing. {Taking piece of paper^ No good, is it ? {Looking it over^ Ladds. Not the least. Colquhoun, you do not mean to 12 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. stay on here by yourself? Much better come with us, unless — Lau. No, I shall remain. Beck. Hullo, Victoria's married again. Jack. Not the Queen ? Beck. I don't know, it's a Victoria. Lau. Victoria ? Beck {reading fro7n paper). " On April 3d, by the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Turk's Island, at St. George's, Hanover Square, Gabriel Cassilis, of etc., to Victoria, daugh- ter of the late Admiral Sir Benbow Pengelly, K. C. B." Lau. Let me see that, please. {Takes paper.') I think I will go with you. Jack. Hear, hear-! Selkirk returns to the sound of the church-going bell. Curtain. ACT I. Scene. — Parlor of Gabriel Cassilis, Hanover Square. PianOy R. Otto7na?i, c. Sofa, L. Chairs, etc. Gabriel Cassilis, r. Humphrey a7id Cornelius Jagenal on sofa, l. Phillis Fleming and Mrs. Cassilis oti otto- 7nan, c. Jack Dunquerque, r., standing leaning on pia7io, A II discovered. Mr. Cassilis. Then you do not like Bollinger, Miss Fleming ? Phillis. It is a little too dry for me. Mr. C. You lived a very quiet life with your guardian at Highgate ? Phil. Yes, very quiet. Only two or three gentlemen ever came to the house, and I never went out. Cornelius. A fair prisoner, indeed. Danae in her tower waiting for the shower of gold. Phil. Danae must have wished when she was put in the box and sent to sea that the shower of gold had never come. Humphrey. At least, you went out to see the Academy, and the water-colors ? Phil. I have never seen a picture-gallery at all. I have not once been outside Mr. Dyson's grounds until a week ago, since I was six years old. Cor. You found your pleasure in reading divine poetry, perhaps in writing poetry yourself? Phil. Oh, dear, no. I have not yet learned to read. Mr. Dyson said that ladies ought not to learn reading till they are of an age when acquiring that mischievous art can- not hurt themselves or their fellow-creatures. Mr. C. You were taught other things, however ? Phil. Yes, I learned to play. My master came twice a week, and I can play pretty well ; I play either by ear or by memory. You see I never forget anything that I am told. Mrs. Cassilis. Can it be. Miss Fleming, that you never went outside of the house at all ? 13 14 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Phil. Oh, no. I could ride in the paddock. It was a good large field, and my pony was clever at jumping, so I got on pretty well. Jack. Would it be too much to ask you how you — how you got through the day ? Phil. Not at all. It was very easy. I had a ride before breakfast; gave Mr. Dyson his tea at ten; talked with him till twelve ; we always talked subjects, you know, and had a regular course. When we had done talking he asked me questions. Then I probably had another ride before lunch- eon. In the afternoon I played, looked after my dress, and drew. Humph. You are, then, an artist ! Cornelius, I saw from the first that Miss Fleming had the eye of an artist Phil. I do not know about that. I can draw people. I will show you some of my sketches to-morrow. They are all heads and figures. I shall draw all of you to-night before going to bed. Jack. And in the evening ? Phil. Mr. Dyson dined at seven. Sometimes he had one or two gentlemen to dine with him ; never any lady. When there was no one we talked subjects again. Mr. C. Gentlemen, shall we try a cigar on the veranda ? The ladies will excuse us, I dare say? Mrs. C. Certainly. {T/ie gejitleinen go on to veranda at back. Mrs. Cassilis goes R. to piano?) Cor. {as he is goings approaches Phjllis confidentially). You are watching my brother Humphrey. Study him. Miss Fleming ; it will repay you well to know that child-like and simple nature, innocent of the world, and aglow with the flame of genius. {Goes up C.) Phil. I think I can draw him, now. Humph. {co7ning to Phillis in like manner). I see your eyes turned upon my brother Cornelius. He is a great, a noble fellow, Miss Fleming. Cultivate him, talk to him, learn from him. You will be very glad some day to be able to boast that you have met my brother Cornelius ; to know him is a privilege ; to converse with him, an education. {Goes up c.) Mrs. C. {returning to Phillis). We used to think, until Mr. Dyson died and his preposterous will was read, that his eccentric behavior was partly your fault. But when we found that he had left you nothing, of course we felt that we had done you an involuntary wrong. Phil. I had plenty of money ; why should poor Mr. Dyson want to leave me any more .'' THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 1 5 Mrs. C. Forty thousand pounds a year ! and all going to female education. Not respectable female education, either. Phil. Am I not respectable ? Mrs. C. My dear child, you cannot even read and write. Phil. That is quite true. Mrs. C. But everybody learns to read and write. All the Sunday-school children, even, know how to read and write. Phil. Perhaps that is a misfortune for the Sunday-school children. It would very likely be better for the Sunday- school children were they taught more useful things. Mrs. C. Miss Fleming, I am ten years older than you, and if you will only trust me, I will give you such advice and assistance as I can. Phil. You are very kind. If you will only tell me of my deficiencies, I will try to repair them. Mrs. C. Then let us consider. Of course you are quite ignorant of things that people talk about. Books are out of the question. Music and concerts ; art and pictures ; china — perhaps Mr. Dyson collected ? Phil. No. Mrs. C. a pity. China would be a great help. The opera and theatres ; balls and dancing. Perhaps you can fall back upon church matters. Are you a Ritualist ? Phil. What is that ? Mrs. C. My dear girl, did you actually never go to church ? Phil. No. Mr. Dyson used to read prayers every day. Why should people go to church, when they pray ? Mrs. C. Why ? Why ? Because people in society all go ; because you must set an example to the lower orders. Dear me, it is very shocking, and girls are all expected to take such an interest in religion. You can draw ? Phil. I draw a httle. Not so well, of course, as girls brought up respectably. Mrs. C. Pardon me, my dear Miss Fleming, if I say that sarcasm is not considered good style. Phil. I don't understand. I say what I think, and you tell me I am sarcastic. Mrs. C. Girls in society never say what they think. Phil. I looked at the girls yesterday as we drove through the streets. Some of them were walking hke this. {Rises and itnitates.^ Then there were others who walked like this. {Imitates.) Then there were boys. I never dreamed of such a lot of boys. And they were all whistling. This \yas the tune. {Whistles.^ 1 6 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Mrs. C. {rising). My dear, dear^ dear girl, you must not whistle. Phil. Is it wrong to whistle ? Mrs. C. Not morally wrong, I suppose, but it is far worse, Phillis, far worse — it is unspeakably vulgar. Phil. Oh, I am so sorry. Mrs. C. You have an excellent figure, a very pretty and attractive face, winning eyes, and a taste in dress which only wants cultivation, and that we will begin to-morrow at Mel- ton and Mowbray's. Phil. Oh, yes, that will be delightful. I have never seen a shop yet. {Goes up to Jack, c.) Mrs. C. {in amaze?ne7it). She — has — never — seen — a — shop. That a girl of nineteen should be able to say she has never seen a shop ! {Goes tip c, and joins Mr. Cassilis a7id others. Cornelius and Humphrey conie down l.) Humph. Cornehus, she has fifty thousand pounds. Cor. She has, brother Humphrey. Humph. It's a pity, Cornehus, that we, who have only two hundred pounds a year each, are already fifty years of age. Cor. Humphrey, what age do we feel ? Humph. Thirty — not a month more. {Striking at the air with bothjists.) Cor. Right. Not an hour above thirty. {Striking chest, which caiises hi7n to cough?) Something definite should be attempted, Humphrey. Humph. You mean, brother — Cor. I mean, Humphrey — Humph. With regard to — Cor. With regard to Philhs Fleming. Humph. She is, she is indeed a charming girl. Her out- line is finely but firmly drawn ; her coloring delicate, but strongly accentuated ; the grouping to which she lends her- self always differentiated artistically ; her single attitudes de- signed naturally and with freedom ; her flesh tints remark- ably pure and sweet ; her draperies falling in artistic folds ; her, atmosphere softened as by the perfumed mists of morn- ing ; her hair tied in the simple knot which is the admiration and despair of many painters ; — you agree with my render- ing, brother Cornelius, my rendering of this incomparable work ? Cor. She is all that you say, Humphrey. From your standpoint nothing could be better. I judge her, however, from my own platform. I look on her as one of nature's sweetest poems ; such a poem as defies the highest effort THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 1/ of the greatest creative genius ; where the cadenced lines are sunht, and, as they ripple on, make music in your soul. You are rapt with their beauty ; you are saddened with the unapproachable magic of her charm; you feel the deepest emotions of the heart awakened, and beating in responsive harmony. And when, after long and patient watching, the searcher after the truth of beauty feels each verse sink deeper and deeper within him, till it becomes a part of his own nature, there arises before him, clad in mystic and trans- parent Coan robe, the spirit of subtle wisdom, long lying perdu in those magic utterances. She is a lyric ; she is a sonnet ; she is an epigram — Humph. At least, she doesn't carry a sting. Cor. Then let us say an idyl. But let us see what had better be done. Humph. We must act at once, Cornehus. Cor. We understand each other, Humphrey. We always do. ( Wijiking knowingly.^ Humph, We must make our own opportunity. Not to- gether, but separately. Cor. Surely separately. Together would never do. Humph. Have you — did you — can vou give me any of your own experiences in this way, Cornelius .'' Cor. I may have been wooed. Men of genius are always run after. But as I am a bachelor, you see, it is clear that I never proposed. Humph. When I was in Rome — Cor. When I was in Heidelberg — Humph. There was a model — a young artist's model — Cor. There was a httle country girl — Humph. With the darkest eyes, and hair of a deep blue black, the kind of color one seems only to read of, or to see in a picture. Cor. With blue eyes, as limpid as the waters of the Neckar, and light brown hair, which caught the sunshine in a way that one seldom seems to see, but which we poets some- times sing of. Humph. Cornelius, I think that Phillis would not like these reminiscences. We must offer virgin hearts. Cor. True, brother, we must. Humph. Yet the recollection is not unpleasant. (Sighs.^ Cor. We are not nervous, brother? HUxMPH. Not at all, not at all. Still, to steady the system, perhaps — Cor. Yes, you are quite right, brother. We will. {They both drink, takmg wme fro?n decanter on side table.') 1 8 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Humph. What we need, Cornelius, what we need ; not what we wish for. {Fixes his tie, etc., i7i a nervous inanner^ I will tell her you wish to speak with her. {Starts^ Cor. Wait a moment. My heart beats so. Slower, slower. Now, brother, I think I am prepared. (Humphrey goes up and speaks aside to Phillis, who inotioiis towards Cornelius down l. Humphrey nods. Phillis co7nes down R.) Phil. You wished to say — Mr. Cornelius.'* Cor. Yes. Will you sit down, Miss Fleming? Phil, {aside). He is going to tell me about the " Upheav- ing of Alfred." ( To him.) And how does the workshop get on ? Cor. Fairly , well. My brother Humphrey — a noble creature is Humphrey, Miss Fleming — Phil. Is he still hard at work .^ Cor. His work is crushing him. Miss Fleming, — may I call you PhilHs 1 Phil. Of course you may, Mr. Cornelius. We are quite old friends. But I am sorry to hear your brother is being crushed. Cor. To-day, Phillis, — I feel to you already like a brother, — to-day 1 discovered the secret of Humphrey's life. May I tell it you ? Phil. If you please. Cor. I will tell you the secret in a few words. My brother Humphrey adores you with all the simphcity and strength of a noble artistic nature. Phil. Does he 1 You mean he likes me very much. How good he is. I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Cornelius, though why it need be a secret I do not know. Cor. Then my poor brother, — he is all loyalty and brings you a virgin heart, an unsullied name, and the bright pros- pects of requited genius. My brother may hope? Phil. ,. Certainly. I should like to see him hoping. Cor. I will tell him, sister Phillis. You have made two men happy, and one at least grateful. (Goes up and whis- pers to Humphrey.) Phil. That man has been nearly twenty years engaged in writing the greatest poem the world ever saw, and not a line of it is yet written. {Looki^ig aro7ind.) Here comes the other, who has been occupied the same length of time on a painting, and to this day the brush has not touched the_ canvas. (Humphrey comes down beside Phillis.) •'Heis going to tell me that CorneHus adores me. {Aside.) Humph. You are peaceful and happy here, Miss Fleming, — may I call you Phillis ? THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. I9 Phil. Certainly, Mr. Humphrey. We are old friends, you know. And I am very happy here. Humph. I am glad ; I am very glad indeed to hear it. Phil. Are you not happy, Mr. Humphrey? Why do you look so gloomy ? And how is the great picture getting on ? Humph. " The Birth of the Renaissance " is advancing rapidly. It will occupy a canvas fourteen feet long by six high. Phil. If you have*got the canvas, and the frame, all you want now is the picture. Humph. True as you say — the picture. It is all that I want. And that is striding — literally striding. I am happy, dear Miss Fleming, dear Phillis, since I may call you by your pretty Christian name. It is of my brother that I think. It is on his account that I feel unhappy. Phil. What is the matter with him ? Humph, He is a great, a noble fellow. His life is made up of sacrifices, and devoted to hard work. No one works so conscientiously as Cornelius. Yet he is not happy. There is a secret sorrow in his life. Phil. Oh, dear, do let me know it, and at once. Was there ever such a pair of devoted brothers ? Humph. A secret which no one has guessed but myself. Phil. I know what it is. (^Lmighiiig.^ Humph. Has he told you, Phillis ? The secret of his life is that my brother Cornelius is attached to you with all the devotion of his grand poetic soul. Phil. Why, that is what I thought you were going to say. Humph. You knew it. And you feel the response of a passionate nature. He shall be your Petrarch. You shall read his very soul. But Cornelius brings you a virgin heart, a virgin heart, PhiHis. May he hope that — Phil. Certainly he may hope, and so may you. And now we have had quite enough of devotion, and secrets, and great poetic souls. {Rises.') May I rejoin Mrs. Cassilis ? Humph. Certainly. (Phillis goes up, and Cornelius co7nes dow7i to Humphrey.) Cornelius. Cor. Humphrey. Humph. Shall we drink the health and happiness of Phillis ? Cor. We will, Humphrey. {They drink.) She knows that she has found a virgin heart. Humph, She does. Oh, Cornelius, and the little Gretch- en and the milk-pails. Byronic rover ! Cor. Ah, Humphrey, shall I tell her of the contadina, the black-eyed model, and the old wild days in Rome, eh ? 20 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Don Giovanni ! {They chuckle and punch each other's ribs, and go up L., and stroll off over the veranda a7td off L. The reviaijider of the party come down?) Mrs. C. Will you tell us, Mr. Dunquerque, if the story of the bear-hunt is a true one, or did you make it up.f* Jack. We made up nothing. The story is perfectly true. And the man's name was Beck. Mr. C. Curious. An American, named Beck, Gilead P. Beck, is in London now, and has been recommended to me. He is extremely rich. I think, my dear, that you invited him to dinner to-day ? Mrs. C. Yes. He found he could not come, at the last moment. He will be here during the evening. Jack. Then you will see the man, unless there is more than one Gilead P. Beck, which is hardly hkely. Mr. C. This man has practically an unhmited credit. Mrs. C. And is that other story true, that you found an English traveller living all alone in a deserted city.'' Jack. Quite true. Mrs. C. Really ! And who was it ? Anybody one has met? Jack. I do not know whether you have ever met him. His name is Laurence Colquhoun. Mrs. C. {starts suddenly at the name, but gradually re- covers herself). Colquhoun! {To Mr. Cassilis.) My dear, it is an old friend of mine of whom we are speaking, Mr. Laurence Colquhoun. Phil. He is my guardian, now that Mr. Dyson is dead. {QxWJKkuVi^QYi?^ voice outside. ^'' All right, Ja^/ies.''^ He enters, l. 3.) Mr. C. Here is Mr. Beck now. Beck {meetirig Jack, c, and shaking him heartily by the hand). You have not forgotten me? You still think of that Grizzly ? Jack. Of course I do. I shall never forget him. Beck. Nor shall I, sir; never. Ladies, it is owing to Mr. Dunquerque that Gilead P. Beck has the pleasure of being in this drawing-room. Rubbed out I should have been, on that green and grassy spot, but for the crack of Mr. Dunquerque's rifle. Jack. It was a most charming and picturesque spot in which to be rubbed out. Beck. There air moments when the soul is dead to poetry. One of these moments is when you feel the breath of a grizzly on your cheek. Phil. Did he save your life ? THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 21 Beck. Young lady, he did. Jack, And how is the golden butterfly ? Beck. That inseck, sir, is a special instrument working under Providence for my welfare. He slumbers at my hotel, the Langham, in a fire-proof safe. Mr. C. And how do you like our country ? Beck. Well, sir, a dollar goes a long way in this country, especially in cigars and drinks. The Engh'sh air the most kind-hearted people in the hull world. We air charitable, and I believe the Germans, when they air not officers in their own army, air a well disposed folk. But in America, when a man tumbles down the ladder, he falls hard. Here there's every contrivance for m,\kin' him fall soft. A man don't feel handsome when he's on the broad of his. back, but it must be a comfort for him to feel that his backbone isn't broke. I have a letter for you from one of our most promi- nent bankers. (^Hands letter.^ There's the identical docu- ment. Mr, C. I observe that you have unlimited credit. That is hardly what we would give to a Rothschild. Beck. It is my Luck. Mr. C. Our New York friend tells me also, Mr. Beck, that you would find it difficult to spend your income. Beck. It is my Luck. We'll come to figures, sir, and you shall judge as my friendly adviser. My bankers say I have about ^^1500 a day coming to me. Mr. C. Do you mean, Mr. Beck, do you actually mean that you are drawing a profit, a clear profit, of more than ;^i5oo a day? Beck. That is about the size of it, sir, — that is the low- est figure. Mr. C. What an income ! Nothing to squander it on. No duties, and no responsibilities. You are unmarried, I believe ? Beck. You can bet your best boots on that little circum- stance at any time, and be in no danger of losing 'em. Mr. C. And a yearly income of five hundred thousand pounds. Let me — allow me to shake hands with you again. I had no idea I was entertaining a man of such enormous power. Presently you might undertake a loan with Russia, Austria, Turkey, Italy, or Egypt. Beck. Wal, sir, I am not ambitious, and I leave Provi- dence to manage the nations her own way. I might meddle and muss till I busted up the whole concern ; play, after all, into the hands of the devil, and have the people praying to get back to their old original Providence. You see it's 22 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. thirty-three years ago since I began travelling about, twelve years old — the youngest of the lot. Jack. What did you do first ? Beck. Ran messages ; swept out stores ; picked up trades ; went handy boy to a railway engineer. Kept a vil- lage school at a dollar a day. Boys atid gells. Boys them- selves air bad ; but boys and gells mixed, they air — well, it's a curious and interestin' thing that, ever since that time, when I see gells swoopin' round with their eyes as soft as velvet and their sweet cheeks the color of peach, I say to myself, "I've seen you at school, and I know you better than you think." You believe, Mr. Dunquerque, that gells air soft. Air they ? They're sweet to look at ; but when you've tended school, you don't yearn after them so much. Mrs. C. You are rather severe, aren't you, Mr. Beck .-^ Beck. Not a bit. Now boys. There was one boy I liked. We had a fight regular every morning, at five min- utes past nine. Any little thing set us off. He might heave a desk, or a row of books, or the slates of the whole class, at my head. It was uncertain how it began, but that fight was bound to be fought. The boys expected it, and it pleased the gells. I was fond of Pete, and he was fond of me. Ways hke his, ladies and gentlemen, kinder creep around the heart of the lonely teacher. {To Jack.') Did I ever tell you my press experiences ? Jack. I think not. Beck. Wal. I was in Chicago. Fifteen years ago. I wanted employment. Nobody wanted me. I called on Mr. John B. Van Cott, the editor of the morning paper. " Wal, sir," he said, "you look as if you knew enough to go indoors when it rains." Just then there was a knock at the door, and a fellow with a black-dyed mustache, a diamond pin in his shirt-front, and a great gold chain across his vest, en- tered. " Who runs this machine 1 " he inquired. " I am the editor," said Mr. Van Cott. " Then you are the rooster I'm after," and he went for Mr. Van Cott lively. If they had been evenly matched, I should have stood around to see fair. But it wasn't equal. So I hitched on to the stranger and pulled him oflf by main force. He met my advances half way. In ten minutes you couldn't tell him from me, nor me from him. The furniture moved around cheerfully, and there was a lovely racket. It lasted fifteen minutes. When it was over, he was bruised and bleeding. Tears stood in his eyes as he said : " Stranger, will you tell me where you hail from ? " " Air you satisfied with the editorial manage- ment of this paper .''" said I. "I am, you bet; good morn- ing," said he, and left. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 23 Mr. C. Is this horrible method of interfering with editors common in America ? Beck. In spots. I hit one of those spots. Jack. Did the gentleman engage you ? Beck. He did, permanently. It seems it was the dull season of the year, and I hadn't more than three such occur- rences a week 'till the fall elections came on, and then I had to hi per. Jack. Why don't you start a new daily ? Beck. I have been already thinking of it, Mr. Dun- querque. I shall teach some of your reviews good manners. Jack. But we pride ourselves on the tone of our reviews. Beck. Perhaps you do, sir. I have remarked that Eng- lishmen pride themselves on a good many things. See, Mr. Dunquerque, last week I read one of your high-toned re- views. There was an article in it on a novel. The novel was a young lady's novel. When I was editing the Clear' ville Roarer^ I couldn't have laid it on in finer style for the rough back of a ward politician. Jack. People hke it, I suppose. Beck. I dare say they do, sir. They used to like to see a woman flogs^ed at the cart-tail. I am not much of a com- pany man, Mr. Dunquerque ; but I believe that when a young lady sings a song in a drawing-room, if that young lady sings out of tune, it is not considered good manners to get up and say so ; and it isn't thought polite to snigger and grin. And in my country, if a man was to invite the com- pany to make game of that young lady, he would, perhaps, be requested to take a header through the window. Let things alone, and presently that young lac^y discovers that she is not likely to get cracked up as a vocaler. I shall con- duct my paper on the same pohte principles. !f a man thinks he can sing, and can't sing, let him be for a bit. Perhaps he will find out his mistake. If he doesn't, tell him gently, and if that won't do, get your liveliest writer to lay it on once for all. But to go sneakin' and pryin' around, pickin' out the poor trash, and cuttin' it up to make the people grin — it's mean, Mr. Dunquerque, it's mean. The cart-tail and the cat-o'-nine was no worse than this ex- hibition. Mrs. C. Quite an eventful life you have had, Mr. Beck. (^Rises.) Now, as the evening is delightful, shall we take a little stroll in the garden. We shall be delighted to listen to more of your reminiscences, Mr. Beck. Beck. Thank you, ma'am, most happy. {Offers arm, which she accepts.) 24 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Mrs. C. Mr. Cassilis, will you come, and Mr. Dun- qiierque, will you bring Phillis ? Beck (as they are goitig out). I might relate a circum- stance connected with my editing the Clearville Roarer. (Exeunt Beck, Mr. and Mrs. Cassilis c. to l.) Phil. I want my wrap. Mr. Dunquerque, will you be so kind as to hand it to me from' a chair in the next room .? Jack. Certainly. (Exit R. 3, and i7nmediately re-enters with wrap.) Phil, (taking wrap). How beautiful it must be to meet a man whose life you have saved. I should like — once — just once — to do a single great action, and dream of it ever after. Jack. But mine was not a great action. I shot a bear which was following Mr. Beck and meant mischief; that is all. . Phil. But you might have missed, and then Mr. Beck would have been killed. Jack. Most true, Miss Fleming. Phil. It seems so strange to be called Miss Fleming. Everybody used to call me PhilHs. Jack. Everybody calls me Jack. Phil. Jack ! What a pretty name Jack is ! May I call you Jack ? Jack. If you only would. Phil. I shall always call you Jack, then. Jack. And what am I to call you ? Phil. My name is PhiUis, you know. Jack. Phillis is a very sweet name. But it would be prettier to call you Phil. Phil. Phil. Phil. That is very pretty. No one ever called me Phil before. Jack. And we will be great friends, shall we not? Phil. Yes, great friends. Jack. Let us shake hands over our promise. (Enter Mrs. Cassilis q. from l.) We must join the others. Why, here is Mrs. Cassihs ! Mrs. C. Why did you not join us ? I came to look for you, and to procure a wrap. Mr. Beck is relating some very amusing incidents. Phil. Oh, Jack, — I mean Mr. Dunquerque, let's go. Jack. By all means. (Exeunt c. to l.) Mrs. C. (down r., takiftg wrap off chair, a7id putting it on). Jack ! The first step. (As she goes towards c. she encounters Laurence Colquhoun, who enters l. 3.) Lau. I am here. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 25 Mrs. C, Laurence. Lau. My name is Colquhoun, Mrs. Cassilis. Mrs. C. My name, Laurence, is Victoria. Have you forgotten that? Lau. I have forgotten everything, Mrs. Cassihs. It is best to forget everything. Mrs. C. But if you cannot ! Oh, Laurence, if you cannot. Lau. This is mere fooHshness, Mrs. Cassilis. As a stranger, a perfect stranger, may I ask why you call me by my Christian name, and why these tears .? Mrs. C. Strangers ! it is ridiculous. It is ridiculous, when all the world knows that we were once friends, and half the world thought that we were going to be something — nearer. Lau. Nearer — and dearer, Mrs. Cassilis .'' What a fool- ish world it was. Suppose we had become nearer, and there- fore very much less dear. Mrs. C. Be kind to me, Laurence. Lau. I will be whatever you like, Mrs. Cassilis, except what I was — provided you do not call me Laurence any more. In deference to your wishes I transported myself for four years. Then I saw the announcement of your marriage in the paper by accident. And I came here again, because of your own free will and accord you had given me my re- lease. Is this true .'' Mrs. C. Yes. Lau. Then, in the name of Heaven, why seek to revive the past. BeHeve me, I have forgotten the few days of mad- ness and repentance. They are gone. Some ghosts of the past come to me, but they do not take the shape of Victoria Pengelley. Mrs. C. Suppose we cannot forget? Lau. Then we 7mist forget. Victoria, — Mrs. Cassilis, rouse yourself Think of what you are, — what you have made yourself. Mrs. C. I do think. I think every day. Lau. You have a husband and a child ; you have your position in the world. Mrs. Cassilis, you have your honor. Mrs. C. My honor! What honor? And if all were known. Laurence, don't you ever pity me ? Lau. Heroics, Mrs. Cassilis. Are you not overdoing it ? You almost make me remember a scene — call it a dream — which took place in a certain Glasgow hotel about four years and a half ago. Mrs. C. Let us not quarrel. It is foolish to quarrel, after four years and more of absence. 26 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Lau. You told me you had something to say to me. What is it? Mrs. C. I wanted to say this: When we two parted, you used bitter words. You told me that I was heartless, cold, and bad-tempered. Those were the words you used. Lau. By Gad I believe they were. We had a blazing row. Mrs. C. I might retaliate on you. Lau. Come, Mrs. Cassilis, it is no use. I cannot help you. I would not if I could. Hang it ! it would be too ridiculous for me to interfere. Think of the situation. Here we are, we three. I first, you in the middle, and Mr. Cassilis third. You and I know, and he does not suspect. On the stage, the man who does not suspect always looks a fool. Make yourself miserable if you hke, and make me uncomfortable, but for Heaven's sake don't make us all ridiculous. Mrs. C. After that dreadful day I went back to the old life. Two years passed away. You were gone — never to re- turn, as you said. Mr. Cassilis came. Lau. Well.? Mrs. C. Well, I was poor. I saw a chance for freedom. Mr. Cassilis offered me that, at least. And I accepted him. Lau. Very well, Mrs. Cassihs, very well. If you are satisfied, of course no one has the right to say a word. After all, no one has any cause to fear except yourself. For me, I certainly shall hold my tongue. It would be so beautifully explained by Sergeant Smoothtongue. " Six years ago, gen- tlemen of the jury, a man, no longer in the bloom of early youth, was angled for and hooked by a lady who employed a kind of tackle comparatively rare in English society. She was a fevime incomprise. She despised the little ways of women ; she was full of infinite possibilities ; she was going to lead the world, if only she could get the chance. And then, gentlemen of the jury, then — " {Ente?- Mr. Cassilis c. fro7n L,, and co7nes down R. Mrs. Cassilis rises.) Mrs. C. {to Mr. Cassilis). My dear, let me introduce Mr. Colquhoun, a very old friend of mine. Mr. C. I am glad, Mr. Colquhoun, to know you. I have heard of you. Mrs. C. Pray sit down, Mr. Colquhoun, unless you will go on with your description. Mr. Colquhoun, who has just returned from America, my dear, was giving me a vivid ac- count of some American trial scene which he witnessed. Lau. {aside). Now which looks the fool? THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 2/ Beck {enters at back a7td recognizes Laurence). The hermit of Empire City, by the living jingo ! (Laurence l., unconcerned. Mrs. Cassilis c, perfectly calm. Mr. Cassilis r., quite satisfied. Jack, Gilead Beck, and Phillis enter at back.) Curtain. ACT IL Scene. — Laurence Colquhoun's apartments at the Al- bany. Table c, with reading-lamp upon it., with green shade. Fireplace l. Chairs about. Sofa r. Laurence seated in large chair before fire ^ smoking. Gilead Beck C. Jack Dunquerque stretched on sofa, smoking, r. Window c, with heavy drapery. Room fitted with dark walls, dark fur^iiture and carpet, all in the Oriental style. Chandelier over table, lighted; also the reading- lamp. Doors R. 3 and L. 3. Beck. I call this kind, boys. I call this friendly. I asked myself last night, " Will those boys see me, or will they let the ragged Yankee slide ? " And here I am. Now if you should be curious, gentlemen, to know my history since I left you in San Francisco, I will tell you from the beginning. You remember that inseck, the Golden But- terfly ? Jack. In the little box? I asked you after his welfare last week. By the way, before you begin, I ought to tell you that since we came home, we have written a book, Ladds and myself, about our travels. Beck. Is that so ? Jack. And we have put you into it, with an account of Empire City. Beck. Gentlemen, I shall buy that book. I shall take five hundred copies of that book. Just as I was, you say — no boots, but moccasins ; not a dollar, nor a cent ; running for bare life before a grizzly. Jack. Thank you. Beck. Well, I went off, after I left you, by the Pacific Railway, and I landed in New York. New York City is not the village I should recommend to a man without dollars in 28 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. his pocket. Fiji, p'r'aps, for one who has a yearning after bananas and black civilization. But not New York. No, gentlemen ; if you go to New York, let it be when you've made your pile, and not before ; then you can walk into Del- monico's as if the place belonged to you. I left that city, and made my way North, till I found myself in the city of Lim- erick on Lake Ontario. You do not know the city of Lim- erick, I dare say. Jack. Haven't that pleasure. Beck. Well I have, and it was the darnedest misbegotten location, built around a swamp, that ever called itself a city. There were a few deluded farmers trying to persuade them- selves that things would look up, for they couldn't do much else, since they were flat on their back. You never saw such a helpless lot. I did not stay among them because I loved them, but because I saw things. Lau. Ghosts ? Beck. Ghosts be blowed. No, sir. That was what they thought I saw when I went prowhng around of an evening. They thought, too, that I was mad when I began to buy land. You could buy it for nothing ; a dollar an acre ; half a dollar an acre ; anything an acre. I've mended a cartwheel for a five-acre lot of swamp. 1 saw that they were walking, — no, sleeping, — over fields of incalculable wealth, and they never suspected. They smoked their pipes, and ate their pork. Between whiles they praised the Lord for sending them a fool like me. Lau. And what did you see when you looked about ? Beck. I saw, sir, a barren bog. The barrenest, boggiest part of it all was my claim. And to think that those mean pork-raisers saw it all the same as I did, and never sus- pected. Jack. And you found what ? Gold ? Beck. No, I found what I expected. And that was better than gold. Mind, I say nothing against gold. Gold has made many a pretty little fortune — Jack. Little ! Beck. Little, sir. There's no big fortunes made out of gold. Diamonds again. One or two men like the name of diamonds, but not many. There's the disadvantage about gold and diamonds — that you have to dig for them, and to dig darned hard, and to dig for yourself mostly. But, gentle- men, the greatest gift the airth has to bestow, she gave to me, — abundant, spontaneous, etarnal, without bottom, and free. Jack. And that is — {Sitting up^ interested^ THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 29 Beck {rising to his feet, and striking the table). It is //* Jack. Yes, Phil ; yes, my darling. You are changed. Your sweet eyes are full of tears like the skies in April ; and your cheeks are pale and white. Let me kiss them until they get their own color again. {Kisses her.) Phil. I know. Jack, now. It all came upon me in a mo- ment when your lips touched mine. Jack, Jack, it was as if something snapped ; as if a veil fell from my eyes. I know now what you meant when you said just now that you loved me. • Jack. Do you, Phil 1 And can you love me, too ? THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 5/ Phil. Yes, Jack. I will tell you when I am able to talk again. Do you think, Jack, that I can always have loved you — without knowing it at all — just as you love me ? See, the sun is out, and the birds are singing — all the sweet birds — ■■ they are singing for me. Jack, for you and for me. Take me to the river, Jack. I want to think it all over again, and try to understand it better. ] AC}^ {as they go up). Phil, I don't deserve it; I don't deserve you. {Exeunt c. to L. Enter, L. 3 E., Humphrey and Cornelius Jagenal.) Humph. You, Cornelius, have engaged yourself to be married. Cor. Pardon me, Humphrey ; it is you that are engaged to Phillis Fleming. Humph. I am nothing of the sort, Cornelius. I am as- tonished that you should make such a statement. Cor. One of us certainly is engaged to the young lady. And it certainly is not I. "Let your brother Humphrey hope," she said. Those were her very words. I do think, brother, that it is a httle ungenerous of you, after all the trouble I took on your behalf, to try to force this young lady on me. Humph. I went down on purpose to tell Phillis about you. I spoke to her of your ardor. She said she appreciated it, Cornelius. I even went so far as to say that you offered her a virgin heart — perilling my own soul by those very words — a virgin heart — and after that German milk-maid! Ha, ha, the poet and the milk-maid! Cor. And what did I do for you? I told her that you brought her a heart which had never beat for another — that, after your miserable little Roman model. Humph. Cornelius 1 {Facing hhn.') Cor. Humphrey ! {Imitating.) To bring up the Ger- man business! Humph. To taunt me with the Roman girl! Cor. Will you keep your engagement like a gentleman, and marry the girl ? Humph. Will you behave as a man of honor, and go to the altar with Philhs Fleming? Cor. I will not. Nothing shall induce me to get married! Humph. Nor will I. I will see myself drawn and quar- tered first! Cor. Then go and break it to her yourself, for I will not. Humph. Break what ? Break her heart ? I am not the man to do that. 58 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Cor. Can it be that she loves us both ? Humph. Can that be so, Cornelius ? Cor. Brother Humphrey, I see that we have mismanaged this affair. I thought you wanted to marry her. Humph. I thought j(?z/ did. Cor. And so we each pleaded the other's cause. And the poor girl loves us both. Good heavens ! What a dread- ful sacrifice to give us both up! Humph. I remember nothing in fiction so startling. To be sure, there is some excuse for her. Cor. But she can't marry us both. Humph. N-n-no. I suppose not. No — certainly not. Heaven forbid. And as you will not marry her — Cor. And I will not — Humph. Marry! What! Have to get up early ; to have to go to bed at eleven ; perhaps, Cornelius, to have babies ; and, besides, if they should be twins. Fancy being shaken out of your poetic dream by the cries of twins. Cor. And, Humphrey, should we go abroad, no flirting with Roman models, eh, eh, eh ? Humph. Ho, ho, ho ! And no carrying milk-pails up the Heidelberg hills, eh, eh, eh .'* Cor. Marriage be hanged. And now what about Mr. Gilead Beck ? Humph. Will the poem be finished ? Cor. No. Will the picture ? Humph. Not a chance. Tell me, Cornelius, how much of your poem remains to be done ? Cor". Well, you see, there is not much actually written. Humph. Will you show it to me — what there is of it ? Cor. It is all in my head, Humphrey. Nothing is written. Humph. It is curious, Cornehus, that up to the present I have not actually drawn any of the groups. My figures are still in my head. {Ettter 'Pb.iiaas, C.from'L.') Hush! here is Miss Fleming. Phil. Good morning, gentlemen. Humph, and Cor. Good morning. Miss Fleming. Cor. We came for a few words of serious explanation. Phil. Very well ; pray, go on. Cor. It is a dehcate and, I fear, painful business. Miss Fleming, you doubtless remember a conversation I had with you some time since at the house of Mr. Cassilis .? Phil. Certainly. You told me that your brother Humph- rey adored me. You also said that he brought me a virgin heart. I remember perfectly. I did not understand your meaning then. But I do now. I understand it now. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 59 Cor. Patience, brother, I will see you through this affair. You see, Miss Fleming, I was under a mistake. My brother has the highest respect in the abstract for womanhood, which is the incarnation and embodiment of all that is graceful and beautiful in this fair world of ours, does not — after all — Phil, {laiighbig). You mean that he does not, after all, adore me. Oh, Mr. Humphrey, Mr. Humphrey ! Was it for this that you offered me a virgin heart ? Cor. My dear young lady, Humphrey does adore you — speak, brother — do you not adore Miss Fleming .'* Humph. I do, I do, most certainly. This is killing me. Phil. But there is yourself, Mr. Cornelius. If you made a mistake about Humphrey, it is impossible that he could have made a mistake about you. Cor. This is terrible. Explain, brother Humphrey. Miss Fleming, we — no, you as well — are victims of a dread- ful error. Humph. I, too, mistook the respectful admiration of my brother for something dearer. Miss Fleming, he is already wedded. Phil. Wedded? Are you a married man, Mr. Cornelius t Oh, and where is the virgin heart .-^ Humph. Wedded to his art. Wedded — long ago — object of his life's love — with milk-pails on the hills of Hei- delberg, and light blue eyes — the muse of song. But he regards you with respectful admiration. Cor. Most respectful. As Petrarch regarded the wife of the Count de Sadi. Will you forgive us. Miss Fleming, and — and — try to forget us. It is hard, I know ; but try. Phil. I will forgive you both, but I am afraid I shall never, never be able to forget you. {Laughing.) HUxMPH. Poor thing, 1 pity her! Phil. Now go. {Pointing to dooi', seriously^ I forgive you. But never again dare to offer a girl each other's virgin heart. {They slink aivay ashajned and crestfalleji.^ Stop! We must not part like that. Shake hands, Cornelius. Shake hands, Humphrey. Come back and take another glass of wine. {They drink from decanter of ivitie on table.) You could not have married me, you know, for I am going to marry Jack. There ! — forgive me for speaking unkindly, and we will remain friends. Adieu. {Exit r. 3.) Cor. Brother, her heart is not broken. Humph. Not even cracked. Cor. I'll be revenged. Humph. How ? Cor. I'll drink up all the wine. {Takes decanter and dritiks.) 60 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Humph. Poor little Phillis ! {Takes decanter and drinks^ Cor. It wasn't our fault, after all. Men of genius are always run after. Women are made to love men, and men are made to break their hearts. {Takes decanter and drinks.^ Humph. Law of nature, dear Cornelius — law of nature. Cor. Humphrey, my dear brother, advise me. What would you do if you had a sharp and sudden pain, like a knife, inside you. Humph. If I had a sharp and sudden pain, like a knife, inside me, I should take a small glass of brandy neat. ( They put down decanter e?npty^ a?id both lock arms a?td reel out C. to L., singing .•) Quand on est a Paris On ecrit a son pere. Qui fait reponse : " Brigand ! Tu n'en as — " {Exeunt c. to L. Enter, L. 3 e., Gabriel Cassilts, cau- tiortsly peering around to see if any one is ifi the room. Then enters and comes to c. After once more looking around, he takes note from pocket atid reads.^ Mr. C. " She wrote to him to-day ; she told him she could bear her life no longer ; she threatened to tell the secret right out ; she will have an explanation with him to-morrow, at Mrs. L'Estrange's. Do you go down and you will hear the explanation. Be quiet and be secret." I loved her, I loved her, and I trusted her ; and this is the end. Some one is coming. I must not be seen. {Hides behind curtaitis of window, R. 2. Enter Phillis, r. 3, meeting Laurence CoLQUHOUN, who enters at the same time c.from L.) Lau. Litde Philhs. Phil. Guardian. Lau. Little Phillis, though, no longer. When I saw you first, you were little Phillis — a wee toddler of six or seven. I went away and forgot all about you — almost forgot your very existence, Philhs — till the news of Mr. Dyson's death met me on my way home again. I fear that I have neglected you since I came home ; but I have been worried. Phil. What has worried you, Laurence. Agatha says you never care what happens. Lau. Agatha is right, as a rule. In one case, of which she knows nothing, she is wrong. Tell me, Phillis, is there anything you want in the world that I can get for you ? Phil. I think I have everything. And what you will not give me, I shall wait for till I am twenty-one. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 6 1 Lau. You mean — Phil. I mean Jack Dunquerque, Laurence. Lau. Sit down. I wanted to speak about him. {They sit on sofa, R.) Phillis, you are very young. All I ask you is to wait. Do not give your promise to this man till you have at least had an opportunity of — of comparing — of learning your own mind. Phil. I have already given my promise. Lau. But it is a promise that may be recalled. Dun- querque is a gentleman ; he will not hold you to your word when he feels that he ought not to have taken it from you. You have no idea of what it is that you have given, or its value. Phil. I think you mean the best for me, Laurence ; but the best is — Jack. I think of Jack all day long and all night. I pray for him in the morning and in the evening. When he comes near me, I tremble ; I feel that I must obey him if he were to order me in anything. Lau. Stop, PhiUis ; you must not tell me any more. I was trying to act for the best ; but I will make no further opposition. See, my dear {taking her hand), if I write to Jack Dunquerque to-day, and tell the villain he may come and see you whenever he likes, and that he shall marry you whenever you like, will that do for you ? Phil. Will it do ? Oh, Laurence! Agatha always said you were the kindest man in the world ; and I — forgive me — I did not believe it, I could not understand it. Oh, Jack, Jack ! we shall be so happy. He loves me, Laurence, as much as I love him. Lau. Phillis, Jack Dunquerque is a lucky man. We all love you, my dear ; and I almost as much as Jack. But I am too old for you ; and besides, besides — I do love you, how- ever, Phillis. A man could not be long beside you without loving you. (Mrs. Cassilis is about to enter Q. when she sees Laurence and Phillis, ajid she hides behind pillar, c.) Mr. C. My wife ! Lau. (rising). Kiss me, Phillis. Then let me hold you in my arms for once, because you are so sweet and — and I am your guardian, you know, and we all love you. {As he is about to kiss her, yiKS. Cassilis comes between the7n, pant- ing for breath, with cleiiched hands. Then waves her hand majestically for Phillis to leave.) Victoria ! Mrs. C. Leave him ! Do you hear? — leave him ! Lau. Better go, Phillis. Mrs. C. No ! she shall not go. She shall not go until she has heard me first. You dare to make love to this girl, 62 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. this school-girl, before my very eyes ! She shall know, she shall know our secret. Lau. Victoria, you do not know what you are saying. Our secret .'* Say your secret, and be careful. Mr. C. {aside). Their secret ? her secret ? Mrs. C. I shall not be careful. The time is past for care. You have sneered and scoffed at me ; you have in- sulted me ; you have refused almost to know me — all that I have borne, but this I will not bear. Phillis Fleming, this man takes you in his arms and kisses you. He says he loves you ; he dares to tell you he loves you. No doubt, you are flattered. You have had the men around you all day long, and now you have the best of them at your feet, alone. Well, the man you want to catch, the excellent ^(xr// you and Agatha would hke to trap, the man who stands there — Lau. Victoria, there is still time to stop. Mrs. C. That man is my husband! My htisband ! ! We were married six years ago and more. We were married in Scotland privately ; but he is my husband, and five days after our wedding he left me. Is that true ? Lau. {perfectly cool and cahri). Perfectly. You have forgotten nothing, except the reason of my departure. If you think it worth while troubling PhiHis with that, why — Mrs. C. We quarrelled ; that was the reason. He used cruel and bitter language. He gave me back my liberty. Lau. We separated, PhilHs, after a row, the Hke of which you may conceive by remembering that Mrs. Cassilis was then six years younger, and even more ready for such encounters than at present. We separated. We agreed that things should go on as if the marriage, which was no marriage, had never taken place. I went abroad. And then I heard, by accident, that my wife had taken the hberty I gave her, in its fullest sense, by marrying again. Then I came home, because I thought that chapter was closed ; but it was not, you see ; and, for her sake, I wish I had stayed in America. Mrs. C. He is my husband still. I can claim him when I want him, and I claim him now. I say, Laurence, so long as I live you shall -marry no other woman. You are mine ; whatever happens, you are mine. {Falls on her knees before hifu, and bursts into tears?) Laurence, forgive me, forgive me. Take me away. I never loved any one but you. For- give me. Let me go with you somewhere out of this place ; let us go away together. {As her head is bowed low, Lau- rence turns away from her, and Gabriel Cassilis, who has been gradually approaching the centre unobserved^ THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 63 C07nes slowly between them. As she looks up at lengthy she sees hi?n.) You here ? Then you know all. It is true ; that is my legal husband. For two years and more my hfe has been a lie. Stand back and let me go to my husband. Mr. C. (^raises ann slowly to stop her^ then looks at each of the others appealingly, and tries to speak. At last a faint senile crosses his lips). A fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of year. Lau. Great God! you have destroyed his reason. Mr. C. (shakes his head^ and tries hard to say what he wishes). A fine day, and seasonable — {Staggers and falls.) Lau. {to Mrs. Cassilis). Go home. There is no more mischief for you to do. Go. (Mrs. Cassilis casts a look of disdain on Mr. Cassilis, and of hatred on Phillis, and exits L. 3. Laurence a7id Phillis the?i raise Mr. Cas- silis and place him in chair. He finally opens his eyes., and his lips move.) It is true, Mr. Cassilis. God knows I would have spared you the knowledge. But it is true. Do you un- derstand me, Mr. Cassilts "l Do you comprehend what I am saying ? Mr. C. {nods his head). A fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of year. Lau. Good heavens ! his mind is gone. Phil. He understands you, Laurence, but he cannot ex- plain himself. Wait a moment, I know what to do. {Gets dictionary from table and hands to him. He turns the leaves until he finds the word he wants. Phillis reads.) S-i, si; 1-e-n-c-e, lence, — silence. Lau. Silence. For all our sakes it is for the best. As for me, I shall leave England in a week. I deeply regret that I ever came back to this country. (Mr. Cassilis turns the leaves of the dictionary again.) Home. Will you let me take you home, sir ? (Mr. Cassilis nods. Lau- rence assists him to rise.) Phillis, you had better go to Agatha. You will find her, probably, in her room. She re- turned with me. (Phillis exits r. 3.) Now, Mr. Cassilis. Mr. C. {as they are going out). A fine day, and season- able weather for the time of year. {Exeujtt L. 3 E. Enter, c.from L.J Beck and Jack.) Beck. 'You see, Mr. Dunquerque, we had already got upon the subject, and I had ventured to make him a propo- sition. You see, the fact is I want you to look at things just exactly as I do. I'm rich. I have struck ile. That ile is the mightiest Special Providence ever given to a single man. But it's given for purposes. And one of those purposes is that some of it's got to go to you. 64 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. Jack. To me? Beck. To you, Mr. Dunquerque. Who fired that shot? Who delivered me from the Grizzly ? Jack. Why, Ladds did as much as I. Beck. Captain Ladds is a fine fellow. Steady as a rock is Captain Ladds. But the ile isn't for Captain Ladds. No, sir. I owe it all to you. I said to Mr. Colquhoun, there is no two ways about it — that Mr. Dunquerque 7nust marry Miss Fleming. Lord! Lord! why they are made for each other. Look at him now, leanin' toward her with a look half respectful and half hungry. And look at her with her sweet, innocent eyes. Wait till you give the word, and she feels his arms about her waist and his lips close to hers. It's a beau- tiful thing — love. I've never been in love myself, but I've watched those that were ; and I venture to tell you that, from the queen down to the kitchen-maid, there isn't a woman among them all that isn't the better for being loved, and they know it, too. Then, I went on to say, Mr. l3unquerque shall have half of my pile, — and more if he wants it, — only you let him come back again to Miss Fleming. And he laughed in his easy way ; there's no kind of man in the States like that Colquhoun — seems as if he never wants to get anything. He laughed, and lay back on the grass and said: " My dear fellow, let Jack come back if he likes ; there's no fighting against fate." Jack. But, Beck, I can't do this thing. I can't take your money. Beck. I guess, sir, you can, and I guess you will. Come, Mr." Dunquerque, say you won't go against Providence ! There's a sweet young lady waiting for you, and a little moun- tain of dollars. Jack. I thank you all the same. I shall never forget your generosity — never. But that cannot be. Beck. We will leave it to Miss Fleming. What Miss Fleming says is to be, shall be ; and here she is. {Enter Phillis r. 3.) Miss Fleming, I leave it to you if this young chap oughtn't to accept half of my pile ?. He saved my life. Phil. I have money enough for both ; what need of more ? Beck. Done. But what in thunder is the good of the money if you can't help those who have helped you ? Phil. There are always the poor among us. Beck. Yes, that is true. And there always will be. More you give to the poor, more you make them poor. There's folks goin' up, and folks goin' down. You in Eng- THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 65 land help the folks goin' down. You make them fall easy. I want to help the folks goin' up. I am more ignorant than I thought. But I am trying to read, Miss Fleming. Phil. Are you ? And how far have you got ? Beck. I've got so far that I've lost my way, and shall have to go back again. It was all through Robert Browning. My dear young lady, if you should chance upon one of his books with a pretty title, such as " Red Cotton Nightcap Country," or " Fifine at the Fair," don't read it, don't try it. It isn't a fairy story, nor a love story. It's a story without an end ; it's a story told upsy down ; it's like wandering in a forest without a path. It gets into your brain and makes it go round ; it gets into your eyes and makes you see ghosts. Don't you look at that book. If I thought that poet I gave the check to would write Hke that, I'd brain him with a roll of his own manuscript. Anybody can write a book, but it takes a man to read one. Phil. Ah, but it is different with you. I am only in words of two syllables. I've just got through the first read- ing-book — " The cat has drunk up all the milk." I suppose I must go on with it, but I think it is better to have some one to read for you. I am sure Jack would read for me whenever I asked him. Beck. I never'thoughtof that. Why not keep a clerk to read for you, and pay out the information in small chunks ? I should hke to tackle Mr. Carlyle that way. Phil. Perhaps, Mr. Beck, it is well that this great fortune did not come to you when you were younger. Beck. Perhaps it is so. To fool around New York would be a poor return for the Luck of the Butterfly. Yes ; better as it is. Providence knows very well what to be about ; it don't need promptin' from us. At the right time the Luck comes, and at the right time the Luck will go. When it goes I hope I shall be prepared for the change. But if it goes to- morrow, it cannot take away the memory of these few months. It is hke a dream that I should be here with you — I, Gilead P. Beck. To be with you and Mr. Dunquerque is hke get- ting back the youth I never had ; youth that isn't always thinkin' about the next day ; youth that isn't always plannin' for the future ; youth that has time to enjoy the sunshine, to look into a sweet gell's eyes and fall in love — like you, my pretty, and Mr. Dunquerque, who saved my life. There's things which do not depend upon ile ; things which money cannot do. The world is a more tangled web than I used to think. i^Enter Servant with telegram^ and exit. Beck reads telegram^ The time has come. It's come a little 66 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. sooner than I expected. But it has come at last. Mr. Dun- querque, oblige me by reading that despatch. Jack {reads). " Gilead P. Beck. Account overdrawn. Wells all run dry. No more bills honored." Beck. At least, if the income is gone, the pile remains. That's close upon half a million of English money. We can do something with that. Mr. Cassilis has got it all for me. Jack. Who.? Beck. Mr. Gabriel Cassilis, the great English financier. Jack. He is ruined. He has failed for two millions sterling. If your money is in his hands — Beck. In Eldorado stock. Jack. The Eldoradians cannot pay their interest, and the stock has sunk to nothing. Beck. Will you — will you — be so kind — as to bring me my Butterfly in the glass case ? I left it in the next room. (Jack exit l. 3, and rettirns immediately with the glass case with the Butterfly still there, but with both wings off.) Has any one — has any one felt an airthquake ? Gone! Broken! " If this Golden Butterfly fall and break, Farewell the Luck of Gilead P. Beck." Your own lines, Mr. Dunquerque. Broken into little bits it is. The ile run dry, the credit exhausted, and the pile fooled away. I am sorry for you most, Mr. Dunquerque. I am powerful sorry, sir. I had hoped, with the assistance of Miss Fleming, to divide that pile with you. Now, sir, I've got nothing. Not a red cent left to divide with a beggar. I can't make it out, somehow. Seems as if I'm in a dream. Is it real ? Is the story of the Golden Butterfly a true story, or is it made up out of some man's brain.? Phil. It is real, Mr. Beck. It is real. No one could have invented such a story. See, dear Mr. Beck, you that we all love so much, there is you in it, and I am in it, and — and the twins. Why, if people saw us all in a book, they would say it was impossible. I am the only girl in all the civilized world who can neither read nor write, — and Jack doesn't mind it ; and you are the only man who ever found the Golden Butterfly. Indeed, it is all real. Jack. It is all real. Beck. You have had the high time, and sorry indeed we are that it is all over. But perhaps it is not all over. Surely, something out of the two million dol- lars must have remained. Beck. Nothing is left. Nothing except the solid gold that made his cage. And that will go to pay the hotel bill. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 6/ I must strike out something new — away from Empire City, and i!e, and gold. It is not the cold chunk of pork that I am afraid of; it is the beautiful life and the sweetness that I am going to lose. I said I hoped I should be prepared to meet the fall of my Luck when it came. But I never thought it would come like this. Phil. Stay with us, Mr. Beck. Don't go back to the old life. Jack. Stay with us. We will all live together. Beck {opening case and taking out Btctierjly). What shall I do with these ? They have given me the pleasantest hours of my Hfe. They have made me dream of power as if I was autocrat of all the Russias. Mr. Dunquerque, may I offer the broken Butterfly to Miss Fleming.? (Jack takes it attd puts it together again as it was.) It's wonderful. It's the Luck I've given away. Phil, {taking it). No, not given ; for here, I restore it to you again, perfect and whole. (Beck takes it. E7iter Ser- vant with telegram^ which he hands to Beck, and exit again, l. 3.) Beck {reads it). Merciful power ! Listen ! " Sunk well as directed, three rods from the old well. Flow greater than the original. To quote from Colonel Sellers, ' there's mil- lions in it.' " {Dances about?) " Now could I drink hot blood." We Americans must be the Ten Tribes, because nobody but one out of the Ten Tribes would get such a providential lift as the Golden Butterfly. Curtain. THE READING CLUB AND HANDY SPEAKER. Being SeVo tions in Prose and Poetry, Serious, Humorous, Pathetic, Patriotic, aud Dramatic, for Readings and Recitations. Edited by Geokge M. Baker. Paper cover, fifteen cents each part. Contents of Reading-Club No. 1. • At the Soldiers' Graves. Battle-Hymn. "Boofer Lady," The. Bricklayers, The. Bumpkin's Courtship, The. Charles Sumner. " Curfew must not ring To-night." Closet Scene, The. (" Hamlet.") Defiance of Harold the Dauntless. Der Drummer. Deutsch Maud Muller, The. Doorstep, The. Factory-girl's Diary, The. Farmer Bent's Sheep-washing. Godiva. " Good and Better." Happiest Couple, The. (From the " School for Scandal.") Happy Life, The. Hans Breitmann's Party. Hour of Prayer, The. How Terry saved his Bacon. How He saved St. Michael's. In the Tunnel. Jakie on Watermelon-pickle. Jester's Sermon, The. •* Jones." Mahmoud. Mistletoe-Bough, The. Mr. Caudle and his Second Wife. Mr, O'Gallagher's Three Roads to Learning. Nobody There. Old Age. Old Farmer Gray gets Photographed. Old Methodist's Testimony, The. Overthrow of Belshazzar. Puzzled Census-Taker, The. Popping the Question. Red Jacket, The. Rob Roy MacGregor. Samson. Senator's Pledge, The. Showman's Courtship, The. Squire's Story, The. Story of the Bad Little Boy wh« didn't come to Grief, The. Story of the Faithful Soul, The. Stranger in the pew, A. Tauler. Voices at the Throne, The. Whistler, The. Yankee and the Dutchman's Dog^ The. Contents of Reading-Club No. 2. Address of Spottycus. Baby Atlas. Baby's Soliloquy, A. Beauty of Youth, The. Biddy's Troubles. Bobolink, The. Broken Pitcher, The. By the Alma River. Calling a Boy in the Morning. Cooking and Courting. Curing a Cold. Double Sacrifice, The. Farm-yard Song. Fortune-Hunter, The. Goin' Home To-day. Harry and I. In the Bottom Drawer. Last Ride, The. Learned Xegro, The. Little Puzzler, The, Man with a Cold in his Head, The. Merchant of Venice, Trial Scene. Modest Cousin, The. Militia General, A. "Nearer, my God, to Thee." Old Ways and the New, The. Opening of the Piano, The. Our Visitor, and What He came for. Over the River. Paddock Elms, The. Pickwickians on Ice, The. Picture, A. Press On. Possession. Quaker Meeting, The. Queen Mab. Rescue, The. Shadow on the Wall, The. Short Sermon, A. Sisters, The. Sunday Morning. There is no Death. Tobe's Monument. Toothache. Tragical Tale of the Tropics, A. Traveller's Evening Song, A. Two Anchors, The. Two Irish Idyls. What's the Matter with that No»eP Workers and Thinkers. Contents of Reading-Club No. 3. Appeal in Behalf of American Lib- erty. Ambition, Auction Mad. Aurelia's Unfortunate Young Man. Ballad of the Oysterman, The. Bob Cratchit's Christmas-Dinner. Bone and Sinew and Brain. Bunker Hill. Burial of the Dane, The. Church of the Best Licks, The. Countess and the Serf, The. Deck-Hand and the Mule, The. Evils of Ignorance, The. First Snow-fall, The. Flower-mission, Junior, The. For Love. Fra Giacomo. How Persimmons took Cah ob der Baby. Jonesville Singin' Quire, The. Last Tilt, The, Lay of Real Life, A. Law of Kindness, The. Losses. Mad Luce. Minute-men of '75, The. Mosquitoes. Mr. Stiver's Horse. Ode. Old Fogy Man, The. Pat and the Oysters. Recantation of Galileo, The, Roast Pig. A Bit of Lamb. Roman Soldier, The. Riding down, Schneider's Tomatoes. School of Reform, Scenes from th«. Similia Similibus. Singer, The. Solemn Book- Agent, The. Sons of New England, The. Speech of the Hon. Perverse Peabodj on the Acquisition of Cuba. Temperance. Twilight. Two Loves and a Life. Two Births. Uncle Reuben's Baptism, Victories of Peace, The. Wedding-Fee, The. Wolves, The. What the Old Man said. Contents of Reading-Club No. 4. Battle Flag of Sigurd, The. " Business " in Mississippi. Bell of Atri, The. Cane-bottomed Chair, The. Cobbler's Secret, The. Cuddle Doon. Custer's Last Charge. Daddy Worthless. Decoration. Dignity of Labor, The. Elder Sniflae's Courtship. Goin' Somewhere. Grandfather. He Giveth His Beloved Sleep. Hot Roasted Chestnut, The. House-top Saint, The. '• Hunchback," Scene from the. Indian's Claim, The. Joan of Arc. Leedle Yawcob Strauss. Little Black-eyed Rebel, The. Little Hero, The. Little Shoe, A. Lost Cats, The. ^ry Maloney's Philosophy. Minot's Ledge. Mother's Fool. Mr. O'HooIahan's Mistake. Mr. Watkins celebrates. My Neighbor's Baby. Palmetto and the Pine, The. Pip's Fight, Post-Boy, The, Pride of Battery B, The, «' Palace o' the King, The." Paper don't Say, The. Penny ye meant to gi'e, Th«. Question, A. Robert of Lincoln. Song of the Dying, The. St. John the Aged. Tramp, The, Tom. Two Portraits. Village Sewing Society, The. Way Astors are Made, The. What is a Minority? Widder Green's Last WordSo William Tell. Zeuobia'8 Defence. Contents of Reading-Club No. 5. A Blessing on the Dance. A Charge with Prince Rupert. A Mysterious Disappearance. Art-Matters in Indiana. A Khiue Legend. A Watch that " Wanted Cleaning." An Exciting Contest. An Indignation-Meeting. An Irish Wake. Ballad of a Baker. Ballad of Constance. Ballad of Ronald Clare. Between the Lines. Burdock's Goat. Butterwick's Weakness. Dot Baby off Mine. Edith helps Things along. Failed. Faithful Little Peter. Five. From the Sublime to the Ridiculous. Good-By. «' If We Knew." Last Redoubt. MoUie, or Sadie? Noble Revenge. Not Dead, but Risen. " One of the Boys." Scene from " Loudon Assurance." Scene from " The Marble Heart." Sideways. Somebody's Mother. Something Spilt. Tact and Talent. The Amateur Spelling-Match. The Blue and Gray. The Bridge. The Canteen. The Dead Doll. The Flood and the Ark. The Houest Deacon. The Kaiser's Feast. The Little Shoes did it. The Scotchman at the Play. The Seven Ages. The Two Glasses. Tired Mothers. Uncle Remus's Revival Hymn. Whistling in Heaven. Why Biddy and Pat got Married. Contents of Reading-Club No. 6. A Disturbance in Church. A Disturbed Parent. A Christmas Carol. A Miracle. " A Sweeter Revenge." An Irish Love-Letter. Behind Time. Blind Ned. Cavalry Charge, The. Clerical Wit. •' Conquered at Last." Count Eberhard's Last Foray. Deaf and Dumb. Der Shoemaker's Poy. Down with the Heathen Chinee ! Fight at Lookout. Fireman's Prayer. Greeley's Ride. Great Future. Immortality. Joe's Bespeak. John Chinaman's Protest. Jim Lane's Last Message. Mr. Coville proves Mathematics. Nationality. One Touch of Nature. Paddy O'Rafther. Putty and Varnish. Reserved Power. Ship-Boy's Letter. Sweet Singer of Michigan. Tacking Ship off Shore. Tammy's Prize. Talk about Shooting. Ten Years after. The Benediction. The Changed Cross. The Fan Drill. The Farmer's Story. The Fountain of Youth. The King's Kiss. The Palmer's Vision. The Sergeant of the Fiftieth. The Well -Digger. " Them Yankee Blankits." They Met. Virginius to the Roman Army. Warning to Woman. Weaving the Web. Widow Stebbins on Homoeopathy. Contents of Reading-Club No. 7. A College Widow. A Free Seat. A Humorous Dare-Devil. All's Well that ends Well. A London Bee Story. A Modern Heroine. A Modern Sermon. A Reminiscence. A Royal Princess. Ave Mai'ia, Civil War. Creeds of the Bells. " Dashing Rod," Trooper. Down Hill with the Brakes off. Drawing Water. Family Portraits. Fool's Prayer. Greatest Walk on Record. Hannibal at the Altar. *' He giveth His Beloved Sleep." Hohenlinden. How Neighbor Wilkius got Reliiiion. How Randa went over the Rivet • Irish Boy and Priest. Jimmy Butler and the Owl. Jim Wolfe and the Cats. 1 ast Hymn. Lceft Alone at Eighty. Maud's Misery. National Grame. Nt w Dixie. On the Channel-Boat. Ori »nt Yourself. Pad lie Your Own Canoe. Patr, ot Spy. Pledfe to the Dead. Pomo 'ogical Society. Rhym ^s at Random. San Beiito. St. Leo.i's Toast. That C»f . The Ca«>>enter's Wooing, and tk« Sequel TheDeac Student. The Ladie». The Pin. The Retof' The Singei ' Alms. This Side and That. Two Fishers. Uncle Mellick dines with his Master. Contents of Reading-Clup }]? 8. A i?rick. A Colored Debating Society. Along the Line. A New Version of the Parable of the Virgins. An Evangel. Annie's Ticket. Apples — A Comedy. A Sermon for the Sisters. A Thirsty Boy. Aunt Phillis's Guest. Ballad of the Bell-Tower. " Christianos ad Leones! " City Man and Setting Hen. Daisy's Faith. De 'Sperience ob Reb'rend Quacko Strong. Defence of Lucknow. Dutch Security. Fast Mail. Father William. From One Standpoint. Girl of the Crisis. Grave of the Greyhound. Indian Warrior's Defence. Labor is Worship. Lanty Leary. Last of the Sarpints. Legend of the White Hand. London Zoological Gardens. Masked Batteries. Miss Edith's Modest Re(^ 'st. Mrs. Bi'own at the Play. Old Grimes. People will laugh. Peril of the Mines. Parody on " Father William." Patter of the Shingle. Paul Clifford's Defence. Shiftless Neighbor Ball. Song of the Mystic. The Baron's Last Banquet. The Captive. The Dilemma. The Divorce Feast. The Farmer and the Barristeri The Man with a Bear. The Story of the Tiles. The Outlaw's Yarn. The Rich Man and the Poor Mai Two Dreams. Yankee Courtship. THE STOLEN WILL, (NEW EDITION.) A COMEDY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. Ten male and three female characters. Price, 35 cents. "West Swanzey, July 27, 1881. Lex. E. Tilden' : — Dear Sir, — Have read your play entitled "The Stolex Will." Was very much pleased with it. Think the character of Cliip Winkle, Esq., is immense. Should like to play it myself when I get through with Joshua, ilope the plav will be a success wherever pro- duced. It deserves to be. Yours truly, "DE^'MAN THOMPSO^^. m^ OET THE BEST. ...m OUR MAKE-UP BOOK. A complete guide on the art of making up the face for the stage, including directions for the use of wigs, beards, moustaches, and every variety of artificial hair, etc., for the use of amateurs and actors, with " Hints on Actiug." Price, 35 cents. Select the pieces for your next performance from the following selected list of POPULAR PLAYS. A GAME OF DOMIXOS. — Comedy. One act . . . . 6 m. 4 f. ADVICE TO HUSBANDS. — Comedietta. One act . . . 5 m. If. CRINOLINE. — Farce. One act 4 M. 4 f. ELLA liOSEN BERG. — Drama. Two acts 7 m. 3 f. A FAMILY FAILING.— Farce. One act G m. If. FIGHTING BY PROXY. — Farce. One act 6 m. 2 f. THE MILLER'S WIFE (GIRALDA). — Comic Drama. Three acts 6 M. 5 F. THE LADY OF THE LAKE. — Drama. Two acts . . 13 M. 3 F. THE MIDNIGHT BANQUET. — Drama. Two acts . . 6 m. 3 f. MY SON DIANA. — Farce. One act 3 M. 2 F. THE YOUTH lYHO NEVER SAW A WOMAN.— Farce. One act 3 M. 2 f. BOTH ALIKE. — Comedy. Two acts 5 M. 5 F. THE SHAKER LOVERS. -Drama. One act 7 M. 3 F. THE MAID OF MILAN. — Drama. Three acts . . . . M. 6 F. JENNY LIND. — Farce. One act 12 m. 1 F. Price, 15 cents eacli. Walter H. Baker & Co., Publishers, 10 Milk St., Boston. THE UNIVERJ I^E.IOE, IS CE3 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS III 1 A ALWAYS INTENDED. A Comedy in 1 Act. By Horace VViyau. 3 male, 3 female char. THE ANONYMOUS KISS. A Vaudeville. 2 male, 2 female char. ANOTHER GLASS. A Drama in 1 Act. By Thomas Morton. 6 male, 3 female char. AUNT CHARLOTTE'S MAID. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char. THE BABES IN THE WOOD. A Comedy in 3 Acts. Bv Tom Tavlor. 10 male, 3 female char. BLANKS AND PRIZES. A Comedietta in 1 Act. By Dexter Smith. 6 male, 2 female char. BLUE AND CHERRY. A Comedy in 1 Act. 3 male, 2 female char. BOUQUET. A Comedietta in 1 Act. By J. A. Woodward. 2 male. 2 female char. BOWLED OUT. A Farce in 1 Act. By H. T. Craven. 4 male, 3 female char. BROTHER BILL AND ME. A Farce in 1 Act. Bv W. E. Suter. 4 male. 3 female char. A BULL IN A CHINA SHOP. A Comedy ' in 2 Acts. By Charles Matthews. 6 male, 4 female THE CHRISTENING, 'a Farce in 1 Act. By J. B. Buckstone. 5 male, 6 female char. THE CLEFT STICK. A Comedy in 3 Acts. 5 male, 3 female char. COUSIN TOM. A Comedietta in 1 Act. By Geo. Koberts. 3 male, 2 female char. DAMON AND PYTHIAS. A Farce. 6 male, 4 female char. DANDELION'S DODGES. A Farce in 1 Act. By r. J. Williams. 4 male, 2 female char. THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT. A Drama in 2 Acts. By Edward Fitzball. 6 male, '2 female char. BIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. An Interlude in 1 Act. Bv W. H. Murrav. 10 male, 1 female. DONE ON BOTH SIDES. A Farce in 1 Act. Bv J. M. Morton. 3 male, 2 female char. DON'T JUDGE BY APPEARANCES. A P'arce in 1 .\ct. Bv J. M. Morton. 3 male, 2 female. DORA. A Pastoral Drama in 3 Acts. By Chas. Reade. 5 male, 2 female char. A DOUBTFUL VICTORY. A Comedy in 1 Act. 3 male, 2 female char. DUNDUCXETTY'S PICNIC. A Farce in 1 Act. Bv T. .1. Williams. 6 male, 3 female char. EAST LYNNE. A Drama in 5 Acts. 8 male, 7 fertiale char. GASPARDO THE GONDOLIER. A Drama in 3 Acts. Bv George Almar. 10 male, 2 female. GIVE A DOS A BAD NAME. A Farce. 2 male. 2 lem >le char. THE HIDDEN HAND. A Drama in 5 Acts. Bv Kob 'rt Jones. l(j male, 7 female char. HIT m% HE HAS NO FRIENDS. A Farce in 1 Act. By E. Vates and N. H. Harrington. 7 male, 3 female char. A HUSBAND TO ORDER. A Serio-comic Drama in 2 .A.ct3. 5 male, .3 female char. I'VE WRITTEN TO BROWNE. A Farce in 1 Act. Bv r. J. VVillianis. 4 male, 3 female char. JOHN D0BB3. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. AI. Morton. 5 male, 2 female char. JOHN W0PP3. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 4 male, 2 female char. THE LOST CHILDREN. A Musical En- tertainmcnt in 5 Acts. By Mrs. Lewis Jtrvey. 8 male, .5 female char., and chorus. LOOK AFTER BROWN. A Farce in 1 Act. Bv George A. Sluart, M.D. 6 male, 1 female char. LOST IN LONDON. A Drama in 3 Acts. 6 male, 4 female char. I 4 Acts. LYING WILL OUT. A Comedy in By H. Pelhani Cintis. 6 male, 4 female char. MADAM IS ABED. A Vaudeville in 1 Act. 2 male, 2 female char. MARY MOO; or, Which Shall I Marry? A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 2 male, 1 fini. MONSEIGNEUR. A Drama in 3 Acts. iJy Thomas Archer. Jo male, 3 female char. MY PRE CIOUS BETSY. A Farce in 1 A ct. By J. M. Morton. 4 male, 4 female cliar. MY TURN NEXT. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 4 male, 3 female char. NICHOLAS FLAM. A Comedy in 2 Acts. ByJ. B. Buckstone. 5 male, 3 female char. NONT; SO DEAF AS THOSE WHO WON'T Hear. A Comedietta in 1 Act. By H. P. Curtis. 2 male, 2 female cliar. NURSEY CHICKWEED. A Farce in 1 Act. By .T. J. Williams. 4 male, 2 female char. OLD HONESTY. A Comic Drama in 2 Acts. Bv .J. M. Morton. 5 male, 2 female char. ONLY A "CLOD. A Comic JJninia in 1 Act. By J. P. Simpson. 4 male, 1 female char. PAYABLE ON DEMAND. A Domestic Drama in 2 Acts. 7 male, 1 female char. THE PHANTOM BREAKFAST. A Farce in 1 Act. By Clias. Selby. 3 male, 2 female char. PUTKINS; Heir to Castles in the Air. A Comic Drama iu 1 Act. By W. R. Emerson. 2 male, 2 female char. THE QUEEN'S HEART. A Comedy in 3 Acts. 5 male, 4 female cliar. A RACE FOR A WIDOW. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 5 male, 4 female char. SARAH'S YOUNG MAN. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 3 male, 3 female char. THE SCARLET LETTER. A Drama in 3 Acts. 8 male, 7 female char. SILVERSTONE'S WAGER. A Comedi- etta in 1 Act. Bv ){. R. Andrews. 4 male, 3 female. A SLICE OF LUCK. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 4 male, 2 female char. SMASHINGTON GOIT. A Farce inl Act. By T. J. Williams. 5 male, 3 female char. A SOLDIER, A SAILOR, A TINKER, and a Tailor. A Farce in 1 Act. 4 male, 2 female. SUNSHINE THROUGH THE CLOUDS. A Drama in 1 Act. By Slingsby Lawrence. Smale, 3 female char. TRUE UNTO DEATH. A Drama in 2 Acts. Bv J. Sheridan Kuowles. 6 male, 2 female' char. THE TURKISH BATH. A Farce in 1 Act. By Montague Williams and F. C. Burnand. Cmale, 1 female char. TWO GENTLEMEN IN A FIX. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 2 male char. TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE. A Farce in 1 Act. Bv Lenox llorne. 4 male, 1 female. THE TWO PUDDIFOOTS. A Fnrce in 1 Act. By .1. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char. AN UGLY CUSTOMER. A l^'arce in 1 Act. Bv Thomas .1. Williams. 3 male, 2 female char. UNCLE ROBERT. A Comedy in 3 Acts. IJy 11. P. (in-tis. male, 2 female char. A VERY PLEASANT EVENING. A Farce in 1 Act. Bv \Y. Iv Suter. 3 male ch.ar. THE WELSH GIRL. A Comedy in 1 Act, liv Mrs. Blanche. 3 male, 2 female char. WHICH WILL HAVE HIM ? A Vaude- ville. 1 male. 2 female char. THE WIFE'S SECRET. A Play in 5 Acts. Bv Geo. W. 1-ovell. ]0 male, 2 female char. YOUR LIFE'S IN DANGER. A Farce in 1 Act. Bv J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char. WALTEE H. BAKEE & CO., Publishers, Boston, Mass. p. O. Box 284e.